Whispering Shadows (34 page)

“And why,” asked Paul, “did they abduct me?”

“It was a security measure at first. They wanted to make sure that Tang didn't do anything to you.”

“If that were the case they should have simply asked me to follow them. Why have they left me in this basement for almost two days and interrogated me like a prisoner?”

“For the same reason that they interrogated me for one night, even after I had given them all we had and had listened to the recorded conversations with them. Because they wanted to make sure that we were telling the truth and that this was not a trick or one of Tang's many ruses. Because they didn't trust us. Because no one trusts anyone here. Ever.”

XXXI

The air was uncomfortably warm, but not so hot that it made Elizabeth Owen sweat. The deep-blue sky over the city reminded her of the wonderfully cold and clear winter days in Milwaukee; even the smog that otherwise hung like a brown mist over the skyscrapers and the harbor had disappeared. This was the first day of beautiful weather since she had been in Hong Kong.

The sea had also taken on a different color. Here, near the Yung Shue Wan harbor, it shone in a light turquoise like she had seen in the Bahamas. Elizabeth was glad that she had made her way here to visit Paul Leibovitz and was only sorry that her husband had not come with her. Why had Richard resisted coming so much? He had made an incredible scene in the hotel; he had gotten all worked up and cursed and sworn, and even warned her that she should not believe everything Leibovitz told her. She had no idea what he was talking about. Everything Paul had suspected and claimed so far had been true. Richard was behaving as if she had gone off to meet a lover; he surely could not be seriously jealous of Paul. Sometimes she got the feeling that her husband was afraid of him, but when she asked Richard this he flew into a terrible rage.

After a good half hour the ferry docked at the jetty. She was one of the last to leave the rocking vessel; the gangway wobbled dangerously and a ferryman offered her his hand, but she preferred to hold on to the railing.

What a strange place. There were no skyscrapers, only unre
markable small buildings; no cars and no roads. A couple of fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the bay. The smell of the sea was strong, and white smoke was puffing out of four chimneys that rose up beyond a hill. Elizabeth pulled out of her bag the piece of notepaper on which she had hurriedly scribbled directions this morning. She walked along the pier, past grubby fish tanks full of fish, crabs, and sea cucumbers. On the left was Green Cottage and the ATM, on the right was the rusty container cabin where the police station was. She was to turn off here.

She saw the small vegetable plots that the old farmers were working on. Right after that came the path uphill, just as Paul had described.

The path was steep and difficult to climb, and when Elizabeth Owen finally got near the top of the hill she was out of breath and soaked with sweat. She sat down on a bench to rest before turning left again and climbing up a little way more before seeing the house less than a hundred meters away behind a thick bamboo grove. She could tell she was in the right place when she saw it shimmering white behind the green of the thicket.

The terrace was a gardener's dream. Paul clearly shared her passion for flowers. Everything was in bloom: roses, hibiscus flowers, geraniums; red, white, and pink bougainvillea; and a beautiful frangipani tree. The plants had been so carefully tended that she did not see a single wilted bloom anywhere or any brown leaves in the pots or on the red and brown tiles.

He had seen her coming through the kitchen window and opened the door.

“There you are. I was starting to get worried.”

“Did I take a long time?”

“Goodness, no. I was only afraid that you had gotten lost.”

“No. Your directions were excellent, but the climb up was more difficult than I'd anticipated. You really live far away, as if in exile.”

“Alone, but not in exile,” he replied, inviting her into the house. “I chose to retreat a little for a while.”

“A while is fine. How long do you plan your retreat to last, if I may ask?”

He had to laugh at that. She realized that she had never seen him laugh, and thought the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes suited him.

“That's a good question. I don't know. I think I'll know when the time comes.”

“How will you know?”

He gave her a thoughtful look and took his time with his reply. “How do we know that the time is right for something?”

Elizabeth was not sure if he was directing the question at her or at himself. It was a strange question, one that she had never asked herself.

“By thinking it over and deciding that it is time,” she said.

