The Fury of Beijing, page 23
“I would offer you coffee or tea,” Ava said, pointing to the thermos on the counter. “But I’m not sure we have any.”
“There’s no need for that,” he said. “How long do you intend to stay here?”
“A few hours at most— Fai has some things that she wants me to bring back to Toronto.”
“Then I’m glad I caught you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Despite the government trying to keep it quiet, a lot of people know that Fai has made a movie about Tiananmen Square. It is attracting what I think is some unwanted attention.”
“ Fai didn’t actually make the movie. She acted in it. Her ex-husband Lau Lau wrote the script and directed it,” Ava said, wondering where this was leading.
“I knew Lau Lau when he lived here. It was just about the time when he started to go downhill.”
“Did you know he died recently?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Lam with a brisk shake of his head. “Was it an illness, or something to do with drugs?”
“No, he was shot while walking into a restaurant in Taipei, only a short time after finding out that he and his film had been nominated for Oscars.”
“I heard nothing about that,” Lam said, clearly startled.
“Why would you? You were right when you said the government wants no one to know about the film. And I’m sure they’re as determined to prevent people knowing that they killed Lau Lau and his producer, Chen, for making it.”
Lam hesitated, and then said, “Did I just hear you correctly? Are you really saying the government murdered Lau Lau?”
It was Ava’s turn to pause. Had she already said too much? How much trust could be put in a retired police officer? What did Lam value most—his ties to his neighbours or to his past profession? She looked at him and saw nothing but concern on his face.
“I am, and with good reason. I have been told by people who are in the know that his death was ordered by the Ministry of State Security, and carried out by a couple of their assassins.”
“What people?”
“I don’t want to get into any details about them other than to say I believe them to be entirely credible.”
“And they were that precise when they told you about what happened to Lau Lau?”
“Yes. They said that the government decided that preventing people from seeing the film wasn’t enough—that it was also necessary to punish those who made it. Lau Lau and Chen were targeted.”
Lam frowned and turned his head to look out of the window.
“Superintendent, has something I said upset or compromised you somehow?”
“No, I’m just putting two and two together,” he said. “What I had intended to tell you was that the mss came here about a month ago looking for Fai.”
Ava felt her stomach knot, and the onset of a cold sweat. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“I saw men knocking at her door. When they didn’t find her at home, they came to see me and identified themselves. They knew who I was and what job I’d had. When I told them I didn’t know where she was, they went from door to door asking the other residents if they had any idea, and if she’d told anyone when she’d be back.”
“How many mss agents were there?”
“Six. They tend to travel in packs. They saw me again before leaving to tell me to call them the moment she showed her face. Then they said they had instructed the other residents to do the same, but if for some reason they couldn’t get through to the mss, they should tell me. Given my background, they naturally assumed I’d be complicit.
“Did they give you any hint of why they wanted to see her?”
“All they said was that they wanted to talk to her. I think we can take for granted it would have been about the film. The thing that’s really worrisome is that I’m sure the talk wouldn’t have taken place here.”
Ava felt the knot tighten. “Do you really think they would have taken her away?”
“I do. They don’t send six men if they want to chat in your living room. If she’d been at home, they would have bundled her off.”
“Shit.”
“Ava, I’m not someone who overreacts, but what you’ve told me about Lau Lau and the other guy has made me very concerned about her safety.”
“I share your concern.”
“Then you need to tell Fai to stay away from here until things cool down—assuming they do.”
“That was the plan anyway, but this cements it.”
“Good, and now we need to get you out of here as fast as possible. I’m sure some of the neighbours saw you arrive like I did. The one next door has made it clear a few times that he has an active dislike for you, and I wouldn’t put it past him to call the mss and report that you’re in Fai’s house.”
“ Fan would do that?”
Lam shrugged. “Maybe not, but why take the chance?”
“Yes, this is a bad time for me to be pushing my luck. I’ll pack up Fai’s things as quickly as I can.”
“If you like, I’ll stay here until you’re finished, and then I’ll walk you to the cab stand at the hutong entrance.”
“I really appreciate that, and I know that Fai will be grateful as well.”
“You know I’ve lived here for more than twenty years, and Fai was always un failingly kind. The thought that I might not see her again rather saddens me. Please tell her that, but be sure to add that I’d rather be sad than worry about her being at risk.”
( 36 )
Ava left Fai’s house half an hour later pulling a medium-sized suitcase and toting one of her own bags. Lam walked slightly behind her, carrying Ava’s other bag and covering her back. She had tried to stay calm and focused as she worked on Fai’s list, but the conversation with Lam had alarmed her, and despite knowing realistically that it was unlikely the mss would show up at Fai’s that quickly, it was with an increasing sense of relief that she left the house, then exited the courtyard, and finally reached the cab stand.
“Say hello to Fai for me,” Lam said as the driver put Ava’s luggage in the trunk.
