Dream of the Blue Room (12 page)

I walked barefoot up the pier, through the yard, and out to the road where Dave waited for me. He was awake, listening to the radio. The key dangled in the ignition. “Ready?” he asked, as if he had only been waiting a few minutes, as if we had just arrived.

It was in the hours and days following Amanda Ruth’s death that something happened between Dave and me. One night we drove out to Gulf Shores, spread an old sheet on the sand, and drank beer long into the night. There were no stars out, just the flicker of headlights behind us on the highway, muted music drifting down the beach from the Pink Pony Pub. We sat close enough to the ocean to feel the spray from crashing waves. The air carried fish and salt and warmth, that heady Gulf Shores scent. At some point Dave leaned over and kissed me. That night I discovered his body with a passion I’d never before felt for a man. The need went beyond words, beyond lust. His touch comforted me. For the next few days he stayed at my parents’ house, and they pretended not to notice that he’d moved from the guest room into my own. Only when we were making love was I able to separate myself from the horrible knowledge of Amanda Ruth’s death. When he was inside me, his hands moving over my back, my legs clenched around his waist, his mouth against my ear, only then did the death exist in another place, some other world that I could push away.

One year later he asked me to marry him. There was nothing to say but yes. It is possible to love a person for being sturdy and reliable in a single, impossible moment, for responding with perfect timing and absolute precision to your unspoken needs.

SEVENTEEN

Late in the evening, the repairs miraculously completed, we feel the grumble of machine life below us, the engine kicking to life. There is a great groaning, a terrible ruckus, and we begin to move. Buoy lights blink on the river. I can’t stop staring at Graham—the tumble of gray hair over his collar, the tight sinew of his neck, the way he bites his lower lip when he is deep in thought. In these moments it is difficult to believe that he is a man already resigned to his own death.

It is dawn when we reach Wuhan, a day and a half behind schedule. The city stinks of coal, even in the downpour. The dock is crowded with boats. Along the banks hundreds have gathered to stack sandbags for the flood. Shirtless men labor in the glow of flashlights, the headlights of parked cars.

The passengers, meanwhile, are unhappy. A meeting is called in The Room of the Ancient Poets. The walls are decorated with huge Chinese characters, descending from ceiling to floor. Elvis Paris informs the green group that the ship is going on, since it has another tour group to pick up in Chonquing and take downstream. We may remain onboard, or, for a small additional fee, we may take rooms in town and “enjoy the Alternate Vacation Plan, which is described in your brochure.” I have read my brochure thoroughly but have found no such plan. According to Elvis, the alternative vacation involves a plane to Xi’an to see the Terra Cotta Warriors, followed by a train to “the charming city of Guilin, ancient inspiration of artists and poets,” and a three-hour cruise down the Li River, “which is even more beautiful than the Yangtze.”

“I have to make it to the Three Gorges,” I tell Dave, thinking of the red tin stashed in the safe in our cabin.

“Of course. We’ve come this far.”

I find Graham on the edge of the crowd. “What’s your plan?”

“I’m staying,” he says.

Stacy appears, wanting to know if we’re staying or going. Dave tells her we’re in for the long haul. Stacy looks relieved. “So am I.”

Those of us who choose to stay are told that we “embark upon the remainder of the cruise at your own risk. Red Victoria Cruise Line cannot be held responsible for unforeseen dangers encountered due to the unexpected flooding.” This disclaimer is broadcast over the intercom at regular intervals during the morning. “You will spend the day touring exciting Wuhan,” The Voice says. “Those who would like alternate vacation plan, please report to the spectacular Hotel Double Happiness to join the group at 1500 hours. If you choose to go all the way to Chongqing, please report to ship by 1700 hours.”

“So,” Stacy says. “What’s there to do in Wuhan?”

“We should go see the baiji,” Graham says.

“The what?”

“It’s a type of dolphin that’s inhabited the Yangtze for millions of years,” Graham explains. “There are only fifty left. I believe one of them is still in captivity at the Institute of Hydrobiology in Wuhan. We’ll have to find someone to take us.” Graham warns us that the trip may be futile, as it is possible that QiQi, the captive dolphin, is no longer living. He saw QiQi three years ago, at which time he had a friend at the Institute, a respected scientist who was researching the threat the dam would pose to animal life. As a result of her outspoken opposition to the dam, the friend was stripped of her title and sent to do manual labor in the countryside.

We approach Elvis Paris with our request. He shakes his head. “The dolphin preserve is off-limits to foreigners.”

“Is there a way to buy a ticket?” Graham asks.

Elvis shifts from foot to foot, thinks for a minute, and says, “How much can you pay for this ticket?”

