The Interior (3 page)

None of this should have surprised Hulan. All the world over, the press liked to build people up, then bring them down, then build them up again. The only difference between the rest of the world and China was that here the government helped to color what was said.

At the iron gates to the Ministry of Public Security compound, Investigator Lo flashed his identification and the car was waved through. Lo dropped Hulan as close to the entrance as possible, then drove away to find a parking spot in the shade. Hulan hurried inside, walked across the lobby, and climbed the back stairs to her office.

Like most public buildings in Beijing, this one had neither heat nor air conditioning to protect the inhabitants from the vicissitudes of the weather. In winter she worked with her coat on. In summer she wore simple silk dresses or linen shifts and used old-fashioned methods of conserving cool air. She kept her windows open at night so that the room would cool down, then closed them first thing in the morning to keep the hot air out for as long as possible. In the late afternoons, when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she cracked the windows again. On the very hottest days she draped wet cloths on the window openings and hoped for a breeze.

Hulan settled in at her desk, opened a file, and tried to concentrate, but she found her mind wandering. Her caseload was, to her mind at least, uninteresting. During these last months she’d been assigned to several murder cases. They’d been easy to solve, with nothing for her to do but fill out the paperwork, deposit the prisoners at the jail, and turn up in court when the prosecutor called. That she knew all this was Vice Minister Zai’s plan to keep her safe didn’t make her feel any better about it.

A few hours later, the mailboy came by with a stack of envelopes. She went through them quickly. One held an inter-office report from Pathologist Fong. She didn’t need to read it, as the entry wound on the body at the temple pretty much told the story on that case. There were a couple of forms to be signed and sent back to the prosecutor’s office. Again, nothing interesting on cases she could barely remember. But when she saw the return address on the last envelope, her breath caught. She set it down on her desk and swung around to look out the window. Memories flooded back. A destitute village on a scorched plain. Pigs crying at slaughter. The smell of the red soil. The searing brightness of a brutal sun. And then other images—girls in pigtails berating a man until he broke down and confessed. People being beaten. Blood running as freely as sweat. Her heart pounding, Hulan picked up the envelope and tore it open.

“Inspector Liu Hulan,” Hulan read, “I am Ling Suchee. I hope you remember me from your days at the Red Soil Farm.” Hulan remembered. How could she not remember? In 1970, at age twelve, Hulan had been sent to the countryside to “learn from the peasants.” Now, sitting in her stifling office, Hulan was transported back across the years to when she was that young girl. Suchee had been her best friend. In those days of severity they had built a teasing relationship. With great affection Hulan had called Suchee her
maor ye
, or country bumpkin. Suchee had called Hulan
bei kuan
, literally meaning “north-wealth”—or a person of wealth from the north. Suchee had been funny, strong, and honest, while Hulan had been somber, had covered her city ways with false courage, and had already learned the political advantages of not always telling the truth. But for all of Hulan’s so-called sophistication, Suchee had gotten them out of trouble more than once.

Hulan looked back at the characters on the page. “Today, on June 29 of the Western calendar, my daughter Ling Miaoshan died.” Reading the circumstances of the girl’s death, Hulan’s hand instinctively went down to the early swell of her own pregnancy. “My daughter worked for an American company. It is called”—and here the crude characters gave way to even cruder print letters—“Knight International. I see and know things, but no one will listen to me. My daughter is dead. My daughter is gone from me. You once said you would help me if I ever needed it. I need your help now. Please come quickly.”

Hulan ran a finger over the characters of Ling Suchee’s name. Then she checked the date and realized that Miaoshan had died only five days ago. Taking a deep breath, she put away the letter, left her office, and went up a flight of stairs to Vice Minister Zai’s office. He smiled when she came in and motioned for her to sit.

“I have sent Mama to Beidaihe,” she said.

“This is good. I will go and see her on the weekend.”

“I will also be leaving the city.”

Vice Minister Zai cocked an eye.

“I am going to Da Shui Village.”

Hulan saw a flicker of worry cross her mentor’s face as he realized this would be a personal conversation. It was said that there was no such thing as a wind-proof wall in China and that no one could ever be sure who was listening or not. People also said that things had relaxed, that there was too much going on—meaning that everyone, including the generals in the army, were trying to get rich—for so much time and effort to be given over to observation. But only a fool would take the risk that this was so. Even assuming the unlikely possibility that there was no electronic surveillance in the building, any of Vice Minister Zai’s assistants or tea girls could be made to repeat conversations they’d heard if push came to shove. Knowing this and knowing that their private lives had long been a matter of government record, Hulan and Zai attempted to continue their conversation. There was no mistaking the concern in Zai’s voice as he asked, “Do you think that is wise?”

