幾點飛鳥輕噪著渡影掠水過
An incomplete moon hangs lonely in the sky
Reflected in the reed-tangled bed of the stream
The surface of the stream as clear as the glass in a mirror
With now and then a floating wisp of white cloud
And the shadows of birds crying softly as they skim the water
The lines from “Solitude” were the same . . . almost. Except . . . he leaned in, holding up the paper to the lamp to read the cramped handwriting better . . . yes, there, a subtle change hardly anyone would notice unless they were looking. In the newspaper, and therefore on the paper stolen from her home, she had copied down the original character for character. But in the journal, she’d written something else: On the third line, instead of 澈, she’d written a very smudgy 湛. He stared at it, disbelieving. He hadn’t noticed before; his eyes had skimmed right over it.
It was only a first name. Likely, the other half of the name would be somewhere else. Still, it was extremely clever. He wondered if anyone else had figured it out. If they had, any of the names she’d listed would be in danger. Terrible danger, if they were operatives. More likely, though, this was a list of potential recruits. She’d been communicating with other agents in Bern, sending leads their way. Tinseng was impressed, actually. It was like the old crossword trick. He thought back to all the poems in her journals—he’d known something was wrong about them! There had been so many; now he would have to go back and check each one. There had been that one about lovesickness by Emperor Yuan, and quite a few from Xu Zhimo, and Nalan Xingde, and . . . Mao Zedong’s “Snow.”
“Snow,” the poem from which Li Xifeng and Mei Hankong had taken the characters to make Jinzhao’s name. It was an ambitious poem. One befitting Jinzhao, Tinseng had always thought. It spoke of past heroes, but at the end, it drew attention to the present hero, the author himself and all his generation—look what I’m going to do, the poem said. Li Xifeng had written out the stanza in her journal, and Tinseng had skimmed it once, then never returned to it. It had seemed like a maternal reminiscence, sweet but meaningless. Nothing had stood out. Surely she hadn’t . . .
But it seemed she had. Or at least, she’d thought about it. There it was, clear on the page: She had written down her own son’s name as a potential collaborator. A possible traitor.
With grim determination, Tinseng tore out the page and took out his lighter, ready to destroy it before Jinzhao could ever see it.
Before he could, the man himself walked in.
“What are you doing?” Jinzhao asked.
Tinseng looked down at the page. He had one chance to lie and spare Jinzhao this knowledge, a betrayal that would change him forever. For a split second, the choice stood before him: Carry this secret for Jinzhao or let him know the truth. If Jinzhao had walked in just a few minutes later, there would have been no choice at all. Tinseng would have taken it to the grave. Unfortunately, Jinzhao stood in front of him now, and he was right: Tinseng was a terrible liar. It had to be the truth.
“You know how I thought I figured out what your mother might be doing for Russia? How maybe she was identifying potential Chinese recruits, those who might be interested in switching sides?”
“Those weak in their conviction, like her. Yes.”
Tinseng didn’t wince somehow. “Well. I was right. And I figured out how she was doing it. It was poetry. She changed characters, subtly. It could have been seen as a sloppy translation, bad handwriting, even an artistic choice. It was really clever, actually. I never would’ve figured it out if we didn’t have the journal.”
Jinzhao walked around the desk to see the page he had ripped out. Tinseng held it to his chest. His heart pounded as though it were his own secret. He didn’t want to be any part of inflicting pain on Jinzhao.
“Tinseng?” Jinzhao didn’t understand why Tinseng wasn’t already showing him the discovery.
“This has another name. One she—she hadn’t sent it yet, Jinzhao. The newspaper printed another one of the poems, and it didn’t have the name like the version in the journal had. So these were her personal notes; that’s why she sent them to you. With the date written on top, she’d been sitting on it for months. Maybe she never sent it.”
“Whose name is it?” Jinzhao asked, eyes flickering down to the page in Tinseng’s hand. A part of him must have known already because he asked unsteadily, “Someone we know?”
“Jinzhao . . .” Tinseng watched Jinzhao’s hand reach for the paper. He didn’t stop Jinzhao from taking it. It didn’t take long to read. It was only four lines. Tinseng watched and didn’t know what he was waiting for—only that he was terrified in a way he’d only been once before, in a kitchen with his sister, waiting for her judgment. He was startled when Jinzhao held out his hand.
“Your lighter.”
Jinzhao sounded calm, but Tinseng still hesitated before handing over the lighter. Jinzhao lit the page and threw it in the bin. They stood in silence watching the paper burn.
When there was nothing but ash in the trash can, Tinseng turned and started, “Jinzhao, we—” We have to find out if there were copies, he’d planned to say, but Jinzhao cut him off.
“No.” It was as harsh as Jinzhao had ever spoken. “I am going for a walk.”
Do you think that’s a good idea? Tinseng thought but didn’t say, because he wasn’t a fool. Instead, he took his cigarettes out and slid them into Jinzhao’s inner jacket pocket. Jinzhao avoided his eyes, saying nothing, taking nothing, shutting the door quietly behind him, and leaving Tinseng in the middle of the room. As he turned to collapse into the chair, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror.
“Well,” he told his reflection, “fuck.”
Nine Months Ago. September 1962. Paris, France.
“It will prove my innocence if I return now.”
“You don’t know that! They could shoot you on sight.”
“I cannot have them think me a traitor.”
“We don’t know if they do! We don’t know if she—we just don’t know. And I’m trying to find out, I am; I know how much you want to fucking leave, but you have to give me time. I,” Tinseng said, swallowing hard, “I wouldn’t even be able to write to you, if you left now.”
“That cannot be a consideration. I have to think about—”
“About what? The greater fucking good? What good are you to the Party if you—”
“Do not belittle my values just because you—”
“Some values are more important than others!”
They glared at each other from across the room. Very deliberately, Tinseng walked over to the desk and opened the file. Jinzhao’s nostrils flared. He walked past Tinseng into the kitchen. These days, whenever Jinzhao saw Tinseng pull out Li Xifeng’s journal, he left the room entirely. It was a cowardly way to win an argument, but Tinseng didn’t know what else to do. As he watched Jinzhao withdraw yet again, Tinseng had to admit that maybe his strategy of never talking about it wasn’t working—but how was he supposed to start? Whenever they tried to discuss even the simple facts of the case, it ended in arguments like this one. They disagreed so fundamentally about what his parents did that any conversation ended in a fight. It was like they were sixteen again, and Tinseng hadn’t known what to do then either.
Maybe it was impossible for Tinseng to help. Mei Jinzhao had the kind of personality that wanted to be unwaveringly loyal. He wasn’t equipped to deal with such complete betrayal. His father had loved his country, but he had been loyal to his wife first, betraying all the state-first ideals he had raised his sons to hold above all else. His mother had loved her sons, but she been loyal to her ideals over family and state. From what Tinseng understood, she had been the only person to ever show Jinzhao unconditional love, and the boy in turn had loved his mother with his entire heart. But love, to Jinzhao, was completely synonymous with trust. With his trust in his mother shattered, he spent his days wondering if her love—the love that had shaped and defined him—had been a lie.
