ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan-Philipp Sendker, born in Hamburg in 1960, was the American correspondent for Stern from 1990 to 1995, and its Asian correspondent from 1995 to 1999. In 2000 he published Cracks in the Wall, a non-fiction book about China. The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, his first novel, is an international bestseller. He lives in Potsdam with his family.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Christine Lo is an editor in book publishing in London. She has also worked as a translator in Frankfurt and translated books by Juli Zeh and Senait Mehari from German into English. Her most recent translation is Atlas of Remote Islands by Judith Schalansky.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Art of Hearing Heartbeats
A Well-Tempered Heart
The Long Path to Wisdom
Whispering Shadows
Dragon Games
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2019 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh EH9 1QS
www.polygonbooks.co.uk
Originally published in German as Am Anderen Ende der Nacht by Karl Blessing Verlag, Munich
Copyright © 2017 Jan-Philipp Sendker
Translation copyright © 2018 Jan-Philipp Sendker
ISBN 978 1 84697 417 5
eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 021 6
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Birlinn Ltd.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.
Typeset by 3btype.com
Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A
For Anna, Florentine, Theresa
and Jonathan and Dorothea
PROLOGUE
Paul saw him first. A young man on a street corner. His hands buried in the pockets of a light jacket, waiting patiently on the spot as though he had turned up early for an appointment. Conspicuously inconspicuous.
He sized up every car that turned into Jia Jou Lu with watchful eyes.
It was the look of suspicion in his eyes that gave him away.
Christine kept her son hidden on her lap; he lay beneath a black blanket that stank of stale smoke. Her eyes were closed, as though she was asleep.
Paul knew she wasn’t.
She had not believed that they would make it. Not when they had first fled, nor later on, as they had left Shi further behind them with each passing day. Not even this morning.
The traffic lights turned red and the taxi stopped. Christine opened her eyes briefly and he could see that she still did not believe it. One more street to go, he wanted to say. Look out of the window. Reassure yourself. Two hundred meters, maybe three hundred, no more than that. What was one more street after thousands of kilometers on the run?
The man on the street corner would not be able to stop them on his own.
Then he saw a second man.
And a third.
A black Audi with tinted windows, with its headlights off, drew up and parked not far from the security zone in front of the embassy. He noticed a group of young men lurking under one of the gingko trees, keeping watch.
“Don’t stop. Drive on,” he said to the taxi driver.
“The embassy is here.”
“I know where the embassy is. Keep driving.”
Christine. Alarmed. How strongly fear could show on a face, Paul thought. That was something it had in common with love.
“But you wanted to go to the embassy.”
“Carry on driving.
Go!”
“Where to?”
Sometimes there were no answers to simple questions. Especially not to those questions.
“Where to?” the driver said again.
_________
Two thousand kilometers away, lunch was interrupted by a phone call.
The gentlemen were in a meeting and not to be disturbed except in an emergency.
Not an emergency, no, but a matter of great urgency.
Then please call back later.
An exchange of curses and threats followed, then the call was put through.
“They’re here.”
“Where?”
“In Beijing. In front of the American embassy.”
A brief silence.
“What should we do?”
“Bring them here.”
“All of them?”
“No. Only the child.”
“And the other two?”
The City
Two weeks earlier
I
Paul had never liked dancing and he had not done it much. It was years since he had last danced. But he was one of those people who found it difficult to say no to a child, especially to his own, so he started moving.
He took a step forward to the beat of the music, a step to the side and a step backward. He swung his knees from side to side, and turned round in a circle with a flourish.
The weight of the world was on his shoulders. But it was so light that it was not difficult for him to carry.
David shrieked with delight.
Several hundred couples dancing the waltz surrounded them. Some of them took no notice of the two strangers in their midst. Others laughed at the sight of the tall man with the child on his shoulders, towering above them all by a head. They called encouraging words, waved and clapped whenever there was a break in the music.
David enjoyed the attention and Paul relished the lighthearted feeling of them dancing in the People’s Square in Shi. Instead of being oppressed by the heat in Hong Kong, he and his son were enjoying the warm air of a mild autumn day in Sichuan. Above them was a clear blue sky. Heavy rain that morning had washed the grime from the air; the wind had blown any remaining dust out of the city in the last few hours.
After a few dances his son grew thirsty. Paul lifted him off his shoulders and they walked over to a row of stalls lining the side of the square. They were selling ice cream, pastries, and drinks, and were surrounded by crowds of people. Hong Kong Canto-pop blared from loudspeakers and the smell of fresh coffee was in the air. Paul ordered a double espresso for himself and a scoop of ice cream and a soft drink for David. They perched on bar stools at the only free table. David wanted a straw. Paul got him one.
