Night Angels(37)

He wrote carefully, each stroke a sweep of elegance, each line firm like conviction. Once, he had told me every Chinese character had a meaning, and his meant Phoenix Mountain. It came from a legend, he had explained. It was said that phoenixes, the mythical creatures that brought fortune and good luck, only resided on a mountain near Penglai Island. The sacred mountain was a healing home for the phoenixes to restore their energy and a resting place where they came to die and be reborn.

It was fitting that a man with such a name would give life and opportunity to the people who were hunted and persecuted.

I watched him, his faint eyebrows, his black eyes, and his pursed lips. In silence, with the summer wind tapping against the windows, I thought I could hear his worry, and I could feel our thoughts flow and converge, a bridge to walk on. When we made love, I believed I controlled the deepest part of him, his desire, weakness, and strength, but this quiet unity was different. It was as if, after four years of marriage, we were finally spiritually united.

He was still the same man, the man made of clay, the man who turned himself into gold, the man with intelligence, astuteness, and a deep sense of loyalty, and he was mine.

“Are you finished?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

His pen moved to the German section below the Chinese, where he repeated the same information with the visa number, the destination, and the date in German.

“May I have the visas?”

“Patience, Grace.” He took out the consulate’s seal from his drawer and stamped the visa. When his hand lifted, a round black circle was printed on the sheet. It had Chinese characters, which I had grown to recognize, valid for six months, and it was wet, shining, a coin of freedom.



In the lobby, near the usual small group of passport applicants, Lola held the four sheets of visas, her fingers hovering above Fengshan’s signature and the consulate’s seal. She made an odd noise, like a groan or sob, and her eyes brightened with tears.

Fengshan came out of his office to the hallway. He stood there, a cigar in his mouth; obscuring his face was a phoenix of smoke, a tail of luminescence, of light, climbing in the air. When it dissipated, I saw his face glowing with perspiration, and he raised his hand