very British old colonial.’
After Beijing, this is not what Margaret had been expecting. Another billboard flashed past advertising Haier electrical goods under the slogan, HAIER AND HIGHER. Off to their right a collection of Greek classical villas with white pillars, balustraded balconies and red roofs, just like those in the ad, stood behind gated security walls in a compound called LONG DONG GARDEN. Geller grinned at Margaret. ‘Always makes me smile. Juvenile, isn’t it?’
Now Margaret saw the skyscrapers of the Lujiazui financial district emerging from the mist, the Pearl TV tower and the river beyond, and almost before she knew it, they were sweeping over the Nanpu Bridge and cruising north along the waterside expressway, the Bund appearing out of the rains like a mirage, wholly incongruous, like water in a desert. For a fleeting moment, Margaret experienced the illusion of being transported back to sometime in the late 1930s, drifting past grand European edifices, banks built by the French, consulates established by the British and Russians, cathedrals of commerce where one paid homage to the great business empire of Jardine, Matheson and Company.
‘That’s your hotel,’ Geller said, pointing out of the window and breaking the spell. It was on the corner of Nanjing Road, a huge stone structure on fourteen floors with a steeply sloped green copper roof. ‘Used to be the Cathay Hotel, the most luxurious hotel in the east. Pure Art Deco. It’s still pretty stunning.’ And a couple of buildings further on, he pointed up towards a line of statues, mythical heroes holding up a crenellated roof. ‘The Communists covered them up when they came to power. A symbol of the oppressed worker or something. They revealed them again in all their glory on the fiftieth anniversary of the Republic. I suppose now they are seen to symbolise strength and power.’
On the river side of the Bund, a wide promenade was jammed with Chinese tourists in from the country, all jostling to have their photographs taken with the Oriental Pearl TV tower in the background.
Their taxi swung across the Waibaidu Bridge over Suzhou Creek, in the shadow of the impressive Shanghai Mansions and the old Stock Exchange building, now converted to cheap hotel rooms and apartment rentals. They headed north then, through burgeoning high-rise suburbs, afternoon traffic choking narrow streets, to join up with the northern ring road. By the time the car pulled up outside the gates of 803, Margaret was completely disorientated.
‘This is you,’ Geller said.
‘This is me where?’ Margaret asked peering through the rain at the white gatehouse and the pink-tiled buildings beyond.
‘The headquarters of criminal investigation.’ He spoke to the driver who retrieved her cases from the trunk. ‘Sure you don’t want a hand with those?’ he said as he pushed open the door for her.
‘I can manage fine, thank you,’ she said.
‘You won’t mind if I don’t get out, then. It’s kind of wet out there.’ He grinned. The driver got back in and Geller pulled the door shut. He rolled down the window. ‘I’ll see you at the press conference.’
‘What press conference?’ Margaret asked, confused. Geller appeared to know so much more about her movements than she did. But the car was already pulling away. She realised she was getting soaked, and pulled up the collar of her cotton jacket. She was not dressed for rain.
A uniformed guard watched implacably as she dragged her cases over to the window of the gatehouse, to discover that nobody there spoke English. It was another fifteen minutes, after much to-ing and fro-ing and phoning back and forth, that a young uniformed policewoman who spoke English after a fashion said, ‘You follow me,’ and led her into the main building where they took the lift up to the eighth floor. No one had offered to give her a hand with her cases. Her wet hair was smeared over her face, and her temper, short at the best
After Beijing, this is not what Margaret had been expecting. Another billboard flashed past advertising Haier electrical goods under the slogan, HAIER AND HIGHER. Off to their right a collection of Greek classical villas with white pillars, balustraded balconies and red roofs, just like those in the ad, stood behind gated security walls in a compound called LONG DONG GARDEN. Geller grinned at Margaret. ‘Always makes me smile. Juvenile, isn’t it?’
Now Margaret saw the skyscrapers of the Lujiazui financial district emerging from the mist, the Pearl TV tower and the river beyond, and almost before she knew it, they were sweeping over the Nanpu Bridge and cruising north along the waterside expressway, the Bund appearing out of the rains like a mirage, wholly incongruous, like water in a desert. For a fleeting moment, Margaret experienced the illusion of being transported back to sometime in the late 1930s, drifting past grand European edifices, banks built by the French, consulates established by the British and Russians, cathedrals of commerce where one paid homage to the great business empire of Jardine, Matheson and Company.
‘That’s your hotel,’ Geller said, pointing out of the window and breaking the spell. It was on the corner of Nanjing Road, a huge stone structure on fourteen floors with a steeply sloped green copper roof. ‘Used to be the Cathay Hotel, the most luxurious hotel in the east. Pure Art Deco. It’s still pretty stunning.’ And a couple of buildings further on, he pointed up towards a line of statues, mythical heroes holding up a crenellated roof. ‘The Communists covered them up when they came to power. A symbol of the oppressed worker or something. They revealed them again in all their glory on the fiftieth anniversary of the Republic. I suppose now they are seen to symbolise strength and power.’
On the river side of the Bund, a wide promenade was jammed with Chinese tourists in from the country, all jostling to have their photographs taken with the Oriental Pearl TV tower in the background.
Their taxi swung across the Waibaidu Bridge over Suzhou Creek, in the shadow of the impressive Shanghai Mansions and the old Stock Exchange building, now converted to cheap hotel rooms and apartment rentals. They headed north then, through burgeoning high-rise suburbs, afternoon traffic choking narrow streets, to join up with the northern ring road. By the time the car pulled up outside the gates of 803, Margaret was completely disorientated.
‘This is you,’ Geller said.
‘This is me where?’ Margaret asked peering through the rain at the white gatehouse and the pink-tiled buildings beyond.
‘The headquarters of criminal investigation.’ He spoke to the driver who retrieved her cases from the trunk. ‘Sure you don’t want a hand with those?’ he said as he pushed open the door for her.
‘I can manage fine, thank you,’ she said.
‘You won’t mind if I don’t get out, then. It’s kind of wet out there.’ He grinned. The driver got back in and Geller pulled the door shut. He rolled down the window. ‘I’ll see you at the press conference.’
‘What press conference?’ Margaret asked, confused. Geller appeared to know so much more about her movements than she did. But the car was already pulling away. She realised she was getting soaked, and pulled up the collar of her cotton jacket. She was not dressed for rain.
A uniformed guard watched implacably as she dragged her cases over to the window of the gatehouse, to discover that nobody there spoke English. It was another fifteen minutes, after much to-ing and fro-ing and phoning back and forth, that a young uniformed policewoman who spoke English after a fashion said, ‘You follow me,’ and led her into the main building where they took the lift up to the eighth floor. No one had offered to give her a hand with her cases. Her wet hair was smeared over her face, and her temper, short at the best
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