Whispering Shadows by Jan-Philipp Sendker Page B

intellectuals, but that they could serve the Revolution like everyone else. Two in the group had died of lung infections a few days after that; for Zhang, it was only his knee that swelled and was intolerably painful for weeks. The pain haddeveloped into a kind of rheumatism over the years and got worse with increasing age.
    Mei passed him two hot towels, which he wrapped around his knee.
    â€œHave you eaten?” he said, turning to Paul and starting to unpack the grocery bags without waiting for a reply. Before long the whole apartment smelled of sesame oil, garlic, coriander, and ginger, of fried spring onions and chili peppers. On the table was a plate of cold chicken, several saucers of black and red sauces, fried pork belly, deep-fried mushrooms, watercress, and rice. Zhang took his place contentedly.
    â€œAre you going to tell me why I should only call you on Mei’s cell phone now?” Paul asked, after he had praised his friend for the food.
    Zhang helped himself to a good chunk of pork belly before he replied.
    â€œBecause I’m not sure who might be listening in to the cell phone I use for work. It doesn’t normally bother me, but this case is different.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy?” Zhang spat a bit of rind out. “I tried to explain to you yesterday. The murder of a foreigner in China is not simply a murder. It’s a loss of face. It damages the country’s image. And in some cases it becomes an economic problem. The authorities do everything to make foreigners feel safe. I can’t think of anything like this ever happening before here in Shenzhen. I can’t imagine that anyone would be so stupid as to attack a foreigner and to rob him and kill him too. There are enough rich Chinese people around.”
    â€œWho would have a reason to kill a young American man, then?”
    â€œI haven’t got the faintest idea, but I’m afraid that’s exactly why it’s a problem. Can you tell me anything about the Owens’ business in China?” Zhang asked.
    â€œNot much. They mentioned that they have a factory here. Or several, perhaps. I can’t remember exactly.”
    â€œWhat do they manufacture?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDidn’t they give any idea? Toys? Lights? Shoes?”
    Paul shook his head.
    â€œDo you know the name of the company?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t ask them. They did say, though, that their son had an appointment with a Mr. Tang. It sounded as though that was their manager or a joint venture partner.”
    â€œTang Mingqing?”
    Paul would think back to this moment a great deal later on. To Zhang’s eyes opened wide. To the grimace on his lips. Why had he not taken these unusual reactions as a warning?
    â€œNo,” Paul replied uncertainly. “If I remember correctly, they didn’t mention a Chinese name.”
    â€œAlso called Victor Tang?”
    â€œYes, I think that’s what he was called.”
    Zhang stared at his friend disbelievingly.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œFairly sure. Who is this man?”
    â€œVictor Tang is . . . is . . .” Zhang searched for words and finished his sentence only a few seconds later, “an incredibly influential person.” Paul waited for something that would explain his friend’s sudden tenseness, but Zhang did not say more.
    Mei stared down at her plate, which was still half full.
    â€œWhat do you mean by influential?” Paul asked, after a pause.
    â€œYou don’t even know his name?” Zhang said in response.
    Paul thought for a moment. Victor Tang? Tang Mingqing? The man must have very patriotic parents. Who else would name their child after three Chinese dynasties at once? “No. The name means nothing to me. But why should it? I haven’t been here for a long time and I haven’t read the newspapers for years. How am I supposed to know who he is? What can you tell me about