“Do you think I have a choice?” Her tone was sharp.

“You of all people have choice,” he reminded her.

She chose to ignore this, saying, “The daughter of Ling Suchee has died. She is skeptical of the local police bureau’s official version of the case. Her suspicions are probably just her grief speaking, but I can go to her as a friend.”

“Hulan, the past is behind you. Forget about it.”

She sighed. “You have read my personal file. You know what happened out there. If Ling Suchee asks for my help, then I must go.”

“And if I forbid you?” he asked gently.

“Then I will use my vacation time,” she said.

“Hulan—”

She held up a hand to stop him from continuing. “I will come back as soon as I can.” She stood, crossed the room, then hesitated at the door. “Don’t worry, uncle,” she said, ironing the tension out of her voice. “Everything will be fine. It may even do me good to get out of the city for a while.” She paused, thinking he might add something, but they both knew her words had many meanings and some of them might even be right. “And please, do visit Mama. Your companionship helps her.”

A few minutes later she stepped out into the ministry’s courtyard. Heat radiated up from the asphalt. Investigator Lo started the car, and as he pulled out of the compound she felt sweat trickle between her breasts down to her stomach, where her and David’s child grew. She brushed her palm across her brow and thought of what Uncle Zai had said. “The past is behind you.” But he was so wrong. The past was never far from her. It was with her every day in the crippled form of her mother. It was in the joyous voices and rhythmic drums of the
yang ge
troupe. It was in the blurry photographs that she saw in the newspapers. It was in the scratchy writing on a cheap paper envelope. She carried within her the future, but what kind of a future would any of them have if she didn’t drive the past away forever?

2

D
AVID STARK’S HAND REACHED FOR THE RINGING PHONE
. At five in the morning, the call could mean one of two things. Either a case had broken and an agent wanted David to come down and look at the scene, or Hulan was calling.

“Hello,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“David.” Hulan’s voice coming to him at eight in the evening from thousands of miles away across the international dateline jolted him awake.

“Is everything all right? Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

Her next words were lost in a wave of static. Hulan insisted on using a cell phone to call him, despite the poor sound quality. She said she didn’t trust the phone in her office for their personal calls. More recently she’d begun to suspect the phone in her home. The cell phone was in no way perfect. Just about anyone could listen in if they wanted. Hulan took solace in this. There might even be an element of protection in more than one party—even an innocent person—listening in on their private calls.

The transmission cleared and David asked, “Where are you?” It eased his mind to visualize her. Usually she called from her garden and she might describe for him what was in bloom or the feel of the sun on her skin. He could almost see her there—the wisps of black hair that framed her face, her black eyes that often revealed the real meaning of her words, her delicate frame that belied profound inner strength.

“I’m on the train.”

David sat up, squinting as he turned on the light. “Where are you going? Is it for a case?”

“Not exactly. An old friend has asked for my help. I’m going to see what I can do.”

David thought this over. He had to be careful how he questioned her. “I thought you were trying to wrap things up. I thought your next trip would be here.”

“I’ll come…”

“One day? Eventually?”

She chose to ignore this. “You know I miss you. Can’t you come to me?”

David was just barely awake. He couldn’t face that conversation again right now.

“So, where are you?”

“I’m on my way to Shanxi Province in the interior.” She paused, then said, “I’m going to a village near Taiyuan.”

He could hear the hesitancy in her voice even over all these miles, even with the static. “What village exactly?” He tried to keep his tone light.

“Da Shui. It’s where the Red Soil Farm was during the Cultural Revolution.”

“Oh God, Hulan. Why?”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. You don’t know everything about that place.” (That’s probably the understatement of the year, David thought.) “I had a friend out there. She…Well, it doesn’t matter right now. Her daughter died, an apparent suicide. Suchee thinks it’s something else.”

“Sounds like she should go to the local authorities.”

“She went to the Public Security Bureau. That’s the local level of the ministry. But you know how things are here.”

Corrupt, sure he knew it.

“Look, it’s probably nothing,” Hulan continued, “but the least I can do is ask a couple of questions and put Suchee’s mind at rest. She’s a mother.” That word came over the line with tremendous weight. It was another thing that Hulan didn’t like to discuss. “She lost her only child.”

“When will you be back?”

