a cadre . The suit, the shoes, the fatty meat complexion. Seen one, you’ve seen them fucking all. How can you be so certain that you’d recognise this one?”
“ Wangba dan . I said that I would recognise him and I mean it. This ganbu , he was once as I am.”
Piao calming the tong zhi , stroking his face.
“What do you mean that he was once as you were, old papa?”
“He was once like me. See, see …”
Grabbing Piao’s hand, the old papa. Directing the beam of the torch directly onto his own face. Onto his mouth, lips. With his other hand, smoothing the hairs of his straggly moustache and beard, upwards, away from his top lip. The fruits of his mouth exposed. Harelip in split, ripe tomato hangings. Cleft palate in a dark valley of divide.
The tong zhi’s hands falling to his lap. Many seconds before he wiped his mouth with the blanket and spoke once more.
“In my village, in my life, there was never the privilege or the money to correct birth’s mocking. Unlike him.”
Smiling. For the first time, smiling.
“Imagine, a ganbu and a vagrant joined together by the same curse. Imagine. A political statement in this, yes?”
Patting the old papa’s face.
“Yes, tong zhi . One that even the Great Helmsman did not foresee.”
Smiling, the old papa.
“I think that identifying such a ganbu as this, Comrade Policeman, will be within even your capabilities.”
“I am sure that it will be, old papa. But I would sleep better at night if you allowed us to protect you. These are dangerous criminals, powerful criminals.”
“Do you think that I am worried about your sleep, Comrade Policeman, when you have rudely woken me from mine?”
A deep phlegmy laugh. Grubby fingers pulling the holed blanket over his head.
“Now fuck off and let me be. Even a guang guan , even a harelip such as me, needs his beauty sleep.”
Chapter 11
The mouth of the Yanandonglu Tunnel, Pudong .
The Jin Mao building, 420 metres of sculpted glass and fashioned steel. The People’s Republic’s tallest hotel.
Levels 3 to 50, accommodating 10,000 office workers. The floors up to 87, occupied by the world’s tallest 5-star hotel, the Hyatt, with 555 guest rooms. Its 86 th level providing a club for entrepreneurs only. On the 88 th floor, the highest viewing point in the People’s Republic. Views as far as Hangzhou Bay, the Yellow Sea, the East China Sea, and if you were gifted with imagination, the Pacific Ocean.
But it was a local tea house that they sat in, in the shadow of the Jin Mao building. Dark and long the shadow. A vast ebony knife slowly cutting the new financial hub of the city into portions.
Amongst chrome and marble, the tea house sat forgotten; clinging by bitten fingernails to a place that it no longer belonged to. The tea house, a maiden aunt, long past her best. A little frayed. A little too much make-up. A little worse for alcohol. But a little bit of how Shanghai used to be before the dollars sloshed and the diggers bit and the cranes hauled even higher. Still the same tea house, the best in Shanghai. Still the best tea and baozi , the steamed bread filled with meat.
But now, whether day or night, the tea house ten degrees colder than the surrounding buildings. Now, whether day or night, the tea house in darkness. As if it had been banished to another land. A darker, colder land.
*
A menu of bright smiles and easy pockets. No extra fen for the view, because there wasn’t one, or the white linen tablecloth, because the tabletops were bare, or the marble cladding, the chrome’s sparkle, the pianist’s winking smile, because the tea house was devoid of all of these trappings. Just tea as you have never tasted before. And the mama’s wobble-hipped sway between the tables and her broad smile at being left a tip of a few bent coined fen .
A cigarette, a tea.
“Is this all you have for breakfast, Boss?”
Piao pushed a full ashtray away, pulling a fresh one closer.
“No, sometimes I vary it. I have a
“ Wangba dan . I said that I would recognise him and I mean it. This ganbu , he was once as I am.”
Piao calming the tong zhi , stroking his face.
“What do you mean that he was once as you were, old papa?”
“He was once like me. See, see …”
Grabbing Piao’s hand, the old papa. Directing the beam of the torch directly onto his own face. Onto his mouth, lips. With his other hand, smoothing the hairs of his straggly moustache and beard, upwards, away from his top lip. The fruits of his mouth exposed. Harelip in split, ripe tomato hangings. Cleft palate in a dark valley of divide.
The tong zhi’s hands falling to his lap. Many seconds before he wiped his mouth with the blanket and spoke once more.
“In my village, in my life, there was never the privilege or the money to correct birth’s mocking. Unlike him.”
Smiling. For the first time, smiling.
“Imagine, a ganbu and a vagrant joined together by the same curse. Imagine. A political statement in this, yes?”
Patting the old papa’s face.
“Yes, tong zhi . One that even the Great Helmsman did not foresee.”
Smiling, the old papa.
“I think that identifying such a ganbu as this, Comrade Policeman, will be within even your capabilities.”
“I am sure that it will be, old papa. But I would sleep better at night if you allowed us to protect you. These are dangerous criminals, powerful criminals.”
“Do you think that I am worried about your sleep, Comrade Policeman, when you have rudely woken me from mine?”
A deep phlegmy laugh. Grubby fingers pulling the holed blanket over his head.
“Now fuck off and let me be. Even a guang guan , even a harelip such as me, needs his beauty sleep.”
Chapter 11
The mouth of the Yanandonglu Tunnel, Pudong .
The Jin Mao building, 420 metres of sculpted glass and fashioned steel. The People’s Republic’s tallest hotel.
Levels 3 to 50, accommodating 10,000 office workers. The floors up to 87, occupied by the world’s tallest 5-star hotel, the Hyatt, with 555 guest rooms. Its 86 th level providing a club for entrepreneurs only. On the 88 th floor, the highest viewing point in the People’s Republic. Views as far as Hangzhou Bay, the Yellow Sea, the East China Sea, and if you were gifted with imagination, the Pacific Ocean.
But it was a local tea house that they sat in, in the shadow of the Jin Mao building. Dark and long the shadow. A vast ebony knife slowly cutting the new financial hub of the city into portions.
Amongst chrome and marble, the tea house sat forgotten; clinging by bitten fingernails to a place that it no longer belonged to. The tea house, a maiden aunt, long past her best. A little frayed. A little too much make-up. A little worse for alcohol. But a little bit of how Shanghai used to be before the dollars sloshed and the diggers bit and the cranes hauled even higher. Still the same tea house, the best in Shanghai. Still the best tea and baozi , the steamed bread filled with meat.
But now, whether day or night, the tea house ten degrees colder than the surrounding buildings. Now, whether day or night, the tea house in darkness. As if it had been banished to another land. A darker, colder land.
*
A menu of bright smiles and easy pockets. No extra fen for the view, because there wasn’t one, or the white linen tablecloth, because the tabletops were bare, or the marble cladding, the chrome’s sparkle, the pianist’s winking smile, because the tea house was devoid of all of these trappings. Just tea as you have never tasted before. And the mama’s wobble-hipped sway between the tables and her broad smile at being left a tip of a few bent coined fen .
A cigarette, a tea.
“Is this all you have for breakfast, Boss?”
Piao pushed a full ashtray away, pulling a fresh one closer.
“No, sometimes I vary it. I have a
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