“I will, and can you do us a favour?”
“What is it?”
“Could you text or phone me or Fai if the mss returns. My contact information is on my card,” she said, handing one to him.
“Of course.”
Ava slid into the back seat of the taxi, waved goodbye to Lam, and said quietly to the driver, “Do you know the location of the Hai Wan Canteen?”
He nodded but looked displeased. “It isn’t far from here. You could walk there.”
“I know it’s close, but I want you to wait for me and then drive me somewhere else,” she said. “I also tip very well.”
“Okay, lady,” the driver said.
Three turns later, the car stopped in front of an unsigned store front that Ava knew housed the canteen. As she got out with her LV bag she said, “I’ll be half an hour or so.”
“The meter is running, so there’s no rush.”
It was the beginning of the lunch hour and the canteen was busy. Most of the ten larger round tables in the centre were occupied, but there were several vacant smaller tables against the walls. She went to one furthest from the door, sat, and put her bag on the plastic sheet that covered the table. A moment later a woman who Ava recognized as one of the owners came to the table with a broad smile.
“You are Pang Fai’s friend,” she said.
“I am.”
“We haven’t seen Fai in a long time. Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She decided to live in North America for a while so she could learn English.”
“Will you be seeing her soon?”
“Yes.”
“When you do, tell her we miss her.”
Ava smiled. “And she misses your food. I told her I was coming here and going to order gong bao and she was jealous.”
“So you want gong bao?” the woman asked, grinning again.
“Yes, and hot and sour soup, and a glass of water.”
After the woman left, Ava looked around the restaurant. There weren’t many men wearing suits or women dressed like they were office workers. It was a working-class crowd, but one—as far as she was concerned—being treated to food as good as they would find anywhere in Beijing. Ava didn’t know if this was particular to Chinese food, but she had often come across Chinese restaurants like the canteen—no sign, a worn tile floor, faded prints of waterfalls and rice paddies on the wall, tables covered in plastic sheets, and chairs that looked like they’d been taken from a mah-jong parlour—that somehow created magic in the kitchen. And she didn’t have to look any further for magic than the large bowl of hot and sour soup that was then placed in front of her.
Her memory of it the last time she ate in the canteen was that it was some of the best she’d ever had, but rating hot and sour soup was tricky because not only did it vary from restaurant to restaurant, but even the same restaurant’s recipe could change from day to day. In this case—as she looked down at the maroon surface with chili oil shimmering on top—it looked exactly as she remembered. She took her first spoonful and extracted broth, a sliver of duck meat, fungi, and a small translucent shrimp. She tasted it and smiled. It had an initial sweetness that gave way to a light hint of vinegar, and then the chili kicked in. She ate slowly, her spoon also discovering wood mushrooms, green pepper, scallops, and a slice of chicken.
“How was it?” the owner asked after Ava had emptied the bowl.
“Wonderful—again, one of the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had it in probably hundreds of restaurants.”
“It is my husband’s favourite dish to prepare, and the one he is proudest of. I know that many of our customers come here for the gong bao, but he is never happier than when someone likes his soup.”
“Please tell him that I am a very happy customer indeed.”
The woman lowered her head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment and said, “Your gong bao is ready. Let me get it for you.”
In North America, Ava knew gong bao was most often referred to as kung pao, and was a stir-fried chicken often served with peanuts, and various vegetables. Comparing the canteen’s gong bao to its North American cousin was—in Ava’s opinion—like comparing a Wagyu filet mignon to Grade A American beef. The canteen used sliced chicken thighs that had been marinated in a concoction of soy sauce, sesame oil, black vinegar, rice wine, and hoisin, and then flash stir-fried them with cashews and chili peppers that the owner swore came from a private source in Sichuan. Whether they did or not, they were explosive.
When the food arrived, Ava took a picture and sent it to Fai. Nothing has changed at the Canteen. Same owners. Same great food. We all miss you, love Ava.
She ate slowly, savouring every bite. As she did, her mind kept coming back to the conversation with Superintendent Lam. She didn’t doubt anything he’d told her, and that fact was a cause for alarm. Two things were obvious— Fai was at risk, and there was no way she could return to China in the immediate future, or perhaps ever. The question that nagged at Ava was whether she should tell Fai about the mss visit. Not unless it was necessary, she decided. There was nothing to be gained by doing it, and a lot to lose in terms of Fai’s peace of mind.
Ava looked at the people enjoying their lunch. How many of them knew what their government was prepared to do to maintain control and protect its image? And if they did know, how many of them would actually care? She thought of her mother, whose only concern was the safety and security of her immediate family. As long they weren’t threatened, her mother didn’t care about the political structure that made that possible, and said that most of her friends felt the same way. Was that equally true in China? Ava was becoming more and more certain that it was for the majority of people. What they wanted was stability in their day-to-day lives and they didn’t care what the government had to do to provide it. And after everything the country had gone through over the last sixty to seventy years, maybe that kind of pragmatism was justified. Unless, of course, you were a victim of that government’s heavy hand; but then, even if you were, who would know—and if it was known, what difference would it make? Absolutely none, she thought, and then chided herself for being so negative. There might be nothing that could be done to impact the system in a major way, but there was always room for small victories, and eliminating Lin would classify as one of those.