“I was lucky enough to get a seat on a semi-express train to Datong. That means we’ll only be making about ten stops over the next six or so hours. Tomorrow I’ll take another train to Taiyuan. Then a few days in Da Shui, then the trip back. I’ll be back in Beijing next week.” When David didn’t respond, she added, “This is nothing to worry about.”

“How will I reach you?”

“I don’t know what our days are going to be like, so I’ll call you.”

He didn’t like it, but he said, “Fine.”

Across the line came the sound of a train whistle. Hulan said, “Listen, we’re about to make a stop. With all the people getting on and off, we won’t be able to hear each other. So let me ask you something. Knight International. Ever hear of it?”

“That came out of nowhere.”

“It’s where Miaoshan worked. It’s an American company. Have you heard of it?”

“Who hasn’t?” David replied. “It’s huge. It’s based back East somewhere, but the company has a lot of Hollywood connections.”

“So what is Knight?”

“They—a father and son—make toys. Do you know
Sam & His Friends
? Do you have that over there? It’s a TV show for kids.
Sam & His Friends
is a cartoon. I’ve never seen the actual show, of course, but the advertising! I think Knight makes dolls. No! What’s the word? Action figures! They’ve got an action figure for every one of those damn ‘friends’ and ads to go with them. Knight makes those over there? Jesus!”

“It’s that big?”

“Remember the rage over Cabbage Patch dolls? Did you have those in China?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Tickle Me Elmo?”

“No.”

“Beanie Babies?”

“No. Barbie, I know Barbie.”

“Sam isn’t like Barbie. These Sam toys are a fad. Kids are crazy for them.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s on the local news every time a new shipment hits the stores. Parents line up around the block to buy these things. The supply can’t meet the demand. It’s in the business pages practically every day. Knight stock has gone through the roof. Here’s a company that was percolating along for about seventy years, then this show comes on and kids go nuts. It’s a phenomenon.”

“And Knight is manufacturing the toys in Shanxi,” Hulan mused thoughtfully.

“I guess it shouldn’t be that strange, Hulan. Half of everything is made in China.”

“Sure, in the Special Economic Zone in Shenzhen,” Hulan said as the train whistle blew again. “In Guangdong Province. Around Shanghai. But Shanxi? There’s
nothing
out there, David.”

These last words were almost lost in the noise behind Hulan. “We’re at the station,” she said. “I’ll call you later. I love you.” And then she was gone.

After putting the receiver back in the cradle, David couldn’t go back to sleep. By the time he pulled on shoes and shorts, there was enough light for him to head out for a run around Lake Hollywood. Tall and lean, he had dark hair, graying a bit at the temples. His blue eyes tended to pick up the hues of whatever environment he was in. This morning, with the fog still hiding nature’s sky and water tones, his eyes were flecked with highlights from the greenery around him.

His pace was fast today and he knew why. Certain words Hulan had used this morning—the Red Soil Farm, the Cultural Revolution, an apparent suicide—had sent tremors of anxiety into his bloodstream. Could Hulan have more secrets from him? Would she be placing herself in danger out in the countryside? Was it even healthy—physically or mentally—for her to go out there? With each stride he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about. Hulan worked for the Ministry of Public Security. No one would mess with her, especially in the countryside. Besides, a girl had committed suicide. That was about as open and shut as you could get in law enforcement.

Maybe after Hulan settled this thing, she would go back to Beijing, pack up, and come to him. Who was he kidding? They had gone around this way for three months now, talking on the phone and communicating by e-mail. Back in March Hulan had promised she would come to Los Angeles. “We’ll be together,” she’d said, and he’d believed her. He’d begun talking to government officials and filling out forms for a permanent-residency card. But days had turned into weeks, weeks into months as Hulan’s doubts kicked in. She had lost so much in her life that, as much as she loved him—and he had no reservations about the depth of her passion—she was still afraid to commit for fear of what she could lose. But she would never say this, and he could never push her into that conversation without her skittering away from the subject. Instead Hulan would say that she didn’t want to uproot her mother. “You should have seen Mama today. We talked for half an hour.” Or, “Mama had a bad time today. How can I ever repair the damage?”

“Bring her here,” David might say. “Bring the nurse. I’ll make the arrangements.” But Hulan always seemed to have another excuse.

And so their conversations had changed. Instead of Hulan coming to California, she now wanted him to move to China. “You said that if I didn’t come, you’d come back for me. Well?”

But how could he? He had his job at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. His family was here in America. His friends were here. All of which was true for Hulan as well. She too had her job, her family. Which was why they were at an impasse. “We’re both strong-willed people,” David had said once. “I guess it’s not in either of our natures to give in.”

