Night Angels(20)
What made her change her mind, I wondered. “But you said to go to another clinic. You need to get stitches . . .”
“Don’t worry about me. I hope I’ll see you again, Grace.” She handed me back my glove, and the gash on her face bared itself, a raw, scarlet groove. Then she staggered toward a tram that had just stopped, held on to the door, and climbed in.
The tram clattered away, fluttering with those disturbing swastika flags, passing the men with their newspapers and the prim women holding the flowers. In the air played a thundering, fast-spinning Hungarian folk song. I looked at the glove in my hands, a bespoke silk glove, small, fitting my hand, now damp, sticky, soaked with Lola’s blood. And now my hands were sticky, bloody as well. But I understood why Lola had changed her mind, and it dawned on me. No matter how many clinics we were going to visit, Lola would not be able to receive treatment.
I returned to the consulate later. In my bathroom, I washed my handkerchief and glove in the sink, watching Lola’s blood splash in the porcelain bowl, thinking about the apathetic looks of the nurses in the hospital and the cold stares of the prim women and the newspaper-carrying men. I burst into tears. Lola had been right—they didn’t like her, and Fengshan was right too—Vienna was no longer safe. If Lola and I continued to go to places, another park or another coffeehouse, we would likely face more unexpected encounters that were now part of Vienna. For the sake of my husband and the consulate, it would be best to stay in the bedroom and read my poetry.
Yet I would have followed Lola to another clinic or another ten clinics, and I wished with all my heart that there were something I could do.
CHAPTER 9
FENGSHAN
Before noon, he left the consulate.
He had lost some sleep over the meeting with Mr. Wiley. Whether his country could receive the desperately needed loan depended on how it went, and he’d like to probe Mr. Wiley about the current state of Vienna as well, for the image of his friend with a bruised eye sitting on the street in his Savile Row suit wavered in his mind. Two months, he had said.
Fengshan arrived at the Blaue Bar inside the Hotel Sacher precisely at one o’clock and dove into the bar, a dark burrow with bright vines of lights crawling on its walls. He held his bowler hat in hand, his steps cautious, while his vision adjusted. Now and then, a wave of translucent light swept over a few faces, and a roar of laughter and music rushed to his ears. Modern, poorly lit bars like this rarely appealed to him, and he would have preferred a bright coffeehouse with an open fire or a view of the grand theater or a calming garden. Mr. Wiley, a man of unruffled manner, didn’t seem an edgy type, but he had requested to meet here.
Fengshan spotted the diplomat sitting in a corner near a tree made of blue lights. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley,” Fengshan greeted him in English.
“Dr. Ho.” The American diplomat looked stoic with a pair of glasses. He was in his forties, wearing a gray tie and a black suit and a smile that at times appeared to be almost friendly. His background, like Ambassador Chen’s, was nothing short of illustrious, coming from a prominent family, his father being an American consul in France. Mr. Wiley had served as the consul general in Moscow and then in Antwerp and was appointed the ambassador of the American legation in Austria before it was demoted to a consulate.
Fengshan had little direct contact with the American diplomat. When he came across Mr. Wiley and his wife at balls, they conversed briefly. The American Foreign Service Officers, Fengshan had learned, were not outspoken or empathetic people. They appeared cultivated, unflappable, and perfectly institutionalized, with a mindset of conformity and veneration of their superiors.
“Sit, sit.” Mr. Wiley looked at his watch, streaks of blue lights brushing his face. “Dr. Ho, I’d love to offer you a drink under normal circumstances, but I must offer my most sincere apologies. My presence is needed at another location, and I regret I don’t have much time.”
An ominous prelude. Fengshan braced himself. “I’m grateful for your time, Mr. Wiley. Grace sends you her regards.”
China’s diplomatic relations with the United States had been fraught with doubt, if not mistrust. The seed was perhaps planted decades ago by President Wilson, who urged China to join the fight against Germany during the Great War, promising that China would retrieve the German concessions in Shandong province. Eager to regain full control of its mainland territory, China abandoned its neutrality and shipped thousands of laborers to Britain, France, and Russia to help dig trenches, repair tanks, and man factories. But when the war was won, Wilson signed the Treaty of Versailles with Japan, France, and Britain and gave the German territory to Japan, whose grip on China had tightened ever since.
“How is Mrs. Ho? It was brought to my attention that she had an awkward encounter with the German authority. Is that so?”
Fengshan gave a brief account of Grace’s arrest and how he had been notified and secured her release. “She’s doing well, although she prefers to forget the unpleasant stay.”
“It must have been quite an ordeal. Dr. Ho, if anything happens to her again, please do inform the consulate. We’re here for our people, and we care about every American citizen. Vienna poses great challenges for Americans, I understand. The language and customs are an obstacle. Many are homesick. Irena talks about how much her friends miss American soda and Thanksgiving dinners. Now, forgive me, Dr. Ho, for my haste. An Austrian, a renowned founder of psychoanalysis theory, has been under the protection of my consulate, but I just heard that he was harassed again. The man is in his eighties, and I fear the old gentleman, frail as he is, won’t take such nonsense any longer. I must attend to the matter promptly.”