“Four hundred yuan for the four of us.”

“I think is not enough. Is very difficult to see the baiji. Maybe Institute is closed, I have to do special procedure.”

Graham ups his offer to two hundred yuan each. Elvis contemplates this for a minute. “I think maybe I can arrange,” he says finally, accepting a wad of bills from Graham and folding it into a fake leather wallet. He takes out a cellphone and makes a call, then accompanies us out to the dock, where he hails a red taxi. “I go with you,” he says, climbing into the front seat.

During the heart-stopping ride through the jam-packed streets of Wuhan, Graham explains that the Chinese have several different names for the baiji: galloping white horse, river panda, king of the Yangtze, river goddess. This last title was taken from the Song Dynasty myth of how the baiji came to be. Graham first heard the story from a fisherman in Anhui province twenty years ago, when the baiji could still be seen swimming alongside sampans.

According to legend, a beautiful young maiden was captured and taken from her family. As she was being ferried across the river to be sold into slavery, the boatman tried to rape her. To preserve her honor, she leapt into the river, but the boatman jumped after her. God took pity on the maiden and turned her into a dolphin. In punishment, the boatman was turned into a finless porpoise, known today by fishermen as the river pig.

No one here shows much respect for lanes, and our driver is no exception. He speeds on, paying no mind to cars or cyclists. Finally, the taxi screeches up to a pair of ugly concrete buildings beside a lake. We are met by a friendly man in a white oxford shirt and gray trousers who introduces himself as Dr. Wu. “Do you have permits?” he asks.

Elvis Paris shows him a well-worn document with an official-looking red seal. I have no idea where he got this document; he didn’t have time to arrange for any special permits this morning. Perhaps this piece of yellow parchment with its elaborate seal is like a skeleton key that opens many doors. Dr. Wu looks skeptical, but nevertheless accepts the document as proof that we have official permission to be here. He doesn’t ask for tickets, and Elvis Paris doesn’t offer him any portion of the eight hundred yuan.

“I am very glad you came,” Dr. Wu says in impeccable English. “There is not much interest in the dolphin today. Everyone thinks about electricity and the economy, not dolphins.”

Elvis Paris smiles. “Millions of people depend on the river,” he says. “Only fifty baiji. Who is more important?”

Dr. Wu laughs nervously, then falls silent. He takes us into a building that houses a small circular pool, ten feet deep. “He is the only baiji in captivity,” Dr. Wu says. “We have tried to breed him, but it is very difficult to find a mate. The female we brought here two years ago died.”

QiQi is about seven feet long, with an almost comical needle nose and hauntingly human, childlike eyes. He circles the tank, twisting and rolling, showing off. He comes close enough for me to touch him, then flips over on his back and waves a white fin at us. He rolls again and lets out a long whistle.

Dr. Wu says that QiQi, who was rescued after being caught on a fisherman’s rolling hooks, is fortunate to be alive. The marks from the hooks are still visible, hundreds of small scars down QiQi’s back.

Dave leans over and peers into the tank. We’ve never had a pet, because he believes animals shouldn’t be cooped up in a New York apartment. I can tell he’s moved by the sight of the captive dolphin. “How long will he live?” he asks.

Dr. Wu shakes his head. “The baiji is a social creature. To be alone like this is not good for him. As a boy, I saw many dolphins on the river. My father was a fisherman. Fishermen in those days had great admiration for the dolphin. Once, my father accidentally caught a baiji in his net. At that time we were very hungry, but my father released the baiji anyway. Soon after that, Mao declared that the fishermen could not show special allegiance to the dolphin. Mao did not like that the baiji was called ‘the river goddess’ and ‘king of the Yangtze.’ He said that there were no goddesses and no kings, and to admire the baiji was counterrevolutionary.”

Elvis Paris smiles, revealing a row of small gleaming teeth. “This was long time ago. Is not important now.”

“The dolphin isn’t the only creature that faces extinction because of the dam,” Dr. Wu says. “There is also the cloud leopard, the finless porpoise, the Siberian crane.” QiQi slides past, his silver-white belly upturned, and Dr. Wu reaches down and passes his fingers over the dolphin’s scarred skin. Twenty years ago, he explains, there were thousands of baiji. But the dolphin has had too many enemies: boats, pollution, starvation. Over millions of years, the baiji adjusted to the darkness of the river, and they are almost completely blind. They navigate the river by sound. “But now there are too many boats,” Dr. Wu says, “too much noise.”