“Maybe. But it's never worked like that for me.”

“What happens instead?”

“I hear a kind of inner voice instead. Do you know it?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“A whisper in your head or your heart, deep down, that tells you what you have to do in difficult times.”

“No. I wish I would hear that now and then,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.

“It's difficult to explain. Let's put it this way: I'm sure that I'll know when the time comes to engage more with the world.”

“You've already done that in the last few days. More than you wanted to, I suspect.”

It was meant as a joke but Paul did not laugh. He laid his knife down and looked her so pointedly in the eye that she felt uncomfortable.

“You may be right. I hadn't thought about that. Perhaps the time has come.”

“You've made an extraordinarily beautiful place for yourself here,” she said before his gaze disconcerted her any more. “Your terrace is wonderful. May I look around a little? You must forgive
me. I'm terribly curious.”

“Go ahead. I'll make some tea.”

She went into the living room and marveled at how beautiful old Chinese furniture could look, and at the fresh flowers on the table and the windowsill. It looked so clean, as if several conscientious cleaners had just cleaned the house top to toe. She saw a pair of small rain boots in the hall. “Do you have children, Mr. Leibovitz?” she called out in amazement.

“A son,” he replied from the kitchen.

“You never said anything before,” she said, walking back to him. He was standing at the kitchen counter peeling a knob of ginger and he shrugged, as if it had not been worth mentioning. “What's his name?”

“Justin.”

“An unusual name. How old is Justin?”

Paul thought for a moment and looked at her for a long moment as though he could see the age of his son in her face.

Typical of a man, Elizabeth thought. First he forgets to mention his child, then he doesn't even remember the year he was born in. Richard had also never known how old Michael was; she had almost always had to revise his reply to this question upward or downward by a year.

“Eleven,” Paul said at last.

“Eleven! A good age. Where is he at the moment? In school?”

“In school?” he repeated wonderingly, as though that was a very odd idea. “No, here.”

“Here in the house?” Elizabeth had not heard a child's voice or sounds of any sort. “You mean upstairs in his room?”

“In a way, yes,” he said, looking past her and smiling gently as if he was amused by her confusion.

“Why doesn't he come downstairs? Don't you want to introduce him to me?” He seemed not to have heard her, even though he was
standing right in front of her. “Don't you want to introduce him to me?” she repeated.

“No, he's very reserved, shy even, and when there are strangers in the house he likes to hide away.”

“What a pity,” she said, disappointed.

“Maybe he'll come out of his own accord. Sometimes he makes a surprising appearance.” Paul poured some tea, sniffed at his cup, and took a sip.

“I don't really understand what you mean, but it doesn't matter,” she said somewhat brusquely. “I came here because we're flying back to America tomorrow and I didn't want to leave the city without seeing you one more time. I want to thank you.”

“What for?”

“My husband and I owe you a huge thank-you. If you and your friend had been happy with the official findings of the police investigation we would still be doing business with our son's murderer.”

Paul felt very uncomfortable about what she was saying. He took another sip of tea and looked over her head out of the window. “What's going to happen to your joint venture now?” he asked, as though he wanted to change the subject quickly.

“We don't know yet. My husband wants to sell our interests as quickly as possible.”

Paul went back to the kitchen counter. There were several small bowls on it with sliced spring onions, garlic, bamboo shoots, and all kinds of vegetables that she did not recognize. He started dicing the ginger. He seemed to be expecting quite a few people to dinner.

“I won't take up any more of your time,” she said, finishing her tea. “But I still wonder about two things. What happened to the man who was suspected of the murder?”

“He's been released. I don't know any more than that.”

“And my son's Chinese girlfriend, what's she called again?”

“Anyi.”

“Anyi, that's right. Was she arrested?”

“I don't know. Why should she have been?”

“For being an accomplice to murder, of course. My husband said Tang could only have learned about Michael's secret negotiations from her. She was with Michael in Shanghai and Beijing. She knew about the plans with Wang Ming.”