As Ava finished her meal, she realized this might be the last time she would eat in the canteen, and decided she wanted more than memories of it. She picked up her phone and began to take pictures of the interior. The owner saw her and came to the table.
“There’s nothing worth taking photos of in here,” she said good-naturedly.
“I don’t know when Fai and I will be able to come back, so we’ll have the pictures to look at,” Ava said. “And there’s one more thing—a favour—I’d like to ask for.”
“What’s that?”
“Is it possible for me to get the recipes for the hot and sour soup, and gong bao?”
The woman hesitated and Ava expected her to say no. Instead, she said, “I’ll have to ask my husband.”
“Please tell him they’re just for Fai and me. We would never share them with anyone else.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The woman was gone for five minutes, and the more time passed, the more Ava became convinced that the answer was going to be no. But when the woman reappeared she was carrying a paper bag and was smiling.
“Here you are,” she said, placing the bag on the table when she reached Ava. “The recipes are inside. They are for much larger quantities than you’d ever make, but you can adjust them. My husband also put in some of our Sichuan chilies.”
“That is so kind,” said Ava.
“But there are two things my husband wants for you to do for him.”
“What are they?”
“After you’ve made the dishes for the first time, he would like you to email some pictures, and to tell him how they tasted. And he would appreciate it if Pang Fai could send him a signed photo of herself. He will put it on the wall at the entrance.”
“You can tell him that we’ll do both of those things. Now, I have to get going, so I would like to pay for my lunch.”
“Payment isn’t necessary.”
“Yes it is,” Ava said, and she reached into her bag. She put seven hundred yuan onto the table, the equivalent of just over one hundred US dollars.
“That’s too much,” the woman said.
“Your food is worth it,” said Ava as she stood.
The woman walked with her to the door. When they reached it, she lightly touched Ava on the arm. “Please tell Fai to stay safe,” she whispered. “Customers talk and we’ve heard things. It’s good that she is in North America. China isn’t pleased with her right now.”
“I’ll tell her,” Ava said, surprised that the woman had waited so long to say something, and resisting the urge to ask what she had heard.
The taxi was in the same spot she’d left it. The driver had his eyes closed and his head resting against the back of the seat. Ava opened the back door, slid in, and slammed it shut. He sat up, his right hand rubbing his eyes.
“You can take me to the Red Tree Inn,” she said. “It’s near the Tiangiao Theatre.”
Less than ten minutes later the cab stopped in front of a building that had a modest red plastic sign that read red tree inn, above a set of double glass doors. Without the sign, the six-storey brown brick building could have passed for rental apartments or low-cost offices. Ava paid the driver the fee on his meter and then doubled it as a tip. Looking happy, he got out and ran to the trunk to get her bags. She stood on the sidewalk and looked across a four-lane road to the broad expanse that fronted the theatre. There was a clear sightline, but then she had expected nothing less.
The driver offered to carry her bags into the hotel. She declined, waited until he had left, opened her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag and took out a plain black baseball cap and sunglasses. She removed the rubber band that was holding her hair so that it could fall around her face. She put on the glasses, pulled the cap down over her eyes, and turned up her jacket collar as far as it would go. It wasn’t a perfect disguise, but it was as inconspicuous as she could make herself for cctv. She pushed open one of the glass doors and made her way into a lobby that was as unremarkable as the inn’s exterior. A young female receptionist stood behind a long wooden counter that had a round clock as the only backdrop. On the lobby’s left there was a glass coffee table, and a sofa and two chairs that looked like they were made of synthetic leather. On the right there were two elevator doors. There were cctv cameras on either side of the counter that she figured—given the lobby’s small size—could capture the whole area. Ava hoped that Lop was correct that the cameras in the lobby were all there were.
Ava approached the counter and saw the receptionist was wearing blue jeans to go with a black T-shirt. The informality was reassuring when it came to assessing the inn’s level of security.
“Hello, my name is Chow Qi and I have a reservation,” Ava said, offering her passport.
“Yes, Ms. Chow, I was on duty when your uncle made the booking,” the receptionist said as she took the passport and hardly glanced at it before handing it back, then punched some information into her computer. “We were holding a room for you on the fifth floor, but he said that one on the sixth that faced in the same direction would be even better. As it happens, a room on the sixth is available. Do you want it, or would you prefer to stay with his original booking?”
“I think I’ll take the room on the sixth floor.”
“That’s not a problem. Now how will you be paying?”
