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David Rotenberg

The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

BEFORE

Fong reached over and touched Lily’s cheek. A smile creased her face as, without waking, she tried to kiss his fingers. “Don’t get up, Lily,” he whispered.

She rolled over and snuggled into his side. “Mine,” she sighed.

Fong permitted himself a moment of satisfaction. Their three-month-old daughter Xiao Ming had given them a break. She’d actually slept for five straight hours – a record. Fong pulled back his side of the covers and stood on the ancient wooden floor. He slid his bare feet back and forth along the smoothness of the boards – an old familiar thing.

He looked back at Lily. In sleep her features were so soft. He was grateful for her and Xiao Ming and for the rarest of all things – a second chance.

He entered the bathroom and lit the flame beneath the small rusting water heater connected to the shower. Then he went to see if there was anything to eat. No apartments had kitchens in Shanghai but there was an old breadbox. Inside was a half-eaten pastry that Lily told him was called a palmier. He took a tentative bite then put it back. Wheat-based products were new to him and he didn’t care for them. Lily, on the other hand, seemingly couldn’t do without them.

He unbuttoned his pyjama top and headed back toward the shower. The glint of light off a polished picture frame on the table drew his eye. So, Lily had finally gotten back the photos and even had one framed.

He lifted the picture and angled it toward the large window that overlooked the courtyard. Laughter burped from his mouth. There he was in a costume from the American Civil War with Lily at his side wearing a very wide green dress with a tight bodice and blond curls – nine-plus months pregnant.

“This itches, Fong,” Lily had said as she took a handful of crinoline and yanked it away from her butt.

“Whose fault is that?” said Fong smiling and striking the pose the photographer had shown him.

“Need picture, we do,” said Lily changing to English so the photographer couldn’t understand what she was saying.

Then again even if the photographer spoke English it was doubtful that he could follow Lily’s own particular variant of the language. “Proof for baby that I married me. ”

“You sure did, Lily. ” Fong’s English was textbook perfect. It had to be in his position as head of Special Investigations for the Shanghai district.

“Stand still,” shouted the exasperated photographer in highly accented Shanghanese.

“What’s with the costumes, Lily?” asked Fong in English.

“Very modern, Fong. Do it everybody in Shanghai. Everybody who everybody. Do this. Modern. Hop. Very hop. ”

“Hop?”

She scowled at him.

“Okay, I think I get that. So who am I supposed to be?”

“Rhett Butler in Pffftf with the Wind. ”

“Pffftf with the Wind?”

“Name of film famous. Famous famous famous. ”

“Ah that Pffftf with the Wind. And who are you supposed to be?”

“Scarlet Hara. ”

“Ah. ”

“Ah, yourself. ”

“Sorry. ”

“Okay. ” Lily straightened her wig trying to get two very long blond curls out of her face. In Shanghanese she said, “You look very handsome, Fong. ”