Geoffrey’s simple, elegant staging of the scene took shape over the next three hours. There were no breaks in Geoffrey Hyland rehearsals. Actors smoked when they were not needed, or drank tea from the omnipresent thermoses, but they never wandered off. This was not a place of idle chatter. It was an artist’s studio. They thought and contributed and went into themselves, trying to find their stops and ventages to make most eloquent music.
Only at the very end of the scene do any of the characters drink. Feste takes a sip and it pierces his heart. A cry of pain comes from him that is music itself and the scene ends with the sun rising over a stage of addicted lovers unable to sleep at night or be fully awake during the day.
Fong loved it. Unlike so much spoken theatre, it touched him deeply. Touched him the way that the Shanghanese Opera could. His grandmother had taken him when he was five to the theatre in the heart of the Old City. Shanghanese Opera is a form of classical Peking opera that varies only in interpretation, not genre, from the original. The Shanghanese version has a tendency to be shorter and more melodious. But it is still the singing, tumbling, acting, juggling, transcendent experience of the original.
The very first piece Fong saw took his heart completely. It was Journey to the West. The evening began with an oceanside leavetaking of a king and his beautiful daughter whom for political reasons he has to give in marriage to a prince of the western provinces. The scene, although formal, has cracks of tension in it where feeling is implied without being shown. Then a serving man is entrusted with the daughter’s safety and off the two go on the three-thousand-mile journey to the West. Their travels begin conventionally enough. The serving man walks as his beautiful mistress rides (indicated by the carrying of a four-tassled stick). She, naturally enough, treats him as a common serf but as the days pass and the adventures of crossing rivers, deserts and mountains, meeting dangerous enemies, dealing with cold, and sleeping in the rain accumulate, a new appreciation for the serving man begins to grow in her.
When finally he is hurt trying to help her safely cross a deep river, she insists that he ride the horse and she walk. After their four-hour stage journey, most of which is done without speech and often with just the two actors on stage, they finally reach the western court and the serving man must hand over his charge. He does and turns to walk back to the East.
The serving man is dressed plainly. He tumbles, dances, sings, fights with both sword and lance, and juggles the complicated war hammer. The princess is played with sleeves and headdress feathers, her lengthened sleeves providing an elongated image and the two long elegant feathers accentuating every head movement by tracing the pulse of the energy from base to tip. Often the feathers are pulled down and put into the mouth creating various configurations. She wears raised shoes, is dressed in red and her face is painted mask white. For many years, she was easily the most erotic thing that entered Fong’s life.
When he first met Fu Tsong, he often felt like the serving man in the Journey to the West whose job it was to deliver the princess to some great man’s bed. It was not until years after they were married that he confessed to her his fascination with traditional Chinese “sung” theatre. He thought she would find it ludicrous coming as she did from the new “spoken word” theatre. But she didn’t. In fact she openly acknowledged her great debt to her Peking opera training and said that in the hands of the great actors the opera roles were as real as anything done anywhere. That what the classic form did was find the essence of emotion and then over hundreds of years refine the emanation of that emotion in the body. In the hands of normal classical opera actors this just became a hollow shell, but with a master or mistress of the art the shell held a glowing truth.
So it was with delight that, years later, Fong wangled two tickets for a famous actress’s performance of Journey to the West at Shanghai’s newly renovated Yi Fu Stage. As the evening went on Fong found himself once more lost in the story of the serving man and the princess. Amidst the noise of the audience and the comings and goings, there was real communication. Fong felt as if the actress were reaching out—putting her cool hand directly on his chest. Kneading and pressing toward his heart. Putting his nipple in her mouth and sucking firm and slow. He felt that he saw every quiver of her hand and flash of her eye. He was lost in the embrace of a woman on a stage with white makeup and four-foot feathers on her head.
As the serving man gave her over to her new husband Fu Tsong’s hand crept into his. “Special, isn’t it?” But he couldn’t respond, only nod and hope she couldn’t sense the tears welling up in him.