“No, not a yellow one. A red one.”
“There aren’t any red ones.”
“There are. The woman at the next table has one.”
“The color of the straw makes no difference to the taste of your soda.”
“Yes it does.”
“It definitely doesn’t.”
“It definitely does. Please, Daddy.”
Paul fetched a red straw.
They sat in silence, looking at the square.
In the middle of it, a grayish-white stone statue of Mao Zedong towered into the sky, much, much larger than life. Mao’s right arm was raised; whether he was waving at the people or showing them the way was not clear. The stone of his head and shoulders was noticeably lighter in color; the bird droppings had clearly recently been cleaned off him.
At Mao’s feet, the city had laid large flowerbeds, filled with red autumn blooms. Behind him was a banner with ‘Long live the Great Chairman’ on it.
David did not pay attention to any of this. His glass was empty and he had finished his ice cream. He wanted to dance again.
“In a moment.”
“When is that?”<
br />
_________
At twilight, more and more people streamed into the People’s Square: families enjoying the mild autumn evening, people laden with heavy bags of shopping, young couples pressing close to each other on the benches and chairs.
An old man came towards them and stared at them openly. When they met his gaze, he laughed. A strange toothless laugh. Not hostile, but not friendly either.
Drawn by curiosity, a couple of elderly women joined him, and immediately started talking in thick Sichuan dialect about the stranger and the unusual child. As far as Paul could make out, they were marveling at David’s curly black hair and the dark blue color of his eyes, which, they agreed, did not suit his Asian eyes at all. He was certainly not Chinese, but not a real white person. What was he, then? Japanese, maybe? Paul suppressed a laugh and said nothing. They gave him a penetrating look and asked if he was the child’s father or grandfather.
“Father,” Paul said.
Skeptical looks. The odd laugh of disbelief.
He must be a rich man who had taken a young Chinese woman as a wife. Where was she? She had probably left him by now. From what Paul could understand, there were conflicting opinions on this point.
David grew restless. He wanted to dance.
Paul got up and put him on his shoulders again.
In the middle of the next waltz, the music stopped. The dancers paused. Questioning looks. A quiet murmur that grew louder, then quieter, until it subsided completely. A strange, tense silence spread over the square. David leaned down to speak to him. “What’s going on, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. They’re probably changing the music.”
A fight broke out in front of the loudspeakers. Several men and women were shouting at each other; the sound of their raised voices carried over to them. A different piece of music started up, then it stopped and the fight escalated. Then the new music continued. Paul recognized the tune immediately, but it took him a moment to put a name to it.
Rise up, the damned of this earth
When had he last heard ‘The International’? A few couples had started dancing again but others hesitated, clearly waiting to see what the majority decided on. Gradually, everyone started moving again.
People, listen to the message!
David swayed enthusiastically to the music. Paul gripped his son’s legs a little tighter.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” David wanted to know.
Paul hated marching songs and fighting songs. But to please David, he moved a little, helplessly, against his will.
“Not like that,” the disappointed voice said from above. “Dance properly. Like you did before.”
Paul made an effort to do so.
Then came ‘Long live the Great Chairman’, a song in praise of Chairman Mao, which had been heard every day throughout the country when he had been alive. The old man next to them climbed happily onto a bar stool and started singing. His voice sounded like a crow cawing, but he knew the lyrics off by heart.
The young people sitting on the wall a few meters away laughed and grimaced.
Paul stopped moving.
“Keep on dancing,” his son shouted.
“In a moment.”
“No, now.”
The next song was ‘The East is Red’.
The East is red, the sun is rising
China has produced Mao Zedong
Chairman Mao loves the people
He leads us
To build a new China
Hurrah! Lead us forward!
More and more young couples starting joining in, dancing and singing. Most of the people in the two coffee shops were standing too, some of them on the chairs.
‘The Song of the Red Star’.
The roar of a few thousand-strong choir singing echoed around the square.
The red star shines, it shines bright
The red star shimmers, it warms our hearts
The red star is the heart of the workers and farmers
The reputation of the Party shines for all time
The power of the people. Paul shuddered. He felt uncomfortable. He felt his pulse quickening and he was breathing heavily. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that double espresso.
David had stopped swaying, as though he felt the unease. He held on tight to his father’s head with both hands. Two men approached the food and drink stallholders and demanded in brusque tones that they stop playing Canto-pop music. When they refused, the men went to the speakers and yanked the cables out.
After that, they set to work on the young people. A few words were sufficient. The young men and women lowered their eyes, obediently got to their feet and joined in with the singing. Only one of them remained sitting in defiance. Despite the mild weather, he was wearing a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and fashionable motorcycle boots, and his hair was dyed a shimmering, almost white blond. Within seconds his nose had been broken by a punch in the face. Paul turned away, appalled.
