Read Online The Speaker of Mandarin by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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misted blue loops. Such a beautiful, gently smiling river! A river artists had been
59
painting for two thousand years and would paint, no doubt, for a thousand more. Under its silken rippling surface, trapped in the teeth of one of those reefs, hung a drowned corpse, small, thin, white as a root.
'What happened?' Wexford said to Purbank. 'I was asleep.'
Purbank, in blue underpants, the sun drying him, pushed his fingers through his wet hair. Nobody knows really. It's always like that, isn't it, when someone goes overboard? This chap was up here in the bows where we are now. He must have been alone and he was sitting on his haunches, I reckon, the way they all do, and somehow or other he toppled in. Couldn't swim, of course. Captain Ma got everyone who could swim to go in after him but he'd gone before I was even in the water.'
'Who was it?'
'Who was what?'
'The man who was drowned. Who was he?'
'God knows. To tell you the truth I never asked. I mean, we wouldn't know anyway, would we? He was Chinese.'
'Not one of the crew?'
'I wouldn't know. Anyone would think you were a policeman, the questions you ask. I daresay we shall get enough of that from the Chinese cops when we get to what's it called, Yang Shuo.'
But Captain Ma, apparently, had no intention of continuing the journey to Yang Shuo. They were within a bend of the river of a village with a landing stage and it was to there, Mr Sung told Wexford, that they were now heading. The engines started up and the boat began to move. A bus would come and pick them up. It was best, there was nothing to worry about, the incident was unfortunate, that was all.
'Who was the drowned man?' Wexford asked. 'One of the crew?'
Mr Sung hesitated. He seemed to be considering and he looked far from happy. Wexford, from long practice in
60 - studying the reactions of men, thought that what he saw in Mr Sung's face was not so much sorrow at the death of a fellow human being as fear for his own skin. Eventually he said with reluctance, 'His name Wong T'ien Shui.'
'Mr Wong?'
Mr Sung nodded. He stood looking over the side at the reefs, one of which the boat's bottom had slightly scraped. 'Impossible navigate here at all January, February,' he said brightly.
Wexford shrugged. He went into the saloon and helped himself to one, then a second, cup of green tea. The pun- gent tea revived him with almost the stimulus of alcohol. The passengers were gathering up their belongings - bags, carriers, raincoats, umbrellas, maps - preparatory to landing.
'What the hell was that Wong doing on this trip anyway?' grumbled Fanning to Wexford. 'I thought he was supposed to be a student? I thought he was supposed to be at university in Chang-sha? Chinese can't just run about the country like that, going where they please. They're not free. I bet you fifty year there's going to be hell to pay. Heads will roll over this. Thank God I'm whizzing my little lot off to Canton tomorrow.'
They went ashore. On a little beach sat an old man with a sparse beard and two strands of moustache. Three small children played about him in the sand. The beach was also populated by a hundred or so chickens and ducks and two white goats. The old man looked at the people from the West with a kind of impassive polite curiosity. He put a few words to Captain Ma and nodded his head.
The village lay above them, at the top of a sloping lane. It was the hottest part of the day. Wexford had never before experienced the sun as an enemy, something to retreat from, to fear. The party wound its way up the street where mirages danced ahead of them in the light. The ground was thick with reddish-brown dust which rose in spirals at their tread. Dust coated everything, the hovels that lined
61
the lane, the walls, the grass, even the legs and arms and faces of the children who came out of their houses, chewing on handfuls of glutinous rice, to stare at the visitors.
At the top of the hill half a dozen men and a girl were building
59
painting for two thousand years and would paint, no doubt, for a thousand more. Under its silken rippling surface, trapped in the teeth of one of those reefs, hung a drowned corpse, small, thin, white as a root.
'What happened?' Wexford said to Purbank. 'I was asleep.'
Purbank, in blue underpants, the sun drying him, pushed his fingers through his wet hair. Nobody knows really. It's always like that, isn't it, when someone goes overboard? This chap was up here in the bows where we are now. He must have been alone and he was sitting on his haunches, I reckon, the way they all do, and somehow or other he toppled in. Couldn't swim, of course. Captain Ma got everyone who could swim to go in after him but he'd gone before I was even in the water.'
'Who was it?'
'Who was what?'
'The man who was drowned. Who was he?'
'God knows. To tell you the truth I never asked. I mean, we wouldn't know anyway, would we? He was Chinese.'
'Not one of the crew?'
'I wouldn't know. Anyone would think you were a policeman, the questions you ask. I daresay we shall get enough of that from the Chinese cops when we get to what's it called, Yang Shuo.'
But Captain Ma, apparently, had no intention of continuing the journey to Yang Shuo. They were within a bend of the river of a village with a landing stage and it was to there, Mr Sung told Wexford, that they were now heading. The engines started up and the boat began to move. A bus would come and pick them up. It was best, there was nothing to worry about, the incident was unfortunate, that was all.
'Who was the drowned man?' Wexford asked. 'One of the crew?'
Mr Sung hesitated. He seemed to be considering and he looked far from happy. Wexford, from long practice in
60 - studying the reactions of men, thought that what he saw in Mr Sung's face was not so much sorrow at the death of a fellow human being as fear for his own skin. Eventually he said with reluctance, 'His name Wong T'ien Shui.'
'Mr Wong?'
Mr Sung nodded. He stood looking over the side at the reefs, one of which the boat's bottom had slightly scraped. 'Impossible navigate here at all January, February,' he said brightly.
Wexford shrugged. He went into the saloon and helped himself to one, then a second, cup of green tea. The pun- gent tea revived him with almost the stimulus of alcohol. The passengers were gathering up their belongings - bags, carriers, raincoats, umbrellas, maps - preparatory to landing.
'What the hell was that Wong doing on this trip anyway?' grumbled Fanning to Wexford. 'I thought he was supposed to be a student? I thought he was supposed to be at university in Chang-sha? Chinese can't just run about the country like that, going where they please. They're not free. I bet you fifty year there's going to be hell to pay. Heads will roll over this. Thank God I'm whizzing my little lot off to Canton tomorrow.'
They went ashore. On a little beach sat an old man with a sparse beard and two strands of moustache. Three small children played about him in the sand. The beach was also populated by a hundred or so chickens and ducks and two white goats. The old man looked at the people from the West with a kind of impassive polite curiosity. He put a few words to Captain Ma and nodded his head.
The village lay above them, at the top of a sloping lane. It was the hottest part of the day. Wexford had never before experienced the sun as an enemy, something to retreat from, to fear. The party wound its way up the street where mirages danced ahead of them in the light. The ground was thick with reddish-brown dust which rose in spirals at their tread. Dust coated everything, the hovels that lined
61
the lane, the walls, the grass, even the legs and arms and faces of the children who came out of their houses, chewing on handfuls of glutinous rice, to stare at the visitors.
At the top of the hill half a dozen men and a girl were building
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