Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

walk from the company back to the dorm, but she was barely aware of the distance, absorbed as she was in her own thoughts.
    When she reached her room, she was exhausted. She locked the door after her, let down the curtain, and flung herself across the bed. Never had she felt so helpless. She tossed the faded blanket aside and tried to drive the confusing thoughts from her mind. For several minutes, she stared up in bewilderment, waiting for the end of the day to reveal inscrutable images against the ceiling.
    As the evening progressed, she gradually became aware of the noisy cooking along the corridor, particularly of a strong smell of salted fish coming from a neighbor’s sizzling wok.
    She thought back to Chen’s visit the other day. Would there be another light knock at her door this evening? She didn’t think so. But she hoped there would be.
    She got up, changed into her robe, and sat down on the chair Chen had used that evening, putting her feet on the bed. There was a red patch above her left ankle and another on the back of her right foot. Idly scratching, she wondered whether they were from her exposure to the lake water today, or earlier, when she was in the sampan beside him. The water was unfit for human touch, as she had told him.
    The fragmented memories continued to resurface, undulating in the stillness of the evening in the small room. That evening, he was having a hard time taking his eyes off her, she recalled, fingering the belt of her robe.
    What kind of a man he really was, however, she still had no clue. He surely wasn’t the bookish school teacher he claimed to be. On the contrary, he was more likely an emerging cadre with extraordinary connections, a “successful man” in today’s society. That was a far more plausible explanation for the mysteries about him. Whatever his true identity was, though, why had he concealed it from her?
    But then, did she tell him everything about herself?
    Whether he could do something to help or not, she wanted to see him that evening. He was, as the cliché put it, a solid shoulder to lean her head on.
    She then turned her thoughts to Jiang, who didn’t fit the same cliché. She had been trying not to think about him, but she hadn’t always been successful. Not for one single moment could she bring herself to believe that he was a murderer. Especially after the research she had just done at the company.
    More than ever, she was convinced that this conclusion was being pushed by Internal Security based solely on political considerations. Jiang must have been aware of this all along. In fact, he had told her about the perilous situation in which he had landed himself. Could that have been the reason he was so willing to break up with her? It wasn’t his fault, not exactly, that she had got into trouble, too. He had just been too eager to do the right thing for the environment, not for himself.
    She decided not to think about her relationship with Jiang anymore tonight. Her head had started aching from the circular thoughts. Besides, she had another idea for this evening.

FIFTEEN
    LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON, CHEN decided to take a break. He got up and opened the windows. As the leaves rustled in a low pitch and the lake stretched out against the horizon, Chen saw a lone silver fish jumping up, in the distance, over the darkening water.
    He shook out a cigarette from a new pack.
    Chen had spent most of the day inside the villa, shutting himself off from the world as he pondered the information he had gathered so far, speculating over its meaning without any interruption except for breakfast and the herbal medicine delivered early that morning. But his efforts yielded little. Turning, he stared at the ashtray on the windowsill, the shell-shaped tray full of cigarette butts, which stared back at him, like a pile of dead fish eyes.
    He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Jiang was the murderer. Internal Security had political considerations, but they also had circumstantial evidence, witnesses, and a plausible motive with the story of blackmail gone wrong. In contrast, Chen had only unsupported theories.
    Of course, he could tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have any authority here, and his hands were bound; consequently, his information pointed to possibilities, but only to unsubstantial possibilities.
    Whistling absentmindedly, he poured himself a glass of red wine. The bottle was compliments of the center, and the label said