“We don’t know either.”
Tinseng wrinkled his nose, disapproving. “Yes, we do. I’ve read your mother’s journal; I know she did what she did because she didn’t want the world to end. She believed in the workers, and she didn’t believe the CCP lifted them up anymore.”
“Your brother was correct.”
“My brother’s an ignorant, blind, stubborn, narrow-minded . . .”
“Tinseng.”
“Your mother wanted justice, Jinzhao. And she saw the best in you.”
“Then why did she see betrayal?” Jinzhao’s anger shuddered through the room. “Why did she mark me to be turned?”
“It wasn’t betrayal she saw, it was—” Tinseng reached for the right words. “‘There is no such thing as the State, and no one exists alone.’ She saw your heart, your obligation to the whole, and thought she could find a better fit for your ideals, that’s all. Maybe the CCP is where you fit, maybe it isn’t. You could create a lot of change there if you go back. And maybe it wasn’t her place to assume that she knew better than you, or that you would be miserable working for the CCP just because she was. But you can’t fault her for loving you so much that she cared about where you spent the rest of your life.” He took a deep breath, then added, “‘We must love one another or die.’”
Jinzhao’s eyes widened. The words hung in the air too much like a confession, and Jinzhao’s silence was far too close to rejection. Tinseng laughed it off, waving his hand through the moment.
“Ah, it’s almost time to meet the others for drinks. You know what you’re doing tonight?”
Jinzhao nodded over at the note they’d written out together, establishing them as petty thieves looking to connect with a big fish, asking to meet with Grodescu tomorrow in his cabin. Jinzhao would slip the note under his door while Tinseng kept an eye on the couple upstairs.
“Make sure to wear different clothes, some of the nice ones we bought, in case anyone sees you. They’ll be so distracted by your beauty they’ll forget about anything else.”
“Ridiculous.”
Tinseng tried to smile.
“You’re upset,” Jinzhao said. There was no point hiding it, so Tinseng didn’t try. He looked down at his hands. These hands had held the confession papers of his countrymen. He’d bloodied the knuckles on their faces in interrogation rooms on the orders of men who’d refused to learn his real name. He’d spent countless hours cutting and burning tape, editing agent debriefs to leave out all the things that couldn’t be on official record. They’d asked him to cover up actions so dirty he’d felt unclean for days after, as though the tape had left its oily black film under his skin. He’d covered his hands in blood and ink and mud, but they’d never shaken until tonight.
“You know, I never respected those men whose job it was to get close to the targets. All they had to do was talk—how hard could that be? I’m the most accomplished talker they’ve ever hired.” He grinned wide at the meaningless boast. “But could those ambassadors and politicians do my job? They’d quit after a day, even if they could speak the languages. I guess I owe them an apology,” he said. “They wouldn’t have been able to do my job, but I don’t think I could do theirs either. Seeing him tonight . . .”
He knew the problem, of course; it wasn’t difficult to diagnose. The problem was the fantasy he kept imagining, the one where he calmly excused himself from the table, walked across the room, and shot Grodescu two times in the head. The job was too personal, and rage had clouded his mind like mustard gas and mist.
Knowing the problem didn’t stop the tremble in his fingers.
“Tinseng,” Jinzhao started, but Tinseng couldn’t bear that softness right now, or Jinzhao’s sorrowful eyes, or anything that would get sliced to ribbons against the whirring blades of his anger.
“Don’t wait up for me,” he said flippantly, moving before he said something worse. But when he kissed Jinzhao’s cheek, he couldn’t help but murmur, “Be careful.”
Jinzhao’s hand squeezed his waist, a promise Tinseng carried with him the rest of the night.
The next day was a full day at sea. Overnight, they’d received an answer to their note in the form of another note, slipped under their door sometime in the night. Tonight, Jinzhao would meet with Grodescu for the first time. Jinzhao actively fretted throughout breakfast, but Tinseng tried not to think about it; worrying wouldn’t change anything, and in the meantime, he was on vacation. Tinseng planned to throw himself into every activity today: tennis with Cheuk-Kwan, swimming with Chiboon, dinner and records in Yukying’s room, late night dancing with anyone he could convince to join him.
During breakfast, he watched Yukying for any sign she thought it strange seeing Jinzhao last night. She acted normal, though, so Tinseng dismissed it. If she’d really wondered, she could have asked when she and Jinzhao met early this morning. Jinzhao’s cover of being an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort was already paying dividends; it even had the added benefit of not being a lie.
When Jinzhao asked Tinseng if Yukying was going to be a problem, he shook his head.
“It’s fine,” he said to Jinzhao as they stood outside their room, locking the door. “If she hasn’t said anything by this point, she’s probably forgotten about it.”
“Forgotten about what?” Cheuk-Kwan asked behind him.
“Do you really want to know?” Tinseng pasted on a leer and waggled his eyebrows for good measure.
“On second thought, no.”
Tinseng shot Jinzhao a triumphant grin before skipping ahead to walk alongside Cheuk-Kwan. “After all these years you’re finally learning, didi! Now, what’s this I hear about me beating you in tennis?”
As they waited for a court to be available, he and Cheuk-Kwan went to the other side of the deck and tried out rackets. Tinseng found his right away, but Cheuk-Kwan took forever, insisting that Tinseng weigh in on each one. He disagreed with all of Cheuk-Kwan’s assessments just for fun, and while his brother fumed, he watched Jinzhao talking with Yukying across the deck. Seeking out conversation with the same person twice in one day was a major mark of approval from Jinzhao, and Tinseng let himself bask for a moment. It was easy to slip into fantasy: Both of them moving into that sprawling Western-style apartment Yingtung’s mother had insisted on buying, the one Yukying had subtly complained about in her letters. The empty space made her feel lonely, and Tinseng understood completely; he wouldn’t want to be rattling around like a lone marble in that huge place either. But what if he did accept Yukying’s offer, and what if Jinzhao stayed? Tinseng already had their room picked out: the eastern-facing one, so Jinzhao could spend his mornings in the sun. And Tinseng could wake up next to Jinzhao every day—well, more likely he’d wake up to an empty bed with the sunlight streaming in and wander out to find Jinzhao and Yukying in the kitchen. He even added Yingtung to the fantasy for jiejie’s sake; he could read quietly in a corner, gazing adoringly at Yukying while staying absolutely silent.
In this fantasy, Jinzhao wouldn’t even notice Tinseng enter the room, and Tinseng would get to watch as long as he liked: Jinzhao’s careful cutting, his economical movements, the way he tilted his head to listen. He imagined Yukying would like this kind of audience, so different from her brothers and husband. Jinzhao’s attention was intoxicating and addictive; once you’d earned it, nothing else really compared. He would listen so well to Yukying, too, whose quiet voice often got drowned out. Tinseng always felt guilty about it even as he couldn’t help his nature. But Jinzhao would be the perfect match. Yukying would be able to read his silences, and they could listen to each other in their attentive, quiet ways.
It would be perfect, Tinseng thought, imagining it so clearly it might be happening in front of him right now. They’d convince Cheuk-Kwan to move in, too, and keep a pallet for Chiboon when he visited, and then everyone would be together again—all the people Tinseng loved under one roof. He’d always loved living in apartment buildings, hearing the large families together. He wanted that for them, wanted noise and clatter and constant comings and goings.
And in the mornings, when he rose later than everyone else, he could love them all from a distance. Maybe he’d even join Yingtung in his quiet corner, stealing whichever section of the newspaper his brother-in-law was reaching for, just to torture him. Then he could pretend to read while watching everyone over the top of the paper, noticing all the little things he’d step all over if he was closer.
Everyone assumed Tinseng loved disturbing any calm he came across, throwing himself like a stone into still water. But the secret truth was that he wished he was the still water; he yearned for it, coveted it, watched it with itching envy whenever he saw it. If he wanted to get closer, to try to figure out how to snatch a little of that peace for himself, what could he do but disturb it?
On the other side of the deck, Yukying smiled and laid a hand on Jinzhao’s arm. Tinseng twitched sympathetically as he saw Jinzhao tense—Yukying couldn’t know that Jinzhao didn’t like to be touched—then watched, amazed, as Jinzhao’s shoulders fell. There was the slightest sway of his torso, as if Jinzhao was considering tilting forward. Moving closer?
A string of unintelligible shrieks raced through his head. It was happening. His two favorite people—
“Didi, Cheuk-Kwan, you won’t believe it.” He clutched his brother’s shoulder and shook it aggressively. “Shan Dao let Yukying touch his arm. She touched his arm and he didn’t pull away! He even looked like he liked it. Do you know what this means???”
“No, I fucking don’t, and I absolutely don’t want to know.”
“It means my plan is working,” Tinseng said, knowing he sounded unhinged but not caring in the slightest. “You’re next, didi. You’re next!”