David immediately asked to be let down from his father’s shoulders and to be held in his arms instead.
The old man shouted something at them and some other men who were standing nearby joined in. Paul did not understand exactly what they were saying. It was clearly something about Japan, for some reason. He replied with a helpless smile, which made them even angrier. The women who had been curious about them a moment ago gave them hostile looks and the young people nodded. Paul looked around for Zhang, who was more than half an hour late. He wanted to get away from here.
David was shivering.
Paul clasped his son tighter in his arms. He saw Zhang approaching in the distance.
His monk’s robes were flecked with spittle.
II
The Moshan monastery was only a few kilometers away from the People’s Square, but the taxi still took over half an hour to get there. The six lanes of traffic on the road moved at a walking pace when they moved at all. The driver swore. He switched lanes constantly until Zhang asked him to stop doing so. They were not on the run from anything, even though it had seemed like that at first. They swung out of a side lane and were stuck in the jam again.
Paul found the confines of the cab and the stationary traffic difficult. He hated not being in control of how fast he was travelling, and he felt trapped. The singing of the crowd still sounded in his ears. The wordless silence in the cab made their song ring out even louder. He wished he could get out and continue the journey on foot.
Zhang sat next to him in silence, staring at a photo of Mao Zedong that was dangling from the rear-view mirror and, beneath it, a white plastic figurine of the Great Chairman fixed on the dashboard. Paul could see how worked up he was. The great gob of spit on his chest had still not dried up completely.
The cab turned into a side street near the monastery. They got out and Zhang bought a few groceries at a small market. Just like before, Paul thought, feeling glad at how familiar this felt. For a brief moment that nonetheless seemed too long, the sight of his friend in the gray monk’s robes had unsettled him. He’s changed his uniform, was the thought that crossed Paul’s mind.
That of a policeman for that of a monk.
The thought subsided as quickly as it had appeared, but it still made Paul feel uncomfortable. He had known Zhang for almost thirty years now. They had met on one of Paul’s first trips to China. Zhang had been a patrolman in Shenzhen, and had had to protect the foreign visitor from a horde of curious onlookers at a public toilet. They had become friends over the years. No one else in the world, apart from Christine, perhaps, was closer to him.
Three years ago, Zhang had suddenly left the police force, from one day to the next. He had gone to Shenzhen as a young man and had quickly risen from a mere patrolman to police inspector in the homicide division. In the nearly thirty years that followed, he had been overlooked for promotion with remarkable regularity. The official reason for this was his Buddhist beliefs and his refusal to rejoin the Communist Party after he had been expelled from it in th
e 1980s in a campaign against ‘spiritual pollution’. The Party cadres might have forgiven him these misdemeanors given that he was one of the best and the most hardworking of the police inspectors, but what really ruled him out for higher office in the eyes of his superiors was his probity. Zhang was tenacious in his refusal to extract protection money from restaurants, bars, hotels, prostitutes, or illegal migrant workers from the countryside. He even turned down, politely but firmly, the red envelopes of cash, cigarettes, whiskey, and all the other gifts that were offered to him at Chinese New Year.
This honesty had often resulted in conflict in Zhang’s family. A police inspector’s salary and that of a secretary were not sufficient to take advantage of the promises of the new age. Not enough to buy a flat or a car. Not even enough for a regular shopping spree in one of the new malls filled with foreign branded goods. Zhang’s wife’s Prada bags and Chanel belts had been fakes of the cheapest sort.
Through the years of low-level but constant bickering and arguments – Zhang could not have said precisely when it had all started – the love between them had disappeared.
When he had been made head of the homicide division after a corruption scandal, but resigned from the position only a few months later because he knew that, being so honest, he could not but fail, it had been too much for his wife.
She left him soon after that, for a German businessman. Without saying a word to him, she had moved out with their son. When Zhang had come home from work one evening, half the contents of his household were missing. It looked as though she had even counted out the peppercorns and weighed out the sugar. Now she carried a genuine Prada bag and lived in a mansion in one of the suburbs of Shenzhen that rich foreigners and even richer Chinese people cloistered themselves in.
The split after twenty years of marriage had devastated Zhang. Paul had spent a lot of time with his friend in the weeks and months that followed. One evening, Zhang told him that he had left the police force and would be returning to his home province of Sichuan and entering a Buddhist monastery.
Paul had been disappointed and annoyed. Disappointed because Zhang was the only friend he had ever had, and he would miss him. Annoyed because this friend had not taken him into his confidence and asked for his advice or his opinion.
The Far Side of the Night Page 1
