“I see. I hope he’s well?”
“Most likely distracted by work,” Mrs. Grodescu said, thin-lipped. “It was the first thing he unpacked.”
“Well, please don’t let me keep you, then. Will I see you at the circle tomorrow?”
“Likely not. We plan to be all day at Tamariz Beach.”
“Carcavelos for us. Have a marvelous time.”
“You as well. Goodnight.” Marissa Grodescu nodded to her and walked past. Yukying turned and watched as Mrs. Grodescu took her key from her pocket and entered room 208.
3 To harm someone without any self-benefit. A play on 损人利己—to harm others to benefit self. English equivalent: “like cutting off your nose to spite your face.”
PART TWO
DO YOU WANT TO KNOW A SECRET?
CHAPTER THREE
Two Years Ago. December 1961. Paris, France.
The knock came at five past midnight.
It was an erratic thing, its rhythm too strong, then tailing off as if the hand had fallen from sudden lack of strength. Wu Tinseng sat up and stared at the door. He could read a knock like tea leaves, and this one meant fucking trouble. Getting up from his chair, he grabbed his gun from the drawer and hid it behind his back as he opened the door a sliver.
“Mei Jinzhao!” He tucked his gun into the back of his waistband and threw the door open. “You’re supposed to be in Switzerland! What do I owe . . .”
His words stalled as his eyes caught up with his mouth. His professional instincts took over, sweeping over the man standing in the hallway and cataloging him from head to toe: unwashed hair, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled suit, scuffed shoes. His usual beauty dimmed from exhaustion. Constantly shifting weight, a restlessness he’d never seen from Jinzhao before. A foot barely touching the floor—favoring his left side. An injury, and a bad one.
“What happened?” Tinseng demanded, all pretense dropped.
“They’re dead,” Jinzhao said, and Tinseng went numb.
“Who?”
“My parents. They’ve . . .” Jinzhao’s eyes were unfocused. “It was not an accident.”
Oh,fuck.
“Come inside.” He had to get a door between Jinzhao and the outside world. When Jinzhao remained unmoving, Tinseng tugged at his sleeve, not thinking much of a gesture he’d made a hundred times. He was horrified when Jinzhao swayed and lost his balance. Darting forward, Tinseng snaked his arm around Jinzhao’s back, taking the majority of his weight. It felt strange to be so close again. After Jinzhao had learned about his proclivities two months ago, Tinseng had been keeping his distance; the last thing Tinseng wanted to do was make his friend uncomfortable. But just now the situation demanded it, and Tinseng knew how to keep his touch impersonal.
“Don’t fight,” he scolded when Jinzhao tried to pull away from the help. “I know you hate to be close, but you’re lucky I’m not carrying you.” They limped to the couch. Jinzhao slumped down on it, strings cut. Tinseng pulled over the chair from his lone table and sat closer than he should, knees nearly touching.
“Now,” he said, “I’m sorry we have to do this, but I think you need to tell me everything. It might be important later, and you might forget.”
Jinzhao nodded. He understood and licked dry lips, trying to start.
“My mother sent me a telegram. I have it . . .” he began, patting his pockets.
“It doesn’t matter,” Tinseng told him. “Find it later.”
He settled again. “It was unlike her usual tone. You know my parents have been fractious in the past. I thought perhaps she was finally leaving him. I took the soonest train I could. I did not telegram back, in case she wanted to keep anything from my father. When I arrived, it was night.”
“Do you know the precise time?” Tinseng interrupted as gently as he could.
“I—no. The train ticket, I could . . .”
“That’s okay. Keep going.”
“She was in their bedroom. He was in his study. There was a note. His hand.”
“Do you have that?”
“The police took it. I wrote down what I could remember. But that wasn’t . . . Tinseng. It wasn’t. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Okay. Okay.” Who wouldn’t say that? It was the thing you always thought, after something like this. “Jinzhao. I’m sorry. How?”
“A gun. Both of them. Tinseng, I heard someone leaving.”
The hair on Tinseng’s neck prickled.
None of the windows were open, Jinzhao told him. It hadn’t been a sound outside. Jinzhao sounded defensive; the argument had played in his head already. “It was the back door. I ran downstairs. It was unlocked.” They weren’t people to ever leave the door unlocked, Jinzhao insisted.
Who knows what people do the night they destroy themselves, someone might say. But Tinseng’s instincts tingled up and down his skin.
“What next?” he asked.
“I called the police.” The odd thing was that someone from the embassy arrived even before the ambulance. How, exactly, had they known something had happened? Jinzhao had been grateful for their arrival, though; when the police did arrive, they begun insisting it was a murder-suicide, with the note and the gun underneath the body. But Jinzhao had heard someone leaving. He’d been sure of it. Could the embassy man help him plead his case? Assurances and platitudes had been given.