“Okay, very good, we go now,” says Elvis Paris. But Dr. Wu has one more thing to show us. He takes us to another room where less fortunate baiji are on display, those who were killed by the rolling hooks. Their silver-gray skins are ripped and ragged, and their eyes stare out blankly. I snap a picture, and immediately Elvis Paris says, “No pictures here! You may take photo of QiQi, but this dead baiji is no good. Please, your film.”

“Are you serious?”

Graham takes me aside. “You should give him the film. He can make problems for Dr. Wu.”

I slide the film out of the camera and hand it to Elvis Paris. He drops it in the garbage can and leads us outside, into the gray afternoon.

In the night, on deck, beneath an awning that keeps me dry from the fine continuous rain, I dream of the baiji. In this dream I see the dolphin swimming back and forth in the river, but then it is not a river but a swimming pool, and finally, not a swimming pool but a bathtub. Then we are on the river again, and the dolphin is swimming alongside our ship. The dolphin is slick and white, slender, its skin extremely taut, its eyes deeply sad. The boat roars through the water, cars rumble over a bridge. Onshore, cranes howl and pickaxes ring. The dolphin, confused by the noise, twists and turns. I say to the captain of our ship, to the passing sampans, to the couple from Texas, “Look! It’s the bajii! There are only fifty left in the world!” But no one comes to see. In the distance a temple rises from the hillside, and The Voice on the loudspeaker says, “World famous hanging temple of China.” Everyone rushes to the back of the ship to take pictures against the backdrop of the temple. When I look down again, the dolphin is gone. There is a terrible noise, what sounds like a human cry. The river churns up red.

EIGHTEEN

About half of the passengers have stayed in Wuhan, along with a disproportionately large number of the crew. We become then a ship of survivors, the ones willingly left behind. There is excitement on board. The crew becomes more leisurely. All through the night they can be found drinking to excess with the passengers, gambling, playing charades. The ties of the stewards have been loosened. The second captain has taken over, the first opting for a few days of rest in Wuhan. Elvis Paris is in his glory; he calls us the mutineers.

The next day the rain comes down hard. “This way,” Graham says.

“Where are we going?”

“So many questions.”

Minutes later, I find myself in his cabin. He clears a few things from the chair, which is upholstered in stiff pink fabric. I sit, unsure what to do with my hands, my legs. I cross my feet, uncross them, look around the room. A print of London Bridge at nightfall hangs above the bed. The lamp on the table bears a British military insignia. The dressing table is covered with brown pharmaceutical bottles, their labels inscribed with unpronounceable names. There is a jar of individually wrapped syringes, another of cotton swabs. The room smells medicinal and stale.

We sit for a minute or two in silence before he says, “How did Amanda Ruth die?”

“I told you. It was murder.”

“Yes, but how?”

I am surprised by this preoccupation with details, his desire to know the intimate facts. I turn and glance out the porthole. The whole world is obscured by rain. I want to see the world outside this ship, outside this suffocating room, but there is more light inside than outside, and all I see is my own tired face and the blurred reflection of Graham’s navy blue shirt, which is hanging on the doorknob.

“She was strangled.”

“By whom?”

A long silence. The rain comes down, the ship sways, and everything is gray. I turn to face him. “It’s difficult to talk about.”

“Where did they find her?”

“Behind the skating rink, across the street from her parents’ church.”

When we were in junior high we went to the skating rink every weekend. I close my eyes and for a moment I can hear the clunk of wheels against the floor, rubber stoppers scudding, someone falling, a skinny referee in tight pants leading the limbo. I remember the purple pom-poms Amanda Ruth’s mother gave her for her twelfth birthday, which she tied to the laces of her roller skates. The skates had glitter in the wheels. I can see her there, gliding over the smooth surface as she jiggles her hips and sings along to the song booming from the speakers, Earth Wind, and Fire—“a shining star for you to see what your life can truly be.” She puts one slender leg in front of the other and leans in toward the center of the rink. The strobe light reflects thousands of multicolored stars onto the floor, and she follows them, whirling around the room with a dancer’s ease, her brown ponytail flying behind her.

This is how I want to remember her, but the other image always cuts in: Amanda Ruth clad in jeans and white T-shirt, lying haphazardly on the pavement, one arm flung wide, her right leg bent at an awkward angle, the yellow scarf tied tightly around her neck. In another photo, after the detective had untied the scarf, there was a slim purple bruise around her neck that seemed too insignificant to kill her. Three days after she’d been found, the detective slid the photos out of a manila envelope. “Is there anything in the picture you recognize?”

“The scarf,” I said.

The detective ran his thick fingers over his beard. “Where did the scarf come from?”

“I gave it to her.”

“Why? Was it her birthday?”

“No, just a gift.”

“A gift for no reason?”

“Yes.”

“That’s odd.”

“She was my friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

“My best friend.”