After the show, Fu Tsong excused herself and went backstage to say hello to the stage manager, who was an old friend. Theatre people had “old friends” that way and although Fong understood such things he always felt awkward in a world of people who were intimate but not close. He chose to wait in the lobby and gloried in the photographs of the actress, Su Shing, who played the princess.
That night Fu Tsong took a long time in the bathroom. Fong had already bathed and was in bed, a book open on his lap. But his mind was miles away on a journey to the West. The door to the bedroom opened a hair and he heard Fu Tsong’s voice say, “Turn off the overhead light and put my red silk scarf over the bedside lamp.” Fong knew better than to argue with her about such things. Turning off the overhead’s harsh green-tinged light was a relief. When he placed her red silk scarf over the bedside table lamp the light from the weak bulb diffused enough to cast a pleasing shadowy glimmer.
The door opened. Fong gasped. There in the doorway was Fu Tsong dressed in the full costume of the princess from Journey to the West. Her face was made up porcelain white. The feathers bobbed as she moved. It was Fu Tsong but it was also the princess, both the one Fong had seen that night and the one he had seen when he was a boy. The mix both confused and intoxicated.
Fu Tsong moved to the foot of the bed and with an elegant flick of her wrists the sleeves of her gown flowed freely down. Then arching her neck back for a moment she snapped her head to one side and the feathers elongated the shock into a graceful dance of pure energy. She turned, and sliding her hands free of the sleeves, placed a feather in her mouth with a slight cry and a momentary flash of eyes and a pose.
Fong had no idea how long Fu Tsong continued her dance in the softened silk-red light. Nor did he have any idea when exactly she came into his arms. Her kiss at first tasted chemical but as Fu Tsong parted her lips and drew his tongue into her mouth he found himself making love to the princess from the East. She took him on the voyage of his life, to a place far to the west where the erotic dreams of youth meet the adult realities of sex. Where the old and the new meet, and the smell of the earth rises through the shimmer of silken clothes.
The delivery of the second half heart did the trick. All over Shanghai there were hushed conversations in corners of KTV private rooms. The whores were sent away and the men huddled together considering their options. They were traders of every conceivable nationality, race, colour, and creed. They only had one thing in common: the smuggling of ivory. But now, after the deaths of two of their kind, they shared a second thing: fear for their lives.
The phones had been ringing, faxes faxing, and e-mail e-mailing. Decisions were made. And all the decisions were the same. This place was not safe for ivory anymore. Fuck ’em, we’ll move it to Singapore or Hong Kong or Hanoi, this place was just too much bother— and too dangerous.
So in private planes, luxury cars, and first-class airplane seats, the smugglers bailed out of Shanghai and headed toward safer ports of call.
That night in the power plant in the Pudong, glasses were lifted and toasts recited. Their spy network had informed them that the rout was on. The smugglers were leaving. After the congratulations went around, the hoarse voice said, “But we are not finished yet.”
A chorus of agreement met his comment.
“Now we must proclaim to the West that we have rid the city of these smugglers, that Shanghai will no longer tolerate the killing
of endangered species for the edification of a few elite. We must proclaim it loudly so that the conservationists in the West will stop their lobbying against us and allow the money we so badly need to be invested here.”
The European voice spoke up. “The stories are already planted in the major presses in the West. By week’s end our efforts—well, not our efforts but the results of our efforts—will be trumpeted from the newsstands of New York, London, Paris, and Berlin. The Sunday Times is going to do a feature on the eradication of ivory smuggling in Shanghai.”
The hoarse voice, gulping air again, burped out, “Good.”
There was a strong murmur of concurrence and then the hoarse voice resumed. “We have but two problems remaining. First, the assassin must be eliminated.”
“He has already been betrayed. Our people in Taiwan are awaiting the arrival of a Shanghai detective, and they have prepared a dossier on Loa Wei Fen that should lead the police right to him.”
There was a pause, and then another voice, unheard before, spoke up. “Is the second problem the detective in charge of the case?”
