The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory by David Rotenberg
Authors: David Rotenberg
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being this.” He pointed at the street sweeper but spoke directly to the brother. “Your little thieving whore of a sister over there took something from a Julu Lu alley two nights ago. We as the representatives of law and order in the District of Shanghai want it back.” The brother went to speak but Wang Jun indicated that he thought silence the only correct response at this point. The brother stared at Wang Jun’s raised gun and said nothing. “Very good, you’re a smart guy for a peasant.” Reaching for the silk rug, he said, “This will have to be taken in evidence, as will. . .” and he rattled off a list of every valuable article in the place. At the end of his recitation he handed the brother a card and said, “That’s my number, if you want your stuff back, you call me and tell me what your slut sister took from the alley.” The brother was eyeing his sister with fury. Seeing this, Wang Jun took Fong by the arm and headed him toward the entrance. As they left he said under his breath, “He’ll have what we need within a day or I’ll eat leech for lunch. By the way I’m hungry and there’s a good restaurant in the next water town.”
Even as Fong was formulating his arguments against going into the water town, not the least of which was that his clothes smelled like the shit used to fertilize the rice paddies, Loa Wei Fen was watching Ngalto Chomi, Zairian consul general. Once again the agile African completed his office chores and headed down toward Fu Yu. Loa Wei Fen looked to the eastern sky. No rain today, he thought, but dust. The dry hot wind straight off the Mongolian steppes was running strong. The city’s grit would mix with the loess from the country, carried by the strong wind—by the cleansing wind of the plains. Loa Wei Fen noted that many people chose to stay indoors to avoid the dust, that the endless strings of bicycle riders on Yan’an were thinner than usual.
As he pedalled his bicycle following the black man’s car, he slipped his hand into his inside suit pocket. There the snake-handled Mongolian knife seemed to roll over into his palm as if a thing alive. A day kill in the Old City would provoke the kind of response that his employers wished. A day kill would also move him nearer to the eave of the roof. Nearer to the leap to the curved pole with the other lion cubs.
Amanda found the bus ride from Narita to the JAL hotel vaguely reminiscent of travelling through the clean New Jersey suburbs. At the hotel it took less than a minute to check her in and JAL had booked her bags all the way through to Shanghai.
The deep tub in the bathroom was a joyous sight. She had been travelling since eight in the morning and the trip had taken a total of seventeen hours. So that made it one in the morning her time, although it was 3:30 in the afternoon in Tokyo, but the next day. It didn’t matter what time it was. She was tired and a bath would unwind her enough, she hoped, to sleep. On the bed was a cotton bathrobe and a pair of paper sandals. Without bothering to draw the curtains, she removed her travelling clothes and undid her hair. Out the window there were crowds of Japanese men, many of whom would be happy to pay a healthy portion of their monthly paycheques to get a glimpse at what was offered so freely to the late afternoon sun.
The bathwater was softer than she expected. She sank into its warmth and sighed. Then, holding her breath, she slid down farther so that her head was beneath the water.
She didn’t know if the tears started while she was beneath the water or whether they began their flow when she came up for air. It hardly mattered. Her body began to heave with sobs. She didn’t know if she was crying for the death of a man she had married but had never really known or for all the lost years she had spent with that man. All she knew was that alone in a cubicle of a hotel room in Japan she finally began to mourn.
Loa Wei Fen had made a mistake, but he’d been
Even as Fong was formulating his arguments against going into the water town, not the least of which was that his clothes smelled like the shit used to fertilize the rice paddies, Loa Wei Fen was watching Ngalto Chomi, Zairian consul general. Once again the agile African completed his office chores and headed down toward Fu Yu. Loa Wei Fen looked to the eastern sky. No rain today, he thought, but dust. The dry hot wind straight off the Mongolian steppes was running strong. The city’s grit would mix with the loess from the country, carried by the strong wind—by the cleansing wind of the plains. Loa Wei Fen noted that many people chose to stay indoors to avoid the dust, that the endless strings of bicycle riders on Yan’an were thinner than usual.
As he pedalled his bicycle following the black man’s car, he slipped his hand into his inside suit pocket. There the snake-handled Mongolian knife seemed to roll over into his palm as if a thing alive. A day kill in the Old City would provoke the kind of response that his employers wished. A day kill would also move him nearer to the eave of the roof. Nearer to the leap to the curved pole with the other lion cubs.
Amanda found the bus ride from Narita to the JAL hotel vaguely reminiscent of travelling through the clean New Jersey suburbs. At the hotel it took less than a minute to check her in and JAL had booked her bags all the way through to Shanghai.
The deep tub in the bathroom was a joyous sight. She had been travelling since eight in the morning and the trip had taken a total of seventeen hours. So that made it one in the morning her time, although it was 3:30 in the afternoon in Tokyo, but the next day. It didn’t matter what time it was. She was tired and a bath would unwind her enough, she hoped, to sleep. On the bed was a cotton bathrobe and a pair of paper sandals. Without bothering to draw the curtains, she removed her travelling clothes and undid her hair. Out the window there were crowds of Japanese men, many of whom would be happy to pay a healthy portion of their monthly paycheques to get a glimpse at what was offered so freely to the late afternoon sun.
The bathwater was softer than she expected. She sank into its warmth and sighed. Then, holding her breath, she slid down farther so that her head was beneath the water.
She didn’t know if the tears started while she was beneath the water or whether they began their flow when she came up for air. It hardly mattered. Her body began to heave with sobs. She didn’t know if she was crying for the death of a man she had married but had never really known or for all the lost years she had spent with that man. All she knew was that alone in a cubicle of a hotel room in Japan she finally began to mourn.
Loa Wei Fen had made a mistake, but he’d been
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