Though she realized he might want something from her, and that he might, at certain moments, long for that, she also realized he was in no position to insist. In other circumstances, this might have caused him pain, and yet it seemed to her that theirs was a relationship from which both parties stood to benefit. No, she wouldn’t sleep with him, but he gained in confidence and stature just by being in her company. They were both able to inhabit themselves more fully. Like balloons that were filled with air, almost to bursting, they became lighter, and more joyous. And perhaps, in the end, she thought, it came as a relief to him that he couldn’t entertain the possibility of sex with her. As much of a relief as a regret, at least. Not to have to win her, or risk losing her. As it was, he could have it all—or almost…
Back in her apartment, she stood at the window, staring down at the murky, polluted waters of Suzhou Creek. She took out her phone and called the gallery, saying she would be late. She still couldn’t quite believe that Torben had appeared—and in Shanghai, of all places…But what could he do, really? He was on a business trip, or on holiday, and he would be gone again in a few days. There was little chance of a second meeting. She’d had a fright, nothing more. Shaking her head, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Later, as she dressed for work, the sense of being threatened was replaced by a feeling of nostalgia. She could see the young man in the old one—the halting quality, the persistence. He had loved her, and she, in her own way, had loved him too. She wished she could have sat down with him and asked him about his life. Had it gone the way he thought it would? Had he been happy? And later, perhaps, when they had got over the shock of running into each other after so many years, when they were laughing again, just as they used to, she would ask him, half jokingly, if he had missed her…
But what was she thinking? Torben would expect her to be in her sixties, as he was. The fact that she hadn’t aged would render any normal conversation quite impossible. She wondered what had happened after she walked out of the restaurant. Had he apologized to Zhang and then staggered off, his mind in a daze, only half believing what he had seen? Or had the two men fallen into conversation? If they talked, what would Torben have said? How much would he have said? And what effect would the whole episode have had on Zhang? She took out one of his business cards, which she had stolen from his jacket pocket while he was sleeping. Perhaps she should call him and find out.
WHEN ZHANG LEFT THE PARK HYATT, the Jaguar was already waiting, parked in a sharp wedge of shadow. Fastening his seat belt, he told Chun Tao he had a meeting on the Bund. Chun Tao said there was gridlock in Lujiazui. It might be best if they took the Renmin Road Tunnel.
“You decide,” Zhang said.
While he was answering e-mails on his iPad, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and hesitated, then pressed Accept. “How are you, Father?”
“You sound tired.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Out carousing, I suppose.”
Zhang turned his eyes to the window. Outside, everything looked whitish, almost dusty, the city bleached by sunlight.
“Who were you with?” his father asked.
“I’m about to go into a tunnel,” Zhang said, though they were nowhere near.
Ignoring him, his father began to lecture him about his lifestyle. He ended the call, and when his phone rang again he pressed Decline, then put it away. Passing a hand over his face, he thought he smelled Naemi’s perfume, despite the fact that he had showered. Why did she guard her privacy so fiercely? Who was she, really? He took out the card Gulsvig had given him and stared at it. But it was only at five o’clock that evening, when he was sitting in the Bamboo Lounge, a cocktail bar in the French Concession, that he realized what he should do. He scrolled through his contacts and put in a call.
“How are you, boss?” Johnny said.
Johnny Yu was skinny, with narrow shoulders, and he wore cheap suits from Hong Kong and a porkpie hat with a brown ribbon. When you were with him, his eyes were always sliding past you or away from you, checking out the bigger picture. If he was at home in the gutters and alleyways, with the chicken feet in buckets and the blocked drains and the men in soiled white undershirts scratching their bellies, he was just as familiar with high-end restaurants and nightspots. Like Zhang, he was in his forties, but he had been many things in his life—accountant, taxi driver, journalist, croupier, detective.
“I’m fine,” Zhang said. “How are you?”
“All things beyond the body are an encumbrance.” Johnny was fond of quoting poets from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which he saw as a golden era in Chinese literary culture. His hands might be dirty, as he liked to say, but his soul was lyrical.
“Who wrote that?” Zhang asked.
“Wang Chi-Wu.”
The lights flickered, and Zhang looked around. The girl who had served him wore a clinging plum-colored dress, and she was drawing circles with her forefinger in the moisture on the surface of the bar. It was still early, and he was the only customer in the place. Outside, a heavy, steel-gray rain was coming down.
“I feel bad, Johnny,” Zhang said. “This thing I’m going to ask of you, it’s too easy. It’s beneath you, really. But I don’t know who else I can trust with it.”
He pictured Johnny’s smile, which had always borne a close resemblance to a wince.
“What is this thing,” Johnny said, “that is beneath me?”
“I need you to find someone. I want to know where she lives and where she works. I want her phone numbers. I want her e-mail.”
Zhang told Johnny everything he knew about Naemi.
“Blonde hair, black contact lenses,” Johnny said. “A woman like that must stand out in Shanghai.”
“She’d stand out anywhere.”
“How long have I got?”
“A week.”
“That isn’t long.”
“Don’t tell me you’re busy.”
“I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire.” Johnny sounded wounded, defensive. He would be sitting in the back room of his uncle’s bar, his feet up on the desk, an open bottle of beer in his hand. The girls still asleep upstairs, the balls on the pool table motionless and gleaming. There was a whole row of bars on the north side of Changyi Road: Hot Lips, Spicy Girl, Blue Angel, Naughty Beaver…
“Something I forgot to mention,” Zhang said. “She has scar tissue on the inside of her left arm.”
“What are you telling me? She’s a junkie?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Zhang finished his drink. “Call me when you have the information.”