“That's what your husband says?”

“Yes. Why do you look so surprised? He's sure of it. How else would Tang have known?”

“I've no idea,” Paul said hesitantly.

He was once again as serious as when she had first met him, and he was avoiding her gaze. She could feel it.

“Do you know how else?”

Paul shook his head vigorously. “No. I don't know who else was involved in your son's plans.”

“We don't know either but we think she was the only one. Apart from my husband, of course.”

He turned away and rubbed his eyes.

“Is something wrong? Mr. Leibovitz, you told me a few days ago that my son had been murdered. I can't imagine what else that you could tell me that would be more terrible than that. What is it that is so terrible that you cannot tell me now?”

He still had his backed turned to her and his hands over his face.

“You can see why I want to know,” she continued. “Because if Tang had only found out after the agreements had been signed then Michael would surely still be alive.”

“You mustn't think like that,” he exclaimed, whipping around to face her.

“Why not?”

“Because it can't change anything,” he said curtly. “Because no ifs in the world can bring Michael back.”

“I know that,” she stammered, surprised by his outburst. “I just want to know who betrayed my son.”

“We know who murdered him. Isn't that enough? The truth sometimes comes at a terribly high price, Mrs. Owen. The truth can't
always be borne.”

“Mr. Leibovitz, are you all right? You're crying.”

“It's the onions, Mrs. Owen, the onions.”

———

Paul Leibovitz was a strange person. Every meeting she had with him confirmed this thought, but she felt strangely happy in his presence and would have liked to stay longer and talk about Michael as a child and a young man, about the profusion of rosebushes they had that Paul would like, about the Milwaukee house that he was of course always welcome to visit. But Paul had told her on the telephone that he did not have much time because he was expecting dinner guests and was getting ready. When she started making motions to leave he did not ask her to stay for another cup of tea or call for his son to say good-bye to their guest. He walked her to the door, hugged her, and wished her all the best and a safe flight back.

She walked down the hill noticing for the first time the greenery growing wild and high all around her by the path. The ferns and grasses to the left and the right were a meter high and many of the leaves on the bushes and the trees were as tall as she was. The path was so overgrown in places that it seemed the undergrowth was about to reconquer the space. Climbing plants had wound themselves around the tree trunks and branches overhead as though they wanted to devour them, and for a moment she feared she might be their next victim. She imagined the branches above her rearing up and growing bigger, fatter, and stronger in seconds, wrapping themselves around her and pulling tighter and tighter until they had swallowed her up. She knew it was a horrible and silly thought, but she still felt a little frightened. She started walking more quickly and would have liked nothing better than to run down the hill to the village.

Everything here was strange to her: the people, the food, the noise, the dirt, yes, even the plants and trees in their exuberant, unchecked growth. She could hardly wait to finally get home and walk
through her garden, sit on her terrace, and look at the rosebushes. It would not be easy—she was not going to deceive herself. They had to organize Michael's funeral first, put his affairs in order, and clear out his apartments. Perhaps only then would she really gradually realize that he was no longer there. And she also had to find a way back to Richard. Like everyone else, he also had had too much to deal with.

She thought about the many evenings they had spent with Tang and had absolutely no idea how they could have been so deceived by him. It was strange how well he and Richard had gotten along. The more she thought about it the more uncomfortable she felt, and she did not want that, not again. She closed her eyes and tried to smell the sweet, heavy scent of her roses on a summer's day but the air stank of salt and water. She wanted to think about Richard and their morning breakfasts on the terrace, their laps in the pool, their walks on the golf course. But she couldn't do that either. Instead, she kept seeing images of Tang and Richard together. How they had constantly filled each other's whiskey glasses at the end of their first evening together. How they had toasted each other, laughing. How they had roared and slurred through “My Way” together in the karaoke bar. She saw the images, heard the music and the singing, and did not understand a word. Was that the voice that Paul had spoken about? She hoped not. It brought more confusion than clarity to her.