“It is,” replied the hoarse voice, careful to conceal his surprise.
“I have troubled dreams about this Inspector Zhong.” The ancient man made note of the inherent challenge in the voice and then replied, “We have already begun to look after that situation.”
“Good.” The response was conspicuously neutral.
“To the renewal of most favoured nations trading status. To Shanghai, and growth that will never end. To the New China, strong and powerful,” intoned the old man.
Glasses were raised but the owner of the hoarse voice did not drink. He sat and remembered the Shanghai of his birth, the simpler place, the happier time.
That night Geoffrey Hyland sat down for a second time with Wang Jun and went over his evidence again—evidence aimed at convicting Fong of the murder of Fu Tsong. As Geoffrey spoke he felt himself floating, drifting back to that hot summer afternoon four long years ago.
In Shanghai the hot dry days of early summer give way with a vengeance to the rainy season. On average the city is wracked by six to eight full-fledged tropical storms every year between late July and early September.
The fury of the winds that day, four years ago, had rattled the windows in the bedroom as Fong awoke from a terror-filled afternoon sleep to find Fu Tsong, now six months pregnant, gone from his side. He threw back the covers and put on his trousers.
Then the previous night came flooding back in on him.
He shook himself free of the horror and, grabbing an umbrella, headed out into the gathering storm whose darkness had changed day to night.
By the time he got to the theatre he was three leagues wet and none too thrilled that Fu Tsong hadn’t left him a message about where she was going.
After last night’s fight it was no real surprise.
She’d arrived home late, as she had done so often since her pregnancy began. But it wasn’t her lateness that angered him. It was her distance, and if Fong were more honest, her endless bringing up of Geoffrey Hyland’s name. Geoffrey had arranged for Fu Tsong to do a play with him in Vancouver. But rehearsals began only six weeks after the baby was due. Fong was amazed that Fu Tsong didn’t see this as a problem. She replied that the baby could come with her. That Geoffrey had thought of all that. “It’s a great opportunity for me. Geoffrey says my English is good enough and he wants me for the role so I’m going.”
“No you’re not,” came out a lot harder than he intended and sat between them like a solid thing, unmovable, unretractable. After a seeming eternity Fu Tsong snapped, “Does your ‘you’re’ mean me, the baby or both of us?”
“It means you and the baby.” In for a jiao, in for a kwai.
“If the baby’s a boy, right? If it’s a girl, then Fong doesn’t give a fuck where it goes, right?”
“Don’t, Fu Tsong, we’ve been over—”
“You’ve, you’ve, you’ve been over and over this but not me.” Then grabbing her belly, “Not us.”
“I don’t know how to say I’m sorry anymore, Fu Tsong.”
“You don’t know how to say it because you’re not sorry. Zhong Fong wants a son and I’m carrying a girl. One kid. Wrong kind.” She screamed the last two sentences so loudly that the windowpanes shook. Then he saw Geoffrey through their open bedroom window. He’d been sitting on the base of the stupid statue, listening.
For a moment betrayal washed over him. This had been planned.
“I’m going to have a girl. I’m going to do the play. I’m going to live with Geoffrey.”
Like three perfectly landed body blows, she blasted apart his ordered world and planted chaos in his heart.
Just once he looked at her to confirm that what he had heard was what she had said. Her eyes never wavered.
“I’m going to live with Geoffrey,” she repeated.
And then, somehow, the big white man was at their open door, now just Fong’s open door. Fong heard himself saying in Mandarin, “There is no place here for you.”
But Fu Tsong was already moving toward Geoffrey and pulling herself close to his side.
Fong didn’t remember reaching for the VCR or hurling it across the room. All he remembered was the dent in the plaster and the red and black connector cables embedded in the wall from which the unit now dangled.
He remembered the give in the white man’s chest as he charged him and the thud as they went through the open door and crashed against the darkened corridor wall. The drip from the hallway air conditioner landed on his face as he screamed at the white man to leave his wife and baby alone.