Hulan’s laugh had come floating over the line. “It has nothing to do with that. Relationships are always like this in China.” Then she’d babbled on about other people she knew. So-and-so got married, spent one day with his wife, then was transferred down to Shanghai. That was two years ago. Since then the couple had spent a total of three nights together. Another couple she knew had met at Beijing University and gotten married. Chai Hong and Mu Hua had struggled hard to get a wedding permit. The problem was that she was from Hebei Province and he was from Zhejiang Province. Officials might give them the marriage permit, but they couldn’t guarantee that the next bureau would give them residency permits for the same city. But Hong and Hua, persistent and idealistic, finally received their marriage permit and got married. But after their education was completed, twenty years ago now, they had each returned to their home provinces. They hadn’t lived together again except for a week or two here and there during annual vacations. For people from different countries the problems were even greater.

And here was where David would typically interrupt and remind Hulan that she had promised to come to him. She would again launch into the excuses about her mother. Around and around they went. Who was going to concede first? On what issue would he or she cave in? Career? Family? Friends?

David stopped in the middle of the path that led around the lake. He was on the far side now, just a little past the halfway mark. He looked out across the city: Hollywood below him, downtown to his left. To his right, way in the distance, he should have been able to see the ocean, but the morning fog still shrouded the western side of the city. But David wasn’t thinking about weather conditions. He was thinking about friends. Hulan didn’t have “friends.” Vice Minister Zai was Hulan’s superior and her mentor. She seemed to have an amicable relationship with a neighbor woman, but Madame Zhang was decades older than Hulan. She had her colleagues, whom she treated with a polite coolness.
Friends
. Hulan had called Suchee a friend. He felt another wave of worry ripple through him.

Even as he stood there looking out across the city in the early morning coolness, he saw clearly that his emotions and concerns were primitive, base, elemental. Hulan was pregnant with his child. He remembered with absolute clarity when she’d told him. For weeks their conversations had revolved around anecdotes about cases they were working on, how the harshness of the Beijing winter was fading, how much she loved him, how much he loved her. But when she’d spoken the words “I’m pregnant,” his life changed and the tenor of their conversation shifted. David wanted his child to be born in the U.S., where he or she would automatically become a citizen. “This is a Chinese baby too,” Hulan said. “Why can’t it have Chinese citizenship?”

That had been their only real argument. David had reminded her of the Great Leap Forward, when Mao had attempted to revolutionize agriculture and industry, but instead had created the largest famine in history, resulting in the deaths of thirty million people. He’d reminded her of the One Hundred Flowers Campaign, when people were encouraged to criticize the new society, then those who had made those criticisms were thrown in jail or worse. He’d reminded her of the Cultural Revolution, which had been so devastating to Hulan’s own family. And then he reminded her that she had been the one who told him all of these horror stories. “And you want our child to remain in China?” He had pushed her too far, argued her into a corner, and they hadn’t spoken about the baby since.

Ridiculous Chinese laws might be acceptable to couples like Chai Hong and Mu Hua. In fact, they might even work. David knew of many couples even in the U.S. who kept bicoastal relationships romantic and alive. But ten thousand miles was too great a distance with a woman like Hulan. He needed to see her eyes when she told him she was pregnant. He needed to be face to face with her to ask why she’d waited so long to tell him. Today he’d needed to see her eyes when she said the word
friend
.

David arrived at the U.S. Attorney’s Office at nine. He was dressed in corduroys and a Polo shirt instead of his usual suit and tie. He grabbed a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to his office. Today he had no appointments or court appearances. In fact, for the first time in years he had nothing on his calendar. No cases on the docket. No depositions to set up. No special assignments. All he planned to do today was clean up his office after months of trial work. Later, workmen would come by with dollies to take away all the boxes and put them in the file room for temporary residence before moving them to a big government warehouse.

David sat for a few moments behind his desk, where files and correspondence were piled together haphazardly. Along the walls were stacked dozens of boxes already filled with trial transcripts, interviews with witnesses, and photocopies of evidence from the Rising Phoenix cases. Against many of the boxes were propped large poster boards. Some charted evidence, some served as time lines, others showed diagrams of crime scenes. Facedown on a set of boxes near David’s desk were post-mortem photographs, which graphically showed the handiwork of the Rising Phoenix. The triad had once been the most powerful Asian organized-crime syndicate in the city. Now, after a series of trials that David had headed—at one point he’d supervised four cases involving other gang members in addition to his own trials involving the triad leader and his lieutenants—the Rising Phoenix’s members were either dead, behind bars, or had been absorbed by other gangs.