The Shanghai Murders - A Mystery of Love and Ivory by David Rotenberg Page B
Authors: David Rotenberg
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rather turned inward as if probing a memory.
Fong had told her it was nothing more than a mistake. A slip of the tongue. That whatever she was carrying he would love and cherish as he loved and cherished her. But Fu Tsong knew her husband, the cop who loved the actress. She knew the pride he had in coming from the depths of the Old City to his present job, she knew his training in being a man. And she knew that part of that training insisted that he have a son.
Spending her life in the relativity of art, she adored the factual solidity of Zhong Fong. His bluntness pleased her. So did his unrelentingly straight-line maleness. He never apologized for it, yet could easily converse with her many gay and effeminate male friends from the theatre. She enjoyed the pleasure of his touch and thrilled at how after all these years she still roused him by the simple removal of her blouse. She’d catch him in the mirror watching her put on her makeup. Walking into a room with a towel around her, fresh from the shower, provoked a smile from deep inside him. And his smile made her smile. Even the momentary slip of a bra strap outside a loose blouse attracted his attention. As if they were kids—no, not kids, but young lovers who thought their love the only love in the garden of delights.
She also liked his incisive intelligence. He’d read each of her scripts and often had questions that made her see the text in new and different ways. He’d approach things deductively, always starting with “Now what would make someone use that exact phrase?” And then that liquid mind of his would put together backgrounds, often several of them that would lead an individual to say precisely those words. More often than she admitted she used his insights in her work.
But now, as he pleaded his case before her, claiming it was just a slip of the tongue when he said “I’m lifting you and our son,” she knew differently. She applied his thinking. What could possibly make a person say that exact line? And there were very few answers. In fact there was only one. A person would only say “I’m lifting you and our son” if what the person wanted was the wife he held aloft to be carrying a son deep in her womb.
Fong was almost ready to call it quits when the brother from the country raced down the alleyway shouting, “I want my fucking carpet back.”
“Do you have something for me, comrade?” inquired Wang Jun as he threw an arm around the peasant’s shoulders.
“I do, but I want my fucking carpet first.”
He wouldn’t speak until he was shown his carpet. So Fong, Wang Jun, and the brother hustled into a patrol car and sped off to the police warehouse by the airport. Once inside, the brother was given a glimpse of his carpet and the other pieces of his property. Fong then sent everyone else except the brother and Wang Jun out of the enclosure. “So you have something for us,” said Fong.
The brother hesitated for a moment and then reached into his pocket and pulled out three small intricate white carvings. Taking them, Fong said, “These? These are what your sister took from the alley off Julu Lu?”
“Those.”
“There wouldn’t happen to be several dozen more of them would there, comrade?” snarled Wang Jun, but Fong waved the question aside and turned to go.
Catching up to Fong, Wang Jun stared at the delicate figures. “Ivory?”
“Yes, ivory.”
“Like ivory-from-elephants-type ivory?”
“The same, Wang Jun,” said Fong as an idea tickled at the side of his brain but refused to come forward. From far behind them, they heard the brother scream, “How’m I suppose to get my fucking carpet back to my house?” Ignoring this Fong asked Wang Jun, “You don’t think he beat the street sweeper to get her to tell him, do you?”
“If it makes you happy to believe that all of a sudden out of the goodness of her heart she fessed up so be it. For me, I hope he didn’t kill her. That’s all I hope.”
The murder
Fong had told her it was nothing more than a mistake. A slip of the tongue. That whatever she was carrying he would love and cherish as he loved and cherished her. But Fu Tsong knew her husband, the cop who loved the actress. She knew the pride he had in coming from the depths of the Old City to his present job, she knew his training in being a man. And she knew that part of that training insisted that he have a son.
Spending her life in the relativity of art, she adored the factual solidity of Zhong Fong. His bluntness pleased her. So did his unrelentingly straight-line maleness. He never apologized for it, yet could easily converse with her many gay and effeminate male friends from the theatre. She enjoyed the pleasure of his touch and thrilled at how after all these years she still roused him by the simple removal of her blouse. She’d catch him in the mirror watching her put on her makeup. Walking into a room with a towel around her, fresh from the shower, provoked a smile from deep inside him. And his smile made her smile. Even the momentary slip of a bra strap outside a loose blouse attracted his attention. As if they were kids—no, not kids, but young lovers who thought their love the only love in the garden of delights.
She also liked his incisive intelligence. He’d read each of her scripts and often had questions that made her see the text in new and different ways. He’d approach things deductively, always starting with “Now what would make someone use that exact phrase?” And then that liquid mind of his would put together backgrounds, often several of them that would lead an individual to say precisely those words. More often than she admitted she used his insights in her work.
But now, as he pleaded his case before her, claiming it was just a slip of the tongue when he said “I’m lifting you and our son,” she knew differently. She applied his thinking. What could possibly make a person say that exact line? And there were very few answers. In fact there was only one. A person would only say “I’m lifting you and our son” if what the person wanted was the wife he held aloft to be carrying a son deep in her womb.
Fong was almost ready to call it quits when the brother from the country raced down the alleyway shouting, “I want my fucking carpet back.”
“Do you have something for me, comrade?” inquired Wang Jun as he threw an arm around the peasant’s shoulders.
“I do, but I want my fucking carpet first.”
He wouldn’t speak until he was shown his carpet. So Fong, Wang Jun, and the brother hustled into a patrol car and sped off to the police warehouse by the airport. Once inside, the brother was given a glimpse of his carpet and the other pieces of his property. Fong then sent everyone else except the brother and Wang Jun out of the enclosure. “So you have something for us,” said Fong.
The brother hesitated for a moment and then reached into his pocket and pulled out three small intricate white carvings. Taking them, Fong said, “These? These are what your sister took from the alley off Julu Lu?”
“Those.”
“There wouldn’t happen to be several dozen more of them would there, comrade?” snarled Wang Jun, but Fong waved the question aside and turned to go.
Catching up to Fong, Wang Jun stared at the delicate figures. “Ivory?”
“Yes, ivory.”
“Like ivory-from-elephants-type ivory?”
“The same, Wang Jun,” said Fong as an idea tickled at the side of his brain but refused to come forward. From far behind them, they heard the brother scream, “How’m I suppose to get my fucking carpet back to my house?” Ignoring this Fong asked Wang Jun, “You don’t think he beat the street sweeper to get her to tell him, do you?”
“If it makes you happy to believe that all of a sudden out of the goodness of her heart she fessed up so be it. For me, I hope he didn’t kill her. That’s all I hope.”
The murder
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