Then he heard his name called. For a moment he didn’t recognize Fu Tsong’s voice. She called him sharply a second time and he turned to her. She stood in the door and said simply, “I’ll see you tomorrow at rehearsal, Geoffrey. My husband and I have much to talk about tonight.”
And so they did. In tears and twisting tongues and rage and tenderness they tried to find each other again across the abyss. They made love, had sex, fucked, and tried to hurt each other. They closed their eyes and fantasized that they were still in love. But tomorrow loomed and the girl child in her womb was a night older as the thunderous dawn approached.
Fong’s welcome at rehearsal was chilly to say the least. Geoffrey was sporting a cast on his right wrist and Hao Yong was reading Fu Tsong’s role, book in hand.
“She’s not here, Fong,” snapped Geoffrey.
“Where is she, then?”
“She said she was going to fix everything. That she was going ’to get everything fixed’ were her exact words.”
Fong responded weakly, “Do you know where she went?”
“She’s your wife, Fong. You tell me. She left rehearsal over an hour ago.”
As if on a cue from the heavens, a crack opened high in the theatre’s south wall and a slender river of water, like a free-flowing tear, made its way to the floor.
Fong controlled his rising anxiety. His years of training as a cop came to the fore. “When exactly did she go?”
The stage manager said, “Forty-five minutes ago.”
“Was she carrying a bag?”
“Yes, a small one,” the stage manager said. “I called her a cab.”
Geoffrey stared straight ahead.
“Which company?”
The stage manager gave him a name and he turned and ran toward the exit. As he left the theatre he heard Geoffrey’s voice call out, “If anything happens to her, I’ll chase you wherever you go. Wherever you go I’ll find you and get my revenge.”
“’Wherever you go I’ll find you and get my revenge.’ You said that?” asked Wang Jun. The white man nodded and continued to talk but Wang Jun wasn’t listening. Geoffrey Hyland’s story had triggered a memory in the old cop. A memory of another room, one in the Pudong, later on the day that the theatre director was describing.
Wang Jun took a deep breath to clear his head. It was getting light outside and Wang Jun
was tired, vulnerable. When he had been ordered to interview the Canadian director he had been skeptical that anything new would come of it. Now, after his second interview, he just wanted to be sure before he proceeded. Before he reported that it was time to reopen the case against his friend Zhong Fong. Yes, Hyland had seen a terrible fight and been attacked by Zhong Fong the night before Fu Tsong’s death in the Pudong. Yes, Fu Tsong had asked the director to contact Soo Jack the next afternoon, the afternoon of her death. No, Geoffrey Hyland had not been able to get in touch with Soo Jack so the stage manager had gotten Fu Tsong a cab. Yes, Fong had shown up at the theatre that afternoon, asking after Fu Tsong. Yes, Geoffrey had seen Fong the day after Fu Tsong’s death and asked after Fu Tsong but Fong had ignored the question. And finally yes, Geoffrey had had an affair with Fu Tsong.
“Do you think Fong capable of killing his wife?”
“I guess anyone is capable of such a thing.”
Then, as if it were an afterthought, Wang Jun tossed in, “You did know that Fu Tsong was pregnant, didn’t you?”
Wang Jun watched the white man’s face carefully.
“Yes, I knew, but . . .” Geofffrey himself falling—deep in the big white room. His mind did the simple arithmetic, the calculation he had never done before. Fu Tsong died in August four years ago. He had last slept with her in March of that year. The child could have been his.
Loa Wei Fen’s breath was coming in slow, ragged bursts. His heart was racing. The sheet he slept on by the side of his bed at the Portman Hotel was dripping with sweat. “I must have been poisoned,” he thought. It was the only thing that could explain what was happening to him. The clock on the bedside table said 2:07 A.M. He’d been asleep for almost twenty-two hours. He turned to the window, unwilling to accept the clock’s assessment of the time. He fully expected to see daylight as he parted the curtains, but no. The blanket of night was full upon the city.
The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory Page 16
