by Alan Carter
He’d bought some tea for his sisters and felt guilty for not popping in to say goodbye to his father before he left. For all he knew the old man would cark it while he was gone. Cato Kwong – Family Man. Further meandering brought him to the Shanghai Street That Time Forgot. Old shambling terraced houses leaned drunkenly into their neighbours as if to help keep the other from falling. Winding sunless alleyways were crammed with people crouched on small plastic chairs eating from bowls of noodles. The street itself bustled in gentle chaos with peddlers hawking basins of wriggling eels, twitching crabs, and gasping fish. The gutters ran red with piscine blood and guts. There was room only for bikes, mopeds, and pedestrians in the narrow tree-lined road, no cars or trucks. All available space was utilised. Washing even hung from the low-slung powerlines. Cato had watched as a young mother, baby in one arm, used a steel pole to hook two metal hangers of laundry onto the line. From a health and safety perspective it gave him the heebie-jeebies, from another it was almost life affirming.
On his return mid-evening, Cato had sent a brief text to Hutchens – shit, fan etc – checked and answered a few emails, napped, watched CNN, and eaten a room service dinner. He’d failed to fall asleep and around 10.30 he’d rapped on Lara’s door.
‘That stuff about Yu Guangming and Genevieve Tan, is that real or made up?’
Lara looked ready to retire. ‘Is this urgent?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Yes. He was at the house and his sperm was inside the wife.’
‘How come I’m the last to know?’
‘Ask DI Pavlou.’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’
Slumber was a long time coming. He’d woken and showered and resolved to play his cards a little closer to his chest. The look that passed between him and Li yesterday: Li knew that it wasn’t just him who had been ambushed by Lara; Cato too had been played. But it was clear that this was now between the two of them and, for that reason, he was keeping this morning tea rendezvous with Li a secret. That may or may not turn out to be a mistake, he would know soon enough. Kites skipped in the air and nightingales sang in their bamboo cages but Cato felt his sense of serenity slip away as he stepped over the threshold of the Royal Garden Restaurant.
Thomas Li had taken a window table. He was dressed in pastel casuals; perhaps he’d just been to, or was on his way to, a game of golf. He greeted Cato with a warm smile. ‘Tea? It’s Cloud and Mist from the Yellow Mountain. Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea’s fine. Thanks.’ Cato took a seat.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No, I’m good. Cheers.’ The tea had a sweet musky fragrance and a delicate taste.
‘I love Zhongshan Park,’ said Li wistfully. ‘I used to play here as a child, fly my kite, run around. I grew up in an old overcrowded shikumen house near here, bulldozed now, to make way for a shopping mall. My family history, all dust.’ Li fiddled with a pack of cigarettes before deciding against lighting up. ‘Such is the march of progress. Fortunately, I now own the shopping mall.’
‘That must help ease the pain,’ said Cato.
A humourless nod. ‘I would like to apologise for the ugly scene yesterday.’
‘Why? It was not your doing.’
‘Still, I was the host. It occurred while you were my guest. It was unpleasant.’
Cato doubted Li’s sincerity. They both knew an apology was not needed. This was the overture for a completely different transaction. ‘Thank you,’ said Cato. ‘Water under the bridge.’
A small smile tugged the corner of Li’s mouth. He gestured out of the window at two men standing close up against each other, hand-sparring in slow motion. One would push with a hand or arm and the other would block and push back. Others nearby stood in clusters, doing the same.
‘Tuishou,’ said Li. ‘Pushing hands. It’s a form of taiji, or tai chi, as you may say. The idea is to maintain constant contact, pushing neither too much nor too little in a harmonious, natural and spontaneous flow.’ Li sipped from his Cloud and Mist tea. ‘The essence of tuishou is that you dissolve an oncoming force before striking a blow. Push too hard and too early and you will most likely lose your balance and fall.’
The flow of movement was hypnotic. With difficulty Cato returned his attention to the here and now. To Thomas Li.
‘You should take it up,’ said Li. ‘I think you would be a natural.’
‘Why?’ said Cato.
‘Instinctively you seem to understand the way of things here. Unlike your colleague, Ms Sumich, a beautiful woman but so angry and impetuous.’
Cato cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve got me wrong. I might look Chinese but I can play the barbarian too. The oriental mysticism thing doesn’t cut it with me.’
‘You think so? Many Overseas Chinese seem happy to lose their culture. You? I sense some kind of loss, of yearning. Maybe you don’t even see it yourself.’
Outside, one of the sparring partners leaned too far forward and lost his balance. They broke contact, smiling, and drank some water before facing off again.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Cato. ‘And I do accept your apology for yesterday. Perhaps, as a favour, you might be able to put me in touch with Yu Guangming. He may not be personally known to you but I’m sure a man with your influence could find him.’
Li signalled for the bill. ‘I’ll see what I can do but you must understand once and for all that I had no part in those murders in your city. I will not say it again.’ He gestured once again to the tuishou practitioners outside. ‘In the meantime enjoy this city and all it has to offer. A walk every day through this park can teach you much about life.’
They shook hands and Li left.
Cato wandered back along the winding path that would take him out of the park to the Metro station. He replayed Li’s words, looking for layers of meaning, looking for warnings.
The essence of tuishou is that you dissolve an oncoming force before striking a blow.
He stopped again to admire the graceful and seemingly futile strokes of the calligraphers, wishing he could grasp their essence before they evaporated.
A walk every day through this park can teach you much about life.
Another group practising taiji, this time with swords. There would be a special name for this and Cato wanted to learn it. Why? Because there was no reason why he couldn’t or shouldn’t. It needn’t be a mystical yearning to belong, he reasoned, just a thirst for knowledge. The swords flashed in the filtered smoggy sunlight. Cato’s shirt clung damply to his torso. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed someone detach themselves from the taiji group and fall into step just behind him, sword in hand.
He could have you all sliced and diced in broad daylight.
He braced himself for the slash and hack, knowing already he was powerless to stop it.
‘G’day. How was brekky?’
It was Sharon Wang, blowing up from her bottom lip to cool her face. She handed her sword to a friend and waved goodbye as she slipped in beside Cato. He hadn’t realised how short she was, her head just reaching his shoulder.
‘Let me guess. This isn’t a coincidence.’
‘Not wrong. Nice chat with Mr Li?’
‘You’re monitoring my phone?’
‘Jeez, you’re not easy to get an answer out of. Li. What did he have to say for himself? Comprende?’
Cato couldn’t help but notice the parts where her taiji outfit stuck to her. Only moments ago he was bracing for a bloody death. Now he was having impure thoughts about Sharon Wang. Maybe it was some life affirming yin and yang thing. ‘We shared a nice pot of tea. Li explained the rules of tuishou. He apologised for yesterday.’
‘He apologised?’
‘Yup.’
‘And?’
‘I graciously accepted.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You didn’t push the Yu Guangming thing?’
‘Why would I?’
‘You’r
e a cop. And I thought I detected something a bit more personal in your reaction to Sumich’s stunt. You weren’t in on that, were you?’
Stunt, thought Cato. The revelation that Yu Guangming may have raped and murdered his former lover? Some stunt. ‘No, I didn’t push it with Li,’ he lied.
They came to the park entrance. There was a car waiting for her, a Chinese police car.
‘This is me,’ she said. ‘So, if I invite you to dinner to apologise for yesterday would you accept that invitation too?’
‘At this rate I’m going to be well ahead on the per diems.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll pick you up at the hotel at eight.’ She issued some stern-sounding Mandarin commands to the driver and hopped in the back. At the last minute two men jogged up and joined her in the car. Two of the tuishou sparring partners.
‘So when are you coming home?’
‘Soon, precious. Same flight as planned.’ Lara fought her rising irritation. Yes, they missed each other. Sure, she’d rather be there with him. But this was her job. She checked her facial expression on the small screen in the bottom corner to make sure she wasn’t giving anything away. John wasn’t bothering to hide his feelings. It was written all over his out-of-focus, juddering skyped face.
‘But if it’s a dead end you may as well just get out of there.’
‘You know how it is.’
‘Yeah.’ He dredged up a brave smile for her. ‘So what do you think of Shanghai?’
Her face twisted. ‘Makes me want to move to Manjimup, dig truffles, keep goats, fuck in the forest.’
‘That could work,’ he said. ‘I could have the Officer In Charge down there sacked on some trumped-up charge. Create a vacancy.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll take a job at the IGA, or make my own jam and sell it. Life’s too short to be a cop, clearing up other people’s crap. Getting nowhere.’
‘You, an Earth Mother? What kind of example is that to set for our daughter?’
Lara found herself caressing her tummy. ‘A glorious one. She can skip around the paddock picking daffodils while Mummy and Daddy cover each other in jam and root in the mud. What do you think of Skye for a name?’
‘We’ll have Child Protection knocking at the door.’
‘For calling her Skye? How about Tiger Lily?’ Another call was beckoning on the skype screen. It was Mike from the ACC. ‘Gotta go.’ She kissed her fingertips and placed them over his lips on the screen. ‘Love you.’
They were in a busy Japanese place near the consulate. Sharon Wang looked unnervingly attractive in a figure-hugging blue Mandarin dress. She finished stirring some wasabi into her soy sauce and prodded a piece of tuna with her chopsticks.
‘You worry me.’
‘Why?’ said Cato.
‘You do the Mr Inscrutability thing well. I can’t predict what you’re going to do next. Sumich, she’s easy. She goes off like a firework in everything she does. She’s the original cow in a china shop.’
‘Give her a break. Lara believes in what she’s doing and her heart is in the right place.’
‘I suppose. But she did directly countermand my explicit instructions.’
‘Is this the apology you were talking about?’
She grinned. ‘Fair cop, I probably went a bit overboard, but she …’
Cato held up his hand. ‘Apology accepted.’ He tried to change the subject. ‘So what brought you to China?’
‘A double degree in Mandarin and Law and a burning desire to do good.’