“Was there anything unusual about your relationship?”

“What do you mean?” I was not being uncooperative. I simply couldn’t understand what he was asking. As he put one photo after another in front of me, forcing me to look, asking a series of questions that seemed to lead no closer to a definitive answer, I realized that this man considered me a suspect.

He repeated his question, more forcefully this time. “Was there anything unusual about your relationship?” The way he said
unusual
made me feel dirty. The word had the ring of seedy nightclubs and dark street corners, transactions between desperate people involving quick sex and small wads of sweaty cash.

“No.”

There was a long pause. He leaned over the table and put his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my mouth. He smelled like cigarettes and breath mints, and like the bean burritos at Taco Bell. “Amanda Ruth’s dad thinks different, doesn’t he?”

I shrugged. The detective paced the room, like a backwoods cop in a made-for-TV movie. “Mr. Lee told us you had a little thing going with his daughter. Tell me something, are you a lesbian?”

By this point I was crying and shaking. He came up behind me, put one hand on either side of me on the table, so that I was surrounded by his bulk, his fast food smell. He put his face right beside mine and whispered in my ear, “Do you go with girls?”

“No!”

Immediately I regretted saying it, but I was too afraid to take it back. That denial, expressed as a single word in a gloomy interrogation room in a dusty old police station, has haunted me ever since—my ultimate betrayal of Amanda Ruth.

He kept at me for an hour. I watched the minutes tick off on the big metal clock on the wall. “You best stay in town,” he said before unlocking the door. “We might want to talk to you again.” He stood in front of the door with his hand on the knob, so that the only way for me to get out was to press past him. He slid his hand over my back and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “I bet I could make you like men.” His breath was wet and smoky; my stomach turned. When I came out, the secretary handed me a Diet Coke. The can was so cold it hurt my fingers. I recognized her from the video store near my house. She was always in there with several kids, renting Disney pictures. Once, at the check-out, we had talked about the Star Wars movies. I could tell she’d heard everything. “It’s just standard procedure, hon,” she said, handing me a Kleenex. “You need a ride home?”

The skating rink is right across the street from First Baptist Church of Greenbrook. The church is huge and white, with a steeple so high it seems as if it is punching a hole in the sky. When I was a child the steeple terrified me, the way it reached so high above the telephone lines and traffic lights, so high above the skating rink. Everything around the church looked insignificant in comparison. On clear nights when the moon shone brightly, the steeple cast its long, pointed shadow over the parking lot. The girls going into the skating rink, in their tight jeans and soft, pastel-colored sweaters, made a game of walking straight down the middle of the shadow.

The skating rink was a rectangular building with aluminum siding, alternating yellow and blue panels. Behind it there was a Dumpster that always stank of Sunday supper. After dinner on the ground, which followed church every Sunday night, people would dump their garbage there—big plates of potato salad, fried chicken remnants, the pink cloud they made for dessert, a too-sweet concoction of Cool Whip and maraschino cherries.

The police said that the person who did it had planned to put her in the Dumpster, to conceal her body in the rubble, but had apparently been scared away “before disposing of the body in the intended fashion.” They said that Amanda Ruth had not been killed behind the skating rink; “the perpetrator committed the crime at another premises and brought the victim to the site.” This information was repeated several times in the papers, as if everyone had a right to know, as if the details of this death belonged to anyone who cared to read about it, anyone who wanted to tell Amanda Ruth’s gruesome story over beers at The Watering Hole. Diane Shelby on Channel 5 wore bright pink lipstick and smiled an impeccable smile when she said, “The body was transported to the skating rink following Miss Lee’s death.”

Graham wants to know what was used to kill her.

“A scarf.” Even now I can’t believe that a flimsy piece of fabric, a pretty length of silk, could end a life.

“Who did it?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

He sits down on the bed and stares at me for a long time. There is something desperate in his face I haven’t noticed before. “What?” I say. He doesn’t speak. He won’t take his eyes off me. “What?” I say again.

“If you had to kill someone,” he says, “could you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just asking. Could you?”

“No.”

“You can’t imagine any situation in which you might be able to?”

“I’ve never considered it.”

“What if the person asked you to do it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Say they had a very good reason.”

I go to him, straddle him where he is sitting on the bed. I squeeze his hips hard between my knees, take his face in my hands, and stare hard into his eyes. “Tell me,” I say. “What do you want from me?”

He looks away, and his arms lie limp at his sides. I’m almost glad he doesn’t respond; I’m terrified of his answer.

“Well,” I say, releasing his face. “Could you?”

He lies back on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. “It would depend on the circumstances.” He pauses, then says, “Yes. I suppose I could.”