He ordered a cappuccino—very strong, very hot.
“That room…” She shook her head.
“The Chairman Suite,” he said. “It’s supposed to be the best room in the hotel.”
He had paid 40,000 RMB for the night, but in November, which was the beginning of peak season, the tariff would more than double.
“Did you reserve it in advance?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“So you knew I was going to sleep with you?”
“How could I know that?” He adjusted the position of the cutlery in front of him.
“What would have happened if I’d said no? Would you have stayed there by yourself?”
“No. I would have offered it to you.”
“And you would have driven off into the night, alone?”
“Yes, of course.”
But he didn’t want to talk about what might or might not have happened. They had spent the night together, as he had hoped, and he was still under the spell of it. Her cool concealed nature. The sudden blood-heat of her mouth. Her body like a dancer’s, somehow both voluptuous and lean. Sitting across from him, she seemed remote, though. Disengaged. As if she hadn’t been to bed with him at all. As if he had slept with someone else entirely. Was this discretion on her part, or was it the tip of some deeper determination not to become involved? His cappuccino arrived. He took a sip. Just right. He nodded at the waitress, and she left.
Naemi was looking at her phone again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have long. I have a meeting.”
“What do you do? I never asked.”
“I work for a gallery.”
“A gallery?”
“We specialize in Chinese art, from the late twentieth century onwards.”
It was the first time he had seen her in daylight, and there was something unusual about her appearance. To begin with, he couldn’t work out what it was. Then he realized. Her irises were almost exactly the same color as her pupils, so much so that it was hard to tell the difference between the two.
“You’re staring at me,” she said.
“It’s your eyes,” he said. “They’re black.”
“Oh that.” She smiled at him. “I suffer from photophobia. I have to wear special contact lenses.” Her phone rang, but she declined the call. “I should go—”
“Nina?”
Naemi’s head swiveled, the response so swift and primal that Zhang was startled. His shock registered at a deeper level too. In most relationships, there is a moment when you glimpse something the person you’re with has been trying to suppress, and this revelation, no matter how trivial or minor, tends to signal the beginning of the end. But he and Naemi had only slept together once…Still watching her, he saw her cover up that aspect of herself, and it was accomplished so smoothly and slickly that he was reminded of the way a membrane slides across a snake’s eye, to protect or moisten it. Who had spoken, though? He turned to look. A man stood next to their table. He had the kind of face that softens as it ages, with pouches beneath the eyes and jaw, and cheeks that sagged. His thick brown hair was generously dusted with gray. He appeared to be in his early sixties.
“I’m sorry,” Naemi said, switching to English. “Do I know you?”
“Nina.” The man seemed transfixed by her, and also paralyzed. “It’s me. Torben.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else. My name’s not Nina—”
“It’s uncanny. You haven’t changed at all.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
The man gave an astonished laugh. “You’re Nina. You have to be.” He looked around, as if for support, and then looked back at her, the fingers of his right hand moving nervously against his thigh. “There’s no one else who looks like you.”
Naemi glanced at her phone. “I really have to go.” Getting to her feet, she turned her back on the man and kissed Zhang on the cheek. “Thank you for everything. I’ll call you.”
Zhang watched her leave. How could she call him? She didn’t have his number. The man was also watching her. He clearly felt the urge to run after her and plead with her, but she didn’t offer him the chance. She was too decisive. All he could do was stand there haplessly.
“Do you know her?” Zhang asked.
“Yes. I mean—I’m not sure…” One hand clutching the back of his neck, the man looked at Zhang with a dazed expression. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit of a shock. I haven’t seen Nina for forty years.”
“Forty years?” Zhang stared at the man. “But that’s impossible.”
“I know.” The man looked away again, towards the entrance to the restaurant. “I feel like I’ve just seen a ghost.”
Zhang was still staring. “Perhaps you’d like a coffee.”
“I’m disturbing you.”
“Sit down,” Zhang said. “Please.”
The man sat where Naemi had been sitting moments earlier, and when the waiter came he ordered a double espresso. “The name’s Gulsvig. Torben Gulsvig.” He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Zhang.
Zhang studied the card. Gulsvig was a professor at Helsinki University, with a long list of letters after his name. So he was Finnish. Like Naemi.
He looked up. “I’m Victor Zhang.”
Victor was the name he had adopted while studying abroad in the early ’90s. He still used it when he met foreigners who couldn’t speak Chinese. It made things easier.
“Pleased to meet you.” As Gulsvig reached across the table to shake hands, his sleeve caught a small vase of flowers and it toppled over. Water spilled onto the tablecloth. He said something in his own language—a swear word presumably—then switched back to English. “That was clumsy. I’m so sorry.”
The waiter came and cleared up the mess. Gulsvig apologized again.
“That woman you were with,” he said. “She looked exactly like someone I used to know.”
“Someone called Nina?”
“Yes.” Gulsvig’s double espresso arrived. He leaned forwards and brought the cup to his lips, but put it down again without drinking. “Is she a colleague of yours?”
“Yes,” Zhang said.
“I’m sorry,” Gulsvig said. “It’s none of my business. I hope I didn’t upset her.”