‘Mandarin and Law? You could be riding the mining boom on that.’
‘And climbing the walls with boredom. Also I was at a loose end, I had some aggro to work off. My first husband had just run off with one of his MBA students while I was on secondment in the Solomons.’
‘First husband?’
‘I haven’t found a second. Yet.’ She dabbed her lips with a napkin. ‘What about you?’
‘Bit sudden don’t you think? I haven’t really got to know you. Yet.’
‘Dickhead. You married?’
‘Divorced. Got a son, fourteen.’
‘Snap. Except for the offspring bit.’ She plucked something from another plate.
‘Is that chicken?’ said Cato.
‘Yeah. Teriyaki.’
‘Is that wise, with the bird flu and that?’
‘That was about six months ago. You ever thought of being a Pom?’
Cato’s chopsticks slipped and a piece of tuna slopped into the soy sauce dish sending a dark slash across the white tablecloth. ‘Fuck. Sorry.’ He retrieved his tuna. ‘You worry me, too.’
She took a gulp of Tsingtao from a frosted tankard. ‘Why?’
‘I can’t predict what you’re going to do next.’ She smiled enigmatically. ‘And I wonder whether you’re really a stickler for the rules of diplomatic protocol or whether you’re gatekeeping for Li.’
‘Don’t hold back, mate, say what you mean.’ Sharon stabbed another piece of raw fish. ‘That’s quite an accusation.’
Cato shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s not deliberate. Maybe it’s just a by-product of the “inter-agency ground rules”.’ He mimed the parentheses. ‘They help shield people like Li from any unpleasant surprises or scrutiny.’
‘I know which side I’m on.’ She gave him a stern look and ordered another round of beers. ‘Look, here’s my private email and non-work mobile.’ Sharon took a business card out of her wallet, scrawled the new details on the back and slid it across the table. She also slid a mobile SIM card across. ‘Use that when you’re calling me. It’s not being monitored. I can and will help.’
Her business card said ‘Agent Sharon Wang Hongying – Australian Federal Police’.
‘Hongying?’ said Cato.
‘My full Chinese name. It goes down well in certain Beijing circles. “Wang” means a few things depending on how you say it. In my case it means “King” although I prefer the possibility of it also meaning “Hope”. Unfortunately “Hongying” is a bit out of favour these days – it means “Red Heroine”.’
‘Sharon Hope Red Heroine. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’
‘My dad’s twisted little joke. He thought “Sharon” would help me fit in at Bendigo High and the “Hongying” would remind me who I really was. He used to be a Red Guard in this area during the Cultural Revolution. A real teenage ratbag, he waved the little red book, sang the patriotic songs, beat up the capitalist running dogs, all that.’
‘How did he get from that to having you in Australia?’
‘After a few years Mao decided the Red Guards were no longer any use to him. He packed them off to the countryside for re-education. They sent my dad down to Yunnan Province on the Burmese border. He just kept walking, all the way through Burma and into Thailand. He did something a bit dodgy for the Aussies in Bangkok during the Vietnam War and wangled a visa.’ She thumbed at herself. ‘The rest is history.’
‘So he lives in Bendigo now?’
She shook her head. ‘Semi-retired to Daylesford. He runs an adult retreat for Melbourne yuppies wanting a dirty weekend. Champers, choccies, spa, oils.’ She licked some beer foam off her lips. ‘You should try it sometime. You might like it.’
‘I’d be terrified he’d come barging into the room in the middle of the night to denounce me.’
‘Only if you’ve done something really bad,’ she said with a look that made Cato’s blood rush. Sharon Wang – Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vixen. ‘So what’s your history? Where do your family come from?’
‘I don’t know. My dad was never really into that family heritage stuff but his grandfather or great grandie or something lived in Bendigo I think, or was it Ballarat? Anyway something to do with the gold rush, I assume.’ He hesitated, not sure whether to share this or not, feeling curiously vulnerable. ‘When I was very young my father had a pet name for me: “Qian Ping”.’
She smiled. ‘It means powerful but gentle. It’s a beautiful name for a man. Kwong Qian Ping.’
<
br /> Cato felt himself blushing.
‘If they’ve been around that long your family should be pretty established. Gold rush, that’s blue-blood Chinese-Aussie. Do you want me to ask my mob? I mean “Kwong”, how hard can that be?’
Twice in one day he’d been nudged towards his Chinese ancestry. He realised he too wanted to be able to recount a tale like the one he’d just heard from Sharon Wang. Something to pass on to Jake, something for the boy to find some pride in, instead of his stoner mates. Cato recalled that surge of emotion he’d felt watching the calligraphers in Zhongshan Park.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
17
Sunday, August 18th.
Cato woke early after an inappropriate dream about Sharon Wang. The night out had ended well enough, a goodbye and a little wave, like an old-fashioned first date or something. Cato wondered if he was reading too much into it. Probably. He’d tried a late night phone call to his sister in the vain hope of catching Dad awake.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ Mand had grumped at him.
‘Sorry. Dad asleep then?’
