All the love in the world, however, couldn’t keep these men from arguing. The mood had shifted after the exchange about where Shan Dao would stay, and it seemed inevitable that the conversation would turn to politics. Cheuk-Kwan and Chiboon picked up their conversation about the Mei Affair from the night before and, without their American tablemates to keep them in check, voices quickly rose.
“‘Every Party member, every branch of work, every statement and every action must proceed from the interests of the whole Party.’” Shan Dao’s tone was quiet and even, with steel cable underneath. “‘It is absolutely impermissible to violate this principle.’”
“Exactly.” Cheuk-Kwan pointed at Shan Dao. “Exactly. Where was Li Xifeng’s loyalty? The only thing she ever did to protect the Party was to die before there could be a trial.”
“If only there had been a trial,” Chiboon mourned. “Killed in cold blood is sensational, but I might have gotten invited to sit in on the trial. That’s a career-maker.”
“We’re lucky there wasn’t a trial,” Cheuk-Kwan said.
“And why’s that?” Tinseng asked with a smile that informed everyone there was about to be a fight.
Cheuk-Kwan obliged him by saying, “You were in France. You saw what they wrote in the papers. The wife of a Chinese diplomat recruited by the USSR? There’s nothing the West loves more than our own in-fighting. Not to mention Li Xifeng set back relations between China and Russia how many years? A trial would’ve made it that much worse.”
“So we’re supposed to throw out the potential for the truth, for progress, which you apparently care about, just because you’re stupid enough to believe the shock and outrage from the CCP? Of course they know there are spies, Cheuk-Kwan—it’s the bloody Cold War! It’s all to save face, nothing more. No one’s asking questions now about why she might’ve been interested in leaving the CCP in the first place. Real, legitimate complaints with the way things are being run—instead, all that’s been silenced. Behind the scenes, I guarantee they’re ecstatic. They succeeded in burying it all, every stinking corpse.”
“And you think exhuming all those corpses in a trial would be better? The fact of it’s bad enough. It’s made the situation in Hong Kong a complete clusterfuck, Tinseng. If you hadn’t fucked off to France, you’d know that.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?”
“And it’s weakened our international support,” Cheuk-Kwan talked over him. “What the Party needs is unity, across all countries, just like the capitalists have. If Li Xifeng had problems with her Party, she should have tried to address it internally. What she did just divides us further.”
“Better these things end quickly, without fanfare,” Laurence agreed. “Bad enough it was leaked to the press.”
“Without answers?” Tinseng asked, voice rising. “Without justice?”
“Did the Rosenbergs get justice?” Cheuk-Kwan asked. “Did the truth come out in their trial? Given the death sentence by their country without a second glance at all that sham evidence, even with so many of their own citizens protesting in the streets. How do you think a trial in China would end? Death by assassin or by jury—how’s it any different?”
“We could have heard her arguments! Why she did what she did. People need to know.” Tinseng’s gaze moved to Shan Dao, then swept over the rest of them. “Isn’t public debate in the interest of the Party? It’s important that people hear the reasons she lost faith in the CCP. It’s silence of the truth.”
“She didn’t believe in truth,” Cheuk-Kwan spat, “or she wouldn’t have thought it so easily conquered.”
Shan Dao stood abruptly.
“I . . . dinner is not sitting well. Excuse me,” he said and left the room. Tinseng hissed at his brother and hurried after him. Silence reigned for a few beats before Laurence and Cheuk-Kwan turned back to each other as if nothing had happened.
“The least she could have done was sell those secrets to the Western Bloc,” Laurence said, shaking his head. “Our government would have given her sanctuary in a heartbeat.”
“You really think it’s the same?” Chiboon asked. “I read all her published letters and notes for my articles. Nuclear policy was her largest concern—what future would be left for her sons, and their children. Khrushchev believes in disarmament. She thought he would pursue peace.”
“Khrushchev ends every day pissing on Lenin’s grave,” Cheuk-Kwan snarled. “How could she—”
“Cheuk-Kwan!” Yukying scolded sharply.
“All I’m saying is,” Laurence doubled down, “if she’d wanted to undermine the CCP, she could have defected and taken her knowledge anywhere. But selling to the Soviets? 损人不利己.”3
“Anywhere?” Chiboon asked. “Maybe I’m misremembering, but weren’t some French spies killed just last month?”
“Exactly.” Cheuk-Kwan nodded. “Why the f— ahem. Why would she run to imperialists when they can’t even keep their own safe? Besides, she could have wanted out from the CCP but still believed in the Party, Laurence, it’s not as mutually exclusive as you seem to think.”
Yukying sighed as her husband and brother started another round of their endless argument. It was probably too late to ban political topics, she thought; even if she tried now, no one would listen.
That night, pain in her joints kept her awake. No matter how much she tried to distract herself, no matter the lotion Laurence carefully rubbed into her skin, she still found herself cataloging how every shift of her body strained a different part of her. If she lay on her stomach, it put pressure on her knees. On her back, her neck complained. She didn’t want to get up, but she knew the only thing to do was walk around, stretch, and try to breathe through it. Eventually, she had to hope, exhaustion would win over pain.
She rose with a sigh. Her key went into her dress pocket as she slipped out the door to wander the halls, zigzagging in a large circle that took her upstairs, down her own hallway, downstairs, through the lower hallways of the staterooms, then back up to her own floor. She heard noise behind different doors as she walked, saw laundry and dirty dishes left out. She tried to imagine the people who fit these little clues, but that was more Tinseng’s kind of game.
As she walked down the stairs to complete another loop of the lower staterooms, a cabin door at the opposite end of the hall opened. On instinct, she paused on the stair to see whoever emerged before they saw her.
It was Shan Dao. She blinked, not understanding. He walked out of the stateroom as he rolled down his shirtsleeves. The door shut behind him. He looked unbothered, but when the door was fully closed, he turned back and stared at it—as if he debated knocking again, or maybe like he’d left something inside. He stared with such focus that he startled when the ship creaked. Then he remembered himself and started walking toward his room—toward the staircase where Yukying stood watching him.
Panicking, Yukying half-ran up the stairs to their floor, then ducked into the recess with the cigarette machine. She turned away from the hallway to listen. The footsteps grew louder. When Shan Dao reached her, she ducked her head low pretending to fiddle for change in her pocket. Shan Dao passed, not looking her way. He stopped outside his and Tinseng’s door, unlocked it, then disappeared inside.
She stared down at the cigarettes in their neat rows. What was that?
She’d never be able to sleep now. She started up her circuit again, mulling things over. In the lower hallway, she stood a safe distance away and stared at the door of the room she saw Shan Dao leaving. Number 208. There was nothing about this door to distinguish it from the others. What was in room 208? No, that wasn’t the question. She thought about the rolled shirtsleeves and the intense look on Shan Dao’s face. Who was in room 208?
Someone walked down the hallway from behind. Yukying turned, startled, and placed a hand on her chest when she saw who it was.
“Mrs. Grodescu,” she cried, relieved to see a friendly face.
“Mrs. Li. It’s late.”
“It is. I couldn’t sleep. Were you at the dance?”
“Yes. I came to check on my husband. He was supposed to be upstairs at the dance some while ago. Usually he would not like me there unchaperoned.”
