The detective hummed. His notebook flipped shut. Was that a good thing? Was she going to be let go?
“All right, Mrs. Li. We’ll have you wait outside while we question a few others, in case they mention anything you might be able to confirm.”
“Of course,” she said, her stomach sinking. This wasn’t over yet.
The station was a small outpost on the outskirts of Paris, and so Tinseng and Yukying were told to wait on a bench instead of an office.
Better than a cell, Yukying thought, thankful for small blessings.
The bench sat against the far wall and faced the door—and so they’re able to see the moment Laurence walked in.
“Pardon me,” Laurence called loudly in his plumiest English, “that’s my wife you’re holding without a warrant.”
Laurence had dressed the part, and Yukying couldn’t help but admire her husband: the three-piece suit was an unusual shade of yellow, the deep shade of a ripe fall gourd. Among a sea of black and gray, the color demanded attention. His shirt was a creamy butter, and the matching handkerchief stuck out of his breast pocket in three small triangles. With all his creases perfectly ironed, he looked like he owned any room he entered.
“Excuse me, sir—” The clerk hadn’t given either Tinseng or Yukying honorifics; it was the attitude, more than the man, that had earned this respect. But of course Laurence knew that. He’d been raised to play this game.
“You were holding them for questions, yes?” Laurence asked.
“Well, yes, but—”
“And have they been questioned?”
“I . . . yes, I believe s—”
“Then they should be free to go, shouldn’t they? As she’s a subject of the British Empire, and the wife of an undersecretary in the Hong Kong government, I’ve already taken the liberty of calling the embassy. Additionally, the man you’re holding there,” he gestured to Tinseng, “my brother-in-law, is also an employee of the British government. That is in your file, isn’t it?”
“I, I don’t thin—”
“No, you didn’t think, did you? Why don’t you call this number and discuss the matter with them?” Laurence slid a piece of paper across the counter. “It’s the number of the embassy head. He’s awaiting your call, to discuss the holding of two of the Empire’s important subjects.”
The clerk looked around the room, but there was no one to help him; the few lingering men at their desks kept their heads low.
“Do you really think . . ?” she whispered to Tinseng.
“I don’t know,” Tinseng whispered back, “but your husband might earn his dinner tonight.”
She bit back a smile and sat back on the bench. They watched the clerk’s face closely as he called, listened, and hung up.
Ten minutes later, Laurence escorted them out of the station.
No one spoke as they walked down one block, then another. They all feared breaking the spell. Around the corner of the fourth block, the other three waited in a nervous huddle. Seeing them cracked Yukying open; everything she had tried not to feel in that cold room spilled out in helpless tears.
“Did they hurt you, jiejie?” Cheuk-Kwan growled as the rest hovered in concern, Tinseng talking loudly and Chiboon trying to fan her face—all too close and too much. Laurence pushed them away, only to hover himself. They were such fools, and she had never been so grateful for them. She stepped into her husband’s arms and pressed her cheek against his jacket.
“I’m fine,” she assured them, “just relieved. Please, ignore me.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? They didn’t do anything?” Cheuk-Kwan asked.
“No, no. I’m just being silly.” She borrowed Laurence’s handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Laurence plucked the handkerchief from her hand to do the job for her, staring down at her with a wry smile.
“I know what you need,” he said as he dried her tears. “Why don’t we go home?”
Home. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.
Two Months Later. August 30, 1963. Hong Kong.
On the flight home, Tinseng and Mei Jinzhao turned down the invitation to live with Yukying. Instead, they moved in with Cheuk-Kwan. Cheuk-Kwan lived with their father in an older, more traditional part of the city, and Tinseng could be himself there, or at least could pretend convincingly as he relearned how the disparate parts of himself might fit together under one skin. Tinseng had felt guilty for a while, constantly apologizing to Yukying, until, after a week with his domineering aunt, Chiboon had showed up at Yukying’s door begging for sanctuary and took up residence in the spare room. Then it was fine: The room would be used, and Yukying wouldn’t be so alone.
It would all be fine, and maybe this time Tinseng could believe it.
The rest of the summer, the city filled their lungs and added calluses to their feet. It seemed they walked it end to end with their ever-expanding itinerary of friends to visit, markets to explore, oysters to shuck, lives to unpack and expand into a new place. When they weren’t out, they piled onto Cheuk-Kwan’s rooftop after sunset with other families looking to escape the heat, filling their cups as kids ran around their chairs playing games. Most often they made themselves at home at Yukying’s, coming and going uninvited as the walls absorbed laughter and arguments. Yukying wrote to Mrs. Lanzette for Rebecca’s address to send back her copy of The Feminine Mystique, and suddenly she had not one but three new correspondents, for Rebecca had been putting up Miss Duncan in New York.
The peace Yukying felt was cool and sweet, a river at dawn. So it surprised her, one day, to lift her head from the letter she was writing to find their summer almost gone. She tried not to let the feeling encroach on her happiness, but the realization hit her again on a muggy Saturday, all of them gathered in Yukying’s living room with no plans in mind, one of Tinseng’s records playing from the corner. Soon Chiboon would return to Singapore to visit his family, then fly back to New York. The new term would start in a week or two, filling Tinseng and Mei Jinzhao’s schedules. Cheuk-Kwan was already back at his practice, and Laurence had more late nights than not; time was slipping away.
She could feel sad, she supposed. But like the river, like the dawn, their peace was never meant to be stagnant.
She leaned across the couch to snoop over Chiboon’s shoulder.
“Are you writing for your article?”
“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Chiboon grimaced. “Haven’t even started, I’m afraid.”
“Then…” Yukying looked down at the full page.
