after he disappears.”
Irene was surprised by how logical Simone was being. Just as she was surprised by how clearheaded she felt. “I already bought two tickets for the
Lumière
. It’s leaving tomorrow.”
“How could you have known?”
“I didn’t. I bought them right when I arrived here. The
Lumière
was the first ship to Saigon I could book passage on.” Finishing off the thick, bracing remains of her coffee, Irene said, “We’re going to need an alibi for where we’ve been all night. For why I’m with you and why we’re going to Saigon. Anne will help us. Come on, we have to get out of here.”
Simone rose to her feet. She had aged a decade overnight. “Start the car,” she said. “I just need a minute.” When she emerged from the bungalow a few moments later, she was carrying a folder. Irene did not have to ask what it contained. She only hoped Simone would be smart enough to burn Roger’s memoir before they left Shanghai.
“She’s sleeping,” Anne said, returning a syringe to a leather medical case.
“What did you give her?” Irene asked.
“Morphine.”
“Isn’t that excessive?”
“She’s built up a tolerance to most everything else. Would you like something, darling? Song Yi brought back the loveliest hashish from Peshawar.” Anne glanced at her jade opium kit set out on the bookshelf among her collection of Qingbai porcelains. “Or I can make you a pipe?”
Irene was too afraid of where a drug might take her right now. Closer, rather than far enough away. “No, thank you.”
“How about some tea then?” Anne asked.
“Please.” Despite the bristling heat of the day, Irene was freezing. She had been cold from the moment, standing in Anne’s doorway, that she’d said the words aloud: “Roger is dead.” Anne had simply nodded, as if this was to be expected, and Simone had started crying again. Now, having cleaned up in Anne’s bathroom and put on a pair of her pajamas, Irene was suddenly aware of the chill crystallizing in her limbs, as it had when Roger pressed the gun to her cheek. She needed air. Sweltering, thawing air. She walked out to the balcony, followed by the green scent of boiling tea. Anne brought a steaming cup, wound in a napkin, and set the warm bundle on the railing.
“I’m having the hardest time walking back through this,” Irene said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Simone, even though she was asleep in the bedroom with the door closed. “Not just last night but these past days in Shanghai, the last months in Seattle, I’m trying to get back, do you understand, before I lost my job, before my father died. There’s a path, there must be a path from here to there, but I can’t find it. I can’t make the connections.” She covered her face with her hands, as if doing so could block out the vision of what had happened. “He held a gun to my head.”
“I know you want to make sense of this,” Anne said, “but you can’t.”
The city was achingly quiet, with the soup and noodle vendors in the lanes below idle between the busy breakfast and lunch hours. Overhead, the damp sky hung low and unpolished. “I should feel awful about what we did to him,” Irene said, “but I don’t. What kind of person does that make me?”
Anne guided her into a wicker chair. “You must let this go.”
It seemed impossible to Irene that something like this could be
let go
, yet she felt as if she was going to be sick if she thought about it any longer, so she asked, “Where were you last night?”
Anne gazed beyond the balcony railing, down into the alley, where a shop leaned into the open shack next to it. A thin veil of sunlight reddened jars of snake wine and pickled duck eggs. She sank into a chairbeside Irene and tucked her feet up on the seat, covering her toes with the hem of her dressing gown. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“You were with us,” Irene answered.
“What were we doing?”
Irene had the strangest headache. The pain was
Irene was surprised by how logical Simone was being. Just as she was surprised by how clearheaded she felt. “I already bought two tickets for the
Lumière
. It’s leaving tomorrow.”
“How could you have known?”
“I didn’t. I bought them right when I arrived here. The
Lumière
was the first ship to Saigon I could book passage on.” Finishing off the thick, bracing remains of her coffee, Irene said, “We’re going to need an alibi for where we’ve been all night. For why I’m with you and why we’re going to Saigon. Anne will help us. Come on, we have to get out of here.”
Simone rose to her feet. She had aged a decade overnight. “Start the car,” she said. “I just need a minute.” When she emerged from the bungalow a few moments later, she was carrying a folder. Irene did not have to ask what it contained. She only hoped Simone would be smart enough to burn Roger’s memoir before they left Shanghai.
“She’s sleeping,” Anne said, returning a syringe to a leather medical case.
“What did you give her?” Irene asked.
“Morphine.”
“Isn’t that excessive?”
“She’s built up a tolerance to most everything else. Would you like something, darling? Song Yi brought back the loveliest hashish from Peshawar.” Anne glanced at her jade opium kit set out on the bookshelf among her collection of Qingbai porcelains. “Or I can make you a pipe?”
Irene was too afraid of where a drug might take her right now. Closer, rather than far enough away. “No, thank you.”
“How about some tea then?” Anne asked.
“Please.” Despite the bristling heat of the day, Irene was freezing. She had been cold from the moment, standing in Anne’s doorway, that she’d said the words aloud: “Roger is dead.” Anne had simply nodded, as if this was to be expected, and Simone had started crying again. Now, having cleaned up in Anne’s bathroom and put on a pair of her pajamas, Irene was suddenly aware of the chill crystallizing in her limbs, as it had when Roger pressed the gun to her cheek. She needed air. Sweltering, thawing air. She walked out to the balcony, followed by the green scent of boiling tea. Anne brought a steaming cup, wound in a napkin, and set the warm bundle on the railing.
“I’m having the hardest time walking back through this,” Irene said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Simone, even though she was asleep in the bedroom with the door closed. “Not just last night but these past days in Shanghai, the last months in Seattle, I’m trying to get back, do you understand, before I lost my job, before my father died. There’s a path, there must be a path from here to there, but I can’t find it. I can’t make the connections.” She covered her face with her hands, as if doing so could block out the vision of what had happened. “He held a gun to my head.”
“I know you want to make sense of this,” Anne said, “but you can’t.”
The city was achingly quiet, with the soup and noodle vendors in the lanes below idle between the busy breakfast and lunch hours. Overhead, the damp sky hung low and unpolished. “I should feel awful about what we did to him,” Irene said, “but I don’t. What kind of person does that make me?”
Anne guided her into a wicker chair. “You must let this go.”
It seemed impossible to Irene that something like this could be
let go
, yet she felt as if she was going to be sick if she thought about it any longer, so she asked, “Where were you last night?”
Anne gazed beyond the balcony railing, down into the alley, where a shop leaned into the open shack next to it. A thin veil of sunlight reddened jars of snake wine and pickled duck eggs. She sank into a chairbeside Irene and tucked her feet up on the seat, covering her toes with the hem of her dressing gown. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“You were with us,” Irene answered.
“What were we doing?”
Irene had the strangest headache. The pain was
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