the way he thought. He did not feel like a successful, wealthy and high-ranking policeman any more. He put his hand in front of his face. He was this dense flesh and nothing else, a middle-aged man, big but running to fat, with a lot on his mind.
He stepped into the street and a car honked at him and he had to scuttle forward sharply. Traffic here came from the wrong direction. He’d remembered fine earlier, but now he was slipping. He got the same number bus going the other way.
He counted out three hundred and sixty pounds and wondered who the figures depicted on the notes were. The woman on the back of them all was presumably theQueen or Madam Thatcher. It was a beautiful currency, very artistic, but he was getting through it at a frightening rate.
He got off at a stop he recognised and rang the bell at number thirty-four. Song answered.
He said, ‘It’s not an official investigation. I’m Wei Wei’s father.’
Embarrassment, then consternation, passed across her features.
‘This is the rent she owed.’
He gave her the money. Some people would just pocket it, but he was sure she was an honest citizen. It would go where it was supposed to and a wrong would be righted. Now she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
‘There’s one condition.’
‘Which is?’
He held up the flyer for the Floating Lotus.
‘Come and have a drink with me.’
( 8
‘My daughter called and begged me to help her. Now I don’t know where she is.’
‘Oh dear.’ Song bit her fingernail. His distress had made her sad.
Now that Song was leading him, Jian was passive, and instead of trying to figure out his environment he just let it happen. The illuminated signs outside the bus window all said the same thing – ‘You do not understand.’
‘She’s probably just ashamed that she dropped out and wanted to spare your feelings. And now she’s got into some little trouble. There’s probably a man involved,’ she said, with the confidence of youth and inexperience. ‘Women do stupid things over men. If she’s at this restaurant, I’ll take off, okay? Leave you alone for a reunion.’
Indeed, it was quite possible that Wei Wei was working at the restaurant. Maybe she was doing well, had found something she could throw herself into. He pictured her waiting tables, dreaming of stardom as an actress or model, living with some guy. A local difficulty had occurred – jail, pregnancy , a perception of failure – and she’d called him in a moment of weakness, then lost her phone or her nerve. Perhaps she’d called during a bad trip, and afterwards forgotten she’d called at all. She’d be so surprised to see him, she’d drop a plate.
The more he thought about her, the more elusive she seemed. He could conjure her features, but not arrange them into an expression. He could remember her character –moodiness, kindness, thoughtlessness, romanticism – only in the abstract, without the accompaniment of illustrating incidents. He saw her doing little things that meant nothing – washing, humming, tapping her feet with her headphones on. The dumbest of details came to mind – a smiling sunflower, a fake bag, that green gonk that dangled off her phone. He couldn’t place her in this environment at all – walking these roads, talking in that jabber to these people.
‘Do you want a cigarette? 555. English brand.’
‘They’re not English.’
‘It says on the packet they’re English.’
‘They cheat you. They’re Chinese. And you’re not allowed to smoke on here.’
They got off and Jian began to recognise logos, on clothes and adverts – McDonald’s, KFC, Nike – each a small reassurance in the ocean of the unfamiliar. The change in his pocket jangled. He never carried a wallet, Chinese money being mostly notes, but he might need one now.
Here was a shop selling shoes and another selling newspapers , and in between was the Floating Lotus. It looked like a fancy concern, with lanterns hanging
He stepped into the street and a car honked at him and he had to scuttle forward sharply. Traffic here came from the wrong direction. He’d remembered fine earlier, but now he was slipping. He got the same number bus going the other way.
He counted out three hundred and sixty pounds and wondered who the figures depicted on the notes were. The woman on the back of them all was presumably theQueen or Madam Thatcher. It was a beautiful currency, very artistic, but he was getting through it at a frightening rate.
He got off at a stop he recognised and rang the bell at number thirty-four. Song answered.
He said, ‘It’s not an official investigation. I’m Wei Wei’s father.’
Embarrassment, then consternation, passed across her features.
‘This is the rent she owed.’
He gave her the money. Some people would just pocket it, but he was sure she was an honest citizen. It would go where it was supposed to and a wrong would be righted. Now she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
‘There’s one condition.’
‘Which is?’
He held up the flyer for the Floating Lotus.
‘Come and have a drink with me.’
( 8
‘My daughter called and begged me to help her. Now I don’t know where she is.’
‘Oh dear.’ Song bit her fingernail. His distress had made her sad.
Now that Song was leading him, Jian was passive, and instead of trying to figure out his environment he just let it happen. The illuminated signs outside the bus window all said the same thing – ‘You do not understand.’
‘She’s probably just ashamed that she dropped out and wanted to spare your feelings. And now she’s got into some little trouble. There’s probably a man involved,’ she said, with the confidence of youth and inexperience. ‘Women do stupid things over men. If she’s at this restaurant, I’ll take off, okay? Leave you alone for a reunion.’
Indeed, it was quite possible that Wei Wei was working at the restaurant. Maybe she was doing well, had found something she could throw herself into. He pictured her waiting tables, dreaming of stardom as an actress or model, living with some guy. A local difficulty had occurred – jail, pregnancy , a perception of failure – and she’d called him in a moment of weakness, then lost her phone or her nerve. Perhaps she’d called during a bad trip, and afterwards forgotten she’d called at all. She’d be so surprised to see him, she’d drop a plate.
The more he thought about her, the more elusive she seemed. He could conjure her features, but not arrange them into an expression. He could remember her character –moodiness, kindness, thoughtlessness, romanticism – only in the abstract, without the accompaniment of illustrating incidents. He saw her doing little things that meant nothing – washing, humming, tapping her feet with her headphones on. The dumbest of details came to mind – a smiling sunflower, a fake bag, that green gonk that dangled off her phone. He couldn’t place her in this environment at all – walking these roads, talking in that jabber to these people.
‘Do you want a cigarette? 555. English brand.’
‘They’re not English.’
‘It says on the packet they’re English.’
‘They cheat you. They’re Chinese. And you’re not allowed to smoke on here.’
They got off and Jian began to recognise logos, on clothes and adverts – McDonald’s, KFC, Nike – each a small reassurance in the ocean of the unfamiliar. The change in his pocket jangled. He never carried a wallet, Chinese money being mostly notes, but he might need one now.
Here was a shop selling shoes and another selling newspapers , and in between was the Floating Lotus. It looked like a fancy concern, with lanterns hanging
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