Then the Swiss police took Jinzhao in for questioning. “I stayed for three hours until—”
“Wait. And the embassy let them? Did they send someone to go along with you?”
“No. I expected it from the Swiss but—”
Tinseng and Jinzhao exchanged a look. Though Jinzhao himself was no one special, his father held a position at the embassy. Usually no one in the West was willing to act against anyone like Mei Jinzhao, so closely associated with the Chinese embassy, for fear of retribution. Expel one Chinese spy, and the next day five of yours would be kicked out of the PRC. Mistreating an attaché would find your foreign diplomats denied visas. One of the CCP’s favorite ways to express displeasure was to refuse to let foreign companies negotiate contracts; nothing made the Americans sit up and notice like loss of profit. China was harsh whenever relationships were strained, protective of their people in a way Tinseng sometimes envied. So why had their embassy man left Jinzhao out in the cold?
“He knew me,” Jinzhao said, dazed, thinking along the same lines as Tinseng. “He worked across the hall from my father. We went to the opera together.” His brow furrowed, as though this betrayal was a confusing puzzle he couldn’t work out. Eventually the police let him go and told him not to leave town. The embassy man was waiting in the lobby for him and offered an invitation to stay at his house. Jinzhao politely refused. The embassy man walked him to his hotel, and that was when Jinzhao knew he was being watched.
They had to take a break. Beads of sweat dotted Jinzhao’s upper lip. He needed a drink but wouldn’t touch the cheap whiskey Tinseng kept. Tinseng insisted he lie down while he made tea.
“No, not the couch—through here. It’s fine, don’t be like that. You think I was going to use the bed tonight? How often do you find me asleep on the couch? Look at the sheets: undisturbed. You’re not inconveniencing anyone. Now, let me take your coat. There are pajamas in the top drawer. If I don’t find you changed when I get back, I’ll withhold tea. Don’t think I won’t! I’m known to be very cruel.”
Tinseng closed the bedroom door behind him and took Jinzhao’s coat and bag into the kitchen. He put the kettle on, then turned the bag and coat inside-out looking for any clue about what could have caused this. Unmistakable flecks on the lower hem: bloodstains. In the pockets: his datebook, wallet with both French and Swiss francs, ID cards, and a ticket stub from Switzerland. Switzerland, and his parents, a cultural attaché and his wife, dead, and not an accident. On paper, Mei Hankong’s job had mostly been to organize lectures for universities and various societies, booking them speakers from the PRC and generally touting all the cultural and intellectual advancements of the People’s Republic to the Swiss. Obviously, it had been more than that. The papers had a gag rule about reporting on intelligence affairs, but if these had been assassinations, surely Tinseng in his line of work would have heard something.
He thought about calling the office, but if he hadn’t heard anything by now, they were purposefully keeping him out of the loop. Instinct told him he needed to keep as low under the radar as possible. Instead, he shamelessly flipped through Jinzhao’s datebook. It was mid-December and most people would still be using their 1961 datebooks, dragging their feet until a day or two after New Year’s when they absolutely had to switch. But of course, Jinzhao had already started using his brand-new 1962 datebook with November and December ’61 pages conveniently included for overachievers. On the very first page, Jinzhao had inscribed a poem, presumably to set the tone for the year:
Des humains suffrages, Des communs élans Là tu te dégages Et voles selon.
Puisque de vous seules, Braises de satin, Le Devoir s’exhale Sans qu’on dise : enfin.
Là pas d’espérance, Nul orietur. Science avec patience, Le supplice est sûr.
Elle est retrouvée. Quoi ? - L’Éternité. C’est la mer allée Avec le soleil.
From human prayers, / From common spirits / You free yourself / And thus you fly.
Since from you alone, / Satin embers, / Duty breathes / No one says: at last.
No hope here, / No emergence. / Knowledge with patience, / Torment is certain.
It has been rediscovered. / What? Eternity. / It is the sea fled / with the sun.
Tinseng’s smile hurt. The poem was so deeply Mei Jinzhao: thoughtful and quiet, a little melancholy, but so good. The smile fell from his face. How much would this tragedy change his friend? How much of his goodness would Tinseng need to mourn? How much of his kindness now lay dead with—
Not wanting to think about that, Tinseng flipped to the current month’s page; there, Jinzhao had written a hasty note—Mother—on Tuesday last. Tinseng checked the train ticket: a 2:35 p.m. train on the same date. There were a few other inconsequential reminders for lunches and appointments, but only one other note that interested him: his own name, “胡天圣, 19:00,” written on December 25. Tinseng ran his finger over his name in Jinzhao’s beautiful handwriting. That’s right—they had plans for Christmas, didn’t they? They probably didn’t anymore.
Thinking there might be something useful in the back, Tinseng thumbed to the contacts list, then breathed in: His name was the very first entry. Not even alphabetical, Jinzhao, how unlike you, he would tease under other circumstances, but there was something that stole his humor about seeing his name here. He’d ranked above Jinzhao’s parents, even; Mei Hankong and Li Xifeng were entries two and three respectively. Before his parents, his brother, his uncle in Hong Kong, his more-established acquaintances and friends he’d known far longer than Tinseng . . . before anyone else, Jinzhao apparently wanted to remember Tinseng first.
Tinseng hadn’t known they were this close of friends. He’d hoped, of course, when they’d reconnected, but they’d only been reacquainted since April; he hadn’t wanted to assume. Seeing proof of his importance in Jinzhao’s world made his brain swirl off into distant galaxies of fantasy, visions of what it might be like if . . .
The egg timer dinged. He shook himself back to his senses and brought the tea into the other room.
In the bedroom, Jinzhao lay asleep on the bed, only his shoes and shirt removed. How long had he been pushing himself? Tinseng took a moment to stare. Even exhausted, Jinzhao still looked beautiful. What luck some people have, he thought, the teacup scalding his hand, to be born so striking and smart and kind. And what luck he had, that such a person would ever consider being friends with someone like him. With slow movements, he started removing one of Jinzhao’s socks, careful around the swollen ankle. Jinzhao’s skin was clammy, as if it had absorbed a chill. A warm bath was definitely needed, but first Tinseng examined the leg, feeling for anything like a break. All around the ankle were horrible bruises, deeply mottled things that spoke of violence.
He pulled the pant leg down and walked to the bathroom, counting his breath, one-two-three, through his nose. He turned on the tap and stood for a moment clenching and unclenching his fists. When the water ran warm, he plugged the drain and returned to the bed, where he called softly to Jinzhao. No response. Gently smoothing the sweaty hair from Jinzhao’s brow, he murmured, “Jinzhao, wake up for me.”
Jinzhao frowned deeply, his eyes still closed. On an exhale, he made a noise, the sound of a wounded animal.
“Tinseng?”
“Yes, I’m here. What do you need?”
“Don’t leave,” Jinzhao whispered. Grief flared through Tinseng. He had always wondered about his capacity for violence, but in this moment he knew he was capable of anything if it promised Jinzhao even a moment’s relief. Jinzhao wouldn’t want that, though. He didn’t know what Jinzhao wanted; he could barely admit what he himself wanted. Something dangerous and irreversible, most likely.
“Do you see me going anywhere?” Tinseng joked, because he could not say any of the first ten things that had come to mind. Jinzhao opened his eyes to glare half-heartedly, but the expression fell off and he turned his head away trying to hide emotions not meant to be witnessed.
Tinseng watched, helpless. Half-formed impulses warred in him. He allowed himself no grace. “How about a bath, Jinzhao—does that sound nice? No? Well, I’m sorry you thought you had a choice. Come on.”
By the time they stood in front of the tub, Jinzhao was shaking with exertion and shock. Tinseng turned off the water and tested the temperature.
“Do you need help with your clothes?” Jinzhao shook his head. “Okay. I’ll go get fresh towels, then I’m checking your injuries. Don’t give me that look; I know there are more. Your modesty will be preserved; I promise I won’t make any jokes. Just pretend I’m the family doctor.” They both winced. “Sorry. I—sorry. But if we’re not going to a hospital? Then I have to.”
He almost said please; the turmoil in his chest had him halfway to begging. Some of it must have shown, because Jinzhao stopped putting up a fight. With slumped shoulders, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Tinseng took the cue and left. Just outside the closed door, he gripped the bedside table and tried to breathe through the spots of rage. His heart spluttered like a dying engine, pounding with emotion he couldn’t afford to have. Jinzhao needed him calm. He’d come here trusting Tinseng with this. Tinseng would rather die than let him down.
After examining his injuries and confirming no bones were broken, Tinseng pulled a chair into the bathroom and sat facing away from the bath. Jinzhao picked up the story again: The next morning, he went back to the house, only to be told he wasn’t allowed in. He went to the embassy, and they told him he couldn’t go beyond the lobby. He even went back to the police station; they told him they would call him at the hotel when they had news.
That went on for three days. The embassy questioned him on the second day, and the police again on the third. By this time, the story had changed. What had first been termed a murder-suicide by the police on the ground was now being called a robbery by detectives, with the coroner backing up this assertion.
“Tell me more about the house,” Tinseng said. “Had there been drawers left open? Papers rustled through?”
“There were no obvious signs of robbery,” Jinzhao said, though he admitted he hadn’t been looking hard at the time. When the police had questioned him, he remembered that his mother’s bedside had looked more chaotic than usual. But that had been where she was killed, or at least moved; perhaps that was to be expected.
