The Killing Room Read online

  Li took her arm and led her into the alley. Further along its length, men were working by floodlight under a temporary tarpaulin covering. Through an open door, an old man stood staring off into space in the dim light of a yellow lamp by a table in a hallway. He held one hand in front him, clawlike and brown-spotted with age. It was trembling like a leaf trapped in a current of air.

  Immediately on their right, the bright fluorescent lights of Mei-Ling’s family restaurant spilled out into the alley. Pots and pans were piled up on a metal rack, and two young girls in spotless white jackets stood washing vegetables at a big porcelain sink under a blue awning outside the door. Through a window immediately above the sink, a tall young man wearing a white chef’s hat was moving swiftly back and forth within the cramped confines of a tiny kitchen. One of the girls at the sink took a large cleaver and began finely chopping cabbage on a wooden board. She turned and smiled at Li and Margaret as they went in. “Ni hau,” she said, reserving a wide-eyed stare of wonder for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Western lady. It was distinctly possible, Margaret thought, that no Westerner had ever set foot in this restaurant.

  They went down a couple of steps into a very small, brightly lit white-tiled room which made Margaret think of some places she had performed autopsies. There was one large round white plastic table, and another two smaller ones pushed against the far wall. Mei-Ling, her brother, father and aunt were seated at the large table, and they all rose expectantly as their guests arrived. Margaret knew that she was an object of attention for curious eyes. In China it was hard to escape that sense of being out of place, extrinsic. But Margaret could not remember ever having felt so completely alien. And with a sudden dawning, she realised why Mei-Ling had wanted her here. For that very reason. To make her feel like an outsider. To demonstrate, by contrast, all those racial, cultural and linguistic things that Mei-Ling and Li had in common that Margaret could never share. And, presumably, to make Li aware of them, too. But Margaret stopped herself from taking this conjecture any further. Perhaps, she thought, she was simply investing her insecurity in a huge dose of paranoia, as Li had so indelicately suggested two nights earlier. She composed a smile for her hosts.

  Mei-Ling introduced Li first, providing Margaret with an opportunity to see how the land lay. Small bows and handshakes accompanied all the greetings, in Mandarin since Li could not speak the Shanghai dialect. What struck Margaret most forcibly was how small Mei-Ling’s family all were. Her father and aunt were like tiny, if perfectly proportioned, human beings. They made Margaret feel tall, and Li positively towered over them. Mei-Ling’s brother was the tallest of them, although he still looked a good five inches shorter than Li. Margaret put him at around forty. The father and aunt looked to be in their sixties, although it was always difficult to tell with the Chinese, for they did not seem to age in the same way as people in the West. Their skin retained a clarity and freshness, often unlined until well into the seventies or even eighties. And, while there were exceptions, they appeared to keep the colour of their hair for longer, and the men were less inclined to baldness.

  Mei-Ling turned to Margaret with a sparkling smile and introduced her family. All three shook her hand warmly, and greeted her with open, friendly grins, tempered a touch by timidity. They had little experience of foreigners, or lao wei as Margaret knew they called them when being polite; or yangguizi, foreign devils, when not. To Margaret’s surprise, she discovered that Mei-Ling’s brother, Jingjun, spoke English fluently, and that her Aunt Teng had a smattering. “I live in Hong Kong for little while,” she said. “Everyone there speak English.” Mei-Ling’s father held Margaret’s hand in both of his and spoke to her very earnestly. He held her eyes in a steady unblinking gaze. Margaret was both embarrassed and charmed.

  When he had finished, and let go her hand, Jingjun said, “My father says it is an honour to welcome you in his house and his restaurant.” For the first time Margaret realised that the family also lived here.

  “It is my pleasure to be here,” she said. And she began to relax. These seemed like nice people. Perhaps she had been a little hasty in jumping to her conclusions about Mei-Ling’s motives.

  “Please, sit,” said Aunt Teng, indicating a chair at the table. They all sat then, and Margaret noticed for the first time that the table was strewn with strange charts covered with diagrams and copious scribblings in Chinese characters. A large teapot sat in the centre of the table and there were fine china cups at each place. One of the white-jacketed girls from outside materialised at the table to pour from the pot and fill the cups with the pale, steaming fragrance of jasmine tea.

  Mei-Ling’s father spoke again to Margaret, and Jingjun translated. “Mei-Ling has suggested that we should read the traditional Chinese horoscopes of our honoured guests. Aunt Teng has learned this art in Hong Kong.” He paused. “My father asks if this would please you?”

  Margaret glanced uncertainly at Li. “Well . . . yes, of course,” she said. “I would be interested to see the process.” She saw that Mei-Ling was watching her closely, the smile still fixed on her face like a diamond caught in the light. And she noticed that the slight cast in Mei-Ling’s right eye gave the appearance of being more pronounced than usual. She caught Li looking at Mei-Ling, and there was something in his eyes that suddenly brought all Margaret’s insecurity flooding back.

  They began with Li, and for Margaret’s benefit conducted the proceedings in English. Jingjun translated for his father.

  After a brief consultation with Jingjun to get the English right, Aunt Teng said, “First we find your sexagenary number.” She turned to Margaret. “In China we measure time based on lunar calendar and movement of sun. We have three hundred, sixty-five and one quarter days in each year. Everything come in cycle of sixty. Sixty day, sixty month, sixty year. Each year is six period of sixty day, plus five day. When your birthday, Li Yan?” she asked.

  “December twentieth, nineteen sixty-six,” he said.

  “Okay.” She drew a blank sheet of paper in front of her and lifted a pen to begin her calculations. “Nineteen sixty-six. We take away three. We have nineteen sixty-three. We divide by sixty.” She made the calculation with extraordinary speed. “Is thirty-two point seven-one. We round down to thirty-two and multiply by sixty. Then we have nineteen twenty. We subtract from your birth year minus three and we have forty-three. This is sexagenary number.” She looked up triumphantly, and Margaret wondered what on earth the point of it all was. “Okay,” Aunt Teng continued. “We keep subtracting ten until we have remainder. And this is . . .” she scribbled furiously, and then looked up, her eyes alight with pleasure, “three. Oh, Li Yan, your Heavenly Stem is three. This is most lucky number you can have.”

  Margaret didn’t like to ask what a Heavenly Stem was. Aunt Teng turned to her. “You know Yin and Yang?”

  “Not personally,” Margaret said, and when no one laughed she tried to cover her embarrassment. “Yeah, I guess . . .” she muttered. “Yang is male, Yin is female.”

  Aunt Teng nodded. “Number three is good mix of Yin and Yang, but is more for Yang Prosperity. You understand Yang Prosperity?”

  Margaret looked helplessly towards Jingjun. He smiled. “In Chinese, ‘prosperity-assistance’ is the compound word meaning lucky. This is ve-ery good. Ve-ery auspicious. Also Yang equates with masculinity and positive energy.”

  “Which means,” said Mei-Ling, “that good fortune and prosperity will accompany Li Yan all his life.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Li said in Mandarin. “When will it start?” Everyone around the table laughed and Margaret looked at them uncertainly. Jingjun explained, and Margaret smiled politely, wondering why Li had got a laugh when she hadn’t.

  Aunt Teng pulled one of her charts towards her. It bore a diagram like an eight-sided compass, with south at the top and north at the bottom, east to the left, west to the right. Each of the eight segments had its own colour and was divided into three strips. In an inner circle were eight groups of thr
ee strips, some broken, some unbroken. And at the very centre was the ancient symbol of Yin and Yang, like intertwined teardrops, one black, one white. “The eight ancient trigrams,” Aunt Teng said.

  Jingjun explained, “It is said that the sage Fu Hsi invented the trigrams more than four thousand years ago. Each represents a direction, a colour and an element, and each is given a name according to the strength of its Yin or its Yang. The broken strips represent the Yin, the unbroken the Yang. Too much of either one is bad.”

  Aunt Teng said, “Li Yan’s Heavenly Stem of three also represent the Heavenly Element of fire. So his trigram is very wonderful. He faces south, which is most auspicious, and his trigram is called Li, which is his name. And the fire, it mean he is strong, dependable. It mean he is beautiful, like the sun. And best season for Li Yan is the summer.”

  Li was blushing now. Mei-Ling said, “Which makes you a very good catch for some lucky girl.”

  “Ah, but only if their animal signs are compatible,” Jingjun said, grinning. “If you believe in that sort of thing.” He turned to Li. “What are you, Li Yan?”

  “Year of the horse,” Li said.

  Mei-Ling clapped her hands in delight. “And I’m the tiger,” she said. Li flicked her a look. Now he knew the purpose of her “innocent” question earlier in the day.

  “And no doubt horses and tigers are just made for each other,” Margaret said with a tone.

  Aunt Teng said, “There are twelve animal, in four group of three. The three animal in each group get on ve-ery well.” She beamed at Li and Mei-Ling. “Tiger and horse in same group.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise.” Margaret couldn’t help herself, although the irony of her tone was lost on everyone except Li and Mei-Ling. Li glared at her. “So,” Margaret said, “where does that leave monkeys and horses?”

  “You are a monkey?” Jingjun asked.

  “People have been calling me that most of my life,” Margaret said. “But I was born in sixty-eight, and I’m told that was a monkey year.”

  Jingjun grinned, but Aunt Teng shook her head. “No good,” she said. “Monkey and horse in different group. No compatible.”

  “And monkeys and tigers?” Margaret asked, looking very directly at Mei-Ling.

  Aunt Teng consulted a chart and cackled. “Hah!” she said. “Afraid Miss Margaret and Mei-Ling no get on. Tiger and monkey directly opposite. They clash. They deadly enemy.”

  Margaret smiled at Mei-Ling. “Maybe there’s something to this after all.”

  Aunt Teng then worked out that Margaret’s sexagenary number was forty-five, and that her Heavenly Stem was five. “Five in middle,” she said. “No lucky, but no unlucky.”

  “Yes, not a very interesting number, really,” Mei-Ling said.

  “Heavenly element is earth,” said Aunt Teng, “and trigram called K’un.” She looked up suddenly. “You want more tea?” And she waved one of the girls to refill their cups. When the tea had been poured, Aunt Teng continued, “Characteristic of earth element mean you are docile, yielding lady, ve-ery motherly. It stand for mother earth, cloth, the belly and the colour black.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like me,” Margaret said. “Docile? Yielding?” She flicked a glance at Mei-Ling and forced a smile. “I wouldn’t count on it.” And she was aware of Li giving her another look, but avoided meeting his eye. “What about Mei-Ling?” she asked. “What’s her Heavenly Stem?”

  Aunt Teng shook her head. “Oh, we do this before. Mei-Ling have ve-ery bad number. Nine. Unlucky. And Heavenly Element, water. No good. Too much Yin make her Yang orphan.”

  Jingjun said, “A Yang orphan is like a child left alone in the world who must extend their self-reliance in a very Yang way. As it happens, just as Mei-Ling has done. She has become a boss lady in a man’s world. But ‘orphan-emptiness’ is the Chinese compound word meaning unlucky. Which is not good.”

  “Water ve-ery bad, too,” said Aunt Teng. “It mean danger, hidden thing, anxiety. And trigram, K’an, is colour of blood.”

  The reminder of her own inauspicious signs seemed to take the shine off Mei-Ling’s discovery that she and Li were compatible while he and Margaret were not. There was a momentary flicker of darkness about her, like a premonition, a shadow falling across her face. Then she recovered. “Of course,” she said, “if I were lucky enough to find a man like Li Yan, then he would bring balance and harmony to my life. His Yang would balance my Yin. His good luck would balance my bad.”

  “But you’d need the luck first,” Margaret said. “And it doesn’t appear to be in your stars.”

  Mei-Ling’s father spoke then, and Jingjun said, “My father says we should eat.”

  He and Mei-Ling quickly cleared away all of Aunt Teng’s papers and charts, and the girls in the white jackets set out plates and glasses and chopsticks and began charging the table with the first dishes. Steam rose from the table into the cold white of the tiled room, and strange, exotic smells rose with it. “We thought you might like to try some traditional Shanghai dishes,” Mei-Ling said, “and some Chinese delicacies. The chef is very good. I told him you were particularly fond of deep fried scorpion.” She paused. “But unfortunately he was not able to get them in time.”

  “What a pity,” Margaret said.

  “But we do have some other delicacies that I am sure you will enjoy just as much.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to the bother.”

  Mei-Ling smiled. “It is my pleasure.”

  Beer was poured into tall glasses from large pitchers, and their toasting glasses were filled with the evil-tasting and highly potent Chinese toasting liquor, mao tai. Margaret had several unpleasant memories of it. Mei-Ling’s father proposed a toast to their guests, and Li and Margaret proposed return toasts in thanks for their hospitality. Mercifully everyone sipped the liquor, and no one called for a gan bei which would have required an emptying of glasses in a single draught.

  As the Lazy Susan turned, and each dish arrived before Margaret, Aunt Teng explained what it was. A plate piled with slivers of what looked like meat or fish in a sauce sprinkled with spring onion, she explained, was called Dragon’s Duel Tiger. “This Chaozhou cuisine,” she said. “From south of China. Is wild cat and snake meat.” Margaret blanched. Another plate was piled with brown-coloured eggs. Aunt Teng provided further illumination. “We call one thousand year eggs,” she said. “But they not really a thousand year old. They soaked in horse urine for effect.”

  Margaret caught Mei-Ling watching her, delighting in her discomfort. But she was damned if she was going to give her the pleasure of seeing her succumb to the growing sense of nausea that was developing from the knot in her stomach. Li was studiously avoiding her eye. It must have been obvious to him, too, what Mei-Ling was attempting to do. Gamely Margaret picked her way through a succession of bizarre and unappetising dishes: butterflied prawn in batter covered with deep fried ants, stewed chicken’s feet, snake, dried squid—washing everything down with copious amounts of beer. Each time she emptied her glass one of the white-jacketed girls would refill it. The beer seemed to wash away the nausea, replacing it with an increasing sense of lightheaded euphoria.

  The waitresses brought a plate piled high with steamed whole crab to the table, and put a bowl of dark brown dipping sauce at each place. The crabs had white bellies and black backs covered with a fine golden hair. “Shanghai hairy crab,” Jingjun said. “Seasonal speciality of Shanghai. They are Da Zha Xie, Chinese Mitten Crabs, taken from Yang Cheng Lake, to the north-west of the city.” A crab was placed in front of each person at the table, and Jingjun showed Margaret how to eat it, pulling free a thumbnail-sized piece of shell from the underside, and using it to scoop out the yellow flesh beneath it, dipping it first in the sweet soy and vinegar mixture before eating. He watched Margaret as she ate, and then asked, “It is good?”

  “Hmmm,” Margaret said. “Excellent.”

  “Yes,” Jingjun said, nodding, “the sexual organs are the best part.” And Marg
aret immediately felt her enthusiasm waning.

  Everyone then broke open the claws to suck out the more conventional crabmeat and, finally, the focus switched away from Margaret. Conversations started up around the table, and through a faintly alcoholic haze Margaret noticed tiny brown splashes appearing on Aunt Teng’s cream-coloured blouse. Aunt Teng was engaged in conversation with her brother and was oblivious. Margaret looked up at the ceiling, but could not detect where the splashes were coming from. She began to wonder if the accumulation of alcohol and fatigue were making her see things. No one else, apparently, was aware of it. Li was talking animatedly to Mei-Ling and Jingjun. Eventually, Margaret tapped Aunt Teng on the arm and pointed to the spots on her blouse. “Something’s splashing you,” she said, and thought how foolish it sounded.

  Aunt Teng looked at her blouse and exclaimed in annoyance. She took a paper napkin and brushed at the brown spots, managing only to smear them across the silk and make them worse. And even as she examined them, several more spots appeared, as if from nowhere. Margaret was perplexed. “Where are they coming from?”

  Aunt Teng glared at a dish which one of the girls had placed on the table a few minutes earlier. “Drunken shrimp,” she said.

  Margaret looked at the dish and saw that the dozen or so shrimps lying in the brown-coloured liquid would occasionally jerk or twitch, sending tiny droplets splashing across the table and on to Aunt Teng’s blouse. “They’re still alive?” she asked, horrified.

  “Not for long,” Aunt Teng said. “They marinated live in soy and alcohol. Soon they drown, then we eat. Ve-ery good.”

  Everyone, now, was looking at the drunken shrimps. And as soon as they stopped twitching, Mei-Ling said, “You must try one, Miss Campbell. Like my aunt said, they are very good.”

  Margaret hesitated. “Perhaps someone had better show me how,” she said, postponing the evil moment.

  “Of course. Allow me.” It was Jingjun. He turned the Lazy Susan around so that the plate was in front of him, and lifted out a shrimp with his chopsticks. He bit off the head and spat it on to the table, then popped the remainder into his mouth, complete with shell. For several moments he worked it around with his teeth, and then he spat out the shell, having somehow managed to suck out the flesh. He turned the dish back around to Margaret. She smiled and lifted a shrimp from the plate and copied Jingjun exactly. To her surprise she was able to free the flesh from the shell quite easily, and to her further surprise found that the shrimp tasted remarkably good. To Mei-Ling’s clear disappointment, she licked her lips and said, “Delicious. May I have another?”