Government-run Communist Party offices, school and bookshops and, three doors down from them, the (now) privately run Nationalist Party offices, school and bookshops.
The two cemeteries promise prosperity, joy, happiness and beauty in the next world, the Communists promise it in this, and the Nationalists promise that really, for all the promises, it was all like that yesterday (only nobody knew it), and Soochow Street, which intersects, divides, straddles, locates and fixes these conflicting theses is (to borrow a Marxist dialectic) the synthesis of all the promises.
It stinks.
There is a death-house for old people at one end of it, and, at the other, another. All the views from the windows of the slums between the two death-houses at either end (the death-houses themselves are also slums) are of the cemeteries, and the only people who walk up and down Soochow Street are people waiting to die, people waiting for someone else to die, people who have just had someone die or would like to and people on their way to the dead in the cemeteries.
Soochow Street is a coffin open at both ends for the extinct, and it has that distinctive smell of death and extinction that is composed of coldness and greyness and mould. Soochow Street always looks as if there has just been rain and the wooden walls of the buildings on either side of it are always wet and clammy to the touch.
Moss grows there between the cracks in stone and paint-cracking timber. If ever one went back in time to a time already past, the past would be the greyness of Soochow Street.
The odd smell was of something dying. The figure in the half light looked steadily out of the window. The grey picture out of the window that brought a little light into the darkened room was the cemetery. It was the smaller cemetery, the Double Tranquillity Resting Place of Heavenly Peace. Now closed.
'Mr Tam?'
The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was nothing in it: no fear, surprise, a little interest.
Feiffer said in Cantonese, 'My name is Feiffer. I'm a Detective Chief Inspector from the Yellowthread Street Station.' He tried to make out the facial features, but the room was too dim. From the way the neck bent forward, it was an old man.
The thin voice said, 'Yes?' There was another chair by the table. The thin voice said, 'Please.'
Feiffer sat down. The chair creaked. It had not been used for a very long time. Mr Tam said, 'Yes?'
'I believe you are a partner in the firm of Leung Ivory in Yellowthread Street?'
'The shop?' There was a soft sigh, 'Yes.'
Feiffer peered at the face. There was something odd about it. It was too dim to see. But there was something definitely odd about it. Feiffer said quietly, 'Mr Leung is dead.'
There was a pause. Feiffer asked, 'Did you hear what I said? Did you understand me?'
'Your Cantonese is very good.'
'Thank you. Did you understand what I said?'
There was another pause. The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was a second soft hissing sound of breath.
'He was killed by an explosive device. A bomb'—there was no reaction— 'A letter bomb. Someone manufactured a letter bomb with gelignite and a detonator set to explode when it was opened.'
'Yes.'
Feiffer said, 'Was it you?'
The thin voice asked, 'Why should I wish to kill anyone?'
'Mr Leung was your financial partner.'
'No.' Whatever it was the eyes saw from the window, they did not deviate from it. The voice said again softly, 'No.'
'Mr Leung's widow claims you are.'
'I am not.'
'You have no connection with the business? When I asked you a moment ago you said yes.'
The figure made a slight movement There was the strange smell again. 'Mr Leung was a financial partner in the sense that he took money from it on a percentage basis, but he was not, in the sense you mean, a full partner.'
Feiffer asked, 'Who owns the business?'
Mr Tarn's voice said softly, 'I do.' He sounded very frail and tired.
'And Mr Leung was an employee?'
'Yes.'
"Then why would his widow claim he was a partner?
The two cemeteries promise prosperity, joy, happiness and beauty in the next world, the Communists promise it in this, and the Nationalists promise that really, for all the promises, it was all like that yesterday (only nobody knew it), and Soochow Street, which intersects, divides, straddles, locates and fixes these conflicting theses is (to borrow a Marxist dialectic) the synthesis of all the promises.
It stinks.
There is a death-house for old people at one end of it, and, at the other, another. All the views from the windows of the slums between the two death-houses at either end (the death-houses themselves are also slums) are of the cemeteries, and the only people who walk up and down Soochow Street are people waiting to die, people waiting for someone else to die, people who have just had someone die or would like to and people on their way to the dead in the cemeteries.
Soochow Street is a coffin open at both ends for the extinct, and it has that distinctive smell of death and extinction that is composed of coldness and greyness and mould. Soochow Street always looks as if there has just been rain and the wooden walls of the buildings on either side of it are always wet and clammy to the touch.
Moss grows there between the cracks in stone and paint-cracking timber. If ever one went back in time to a time already past, the past would be the greyness of Soochow Street.
The odd smell was of something dying. The figure in the half light looked steadily out of the window. The grey picture out of the window that brought a little light into the darkened room was the cemetery. It was the smaller cemetery, the Double Tranquillity Resting Place of Heavenly Peace. Now closed.
'Mr Tam?'
The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was nothing in it: no fear, surprise, a little interest.
Feiffer said in Cantonese, 'My name is Feiffer. I'm a Detective Chief Inspector from the Yellowthread Street Station.' He tried to make out the facial features, but the room was too dim. From the way the neck bent forward, it was an old man.
The thin voice said, 'Yes?' There was another chair by the table. The thin voice said, 'Please.'
Feiffer sat down. The chair creaked. It had not been used for a very long time. Mr Tam said, 'Yes?'
'I believe you are a partner in the firm of Leung Ivory in Yellowthread Street?'
'The shop?' There was a soft sigh, 'Yes.'
Feiffer peered at the face. There was something odd about it. It was too dim to see. But there was something definitely odd about it. Feiffer said quietly, 'Mr Leung is dead.'
There was a pause. Feiffer asked, 'Did you hear what I said? Did you understand me?'
'Your Cantonese is very good.'
'Thank you. Did you understand what I said?'
There was another pause. The thin voice said, 'Yes.' There was a second soft hissing sound of breath.
'He was killed by an explosive device. A bomb'—there was no reaction— 'A letter bomb. Someone manufactured a letter bomb with gelignite and a detonator set to explode when it was opened.'
'Yes.'
Feiffer said, 'Was it you?'
The thin voice asked, 'Why should I wish to kill anyone?'
'Mr Leung was your financial partner.'
'No.' Whatever it was the eyes saw from the window, they did not deviate from it. The voice said again softly, 'No.'
'Mr Leung's widow claims you are.'
'I am not.'
'You have no connection with the business? When I asked you a moment ago you said yes.'
The figure made a slight movement There was the strange smell again. 'Mr Leung was a financial partner in the sense that he took money from it on a percentage basis, but he was not, in the sense you mean, a full partner.'
Feiffer asked, 'Who owns the business?'
Mr Tarn's voice said softly, 'I do.' He sounded very frail and tired.
'And Mr Leung was an employee?'
'Yes.'
"Then why would his widow claim he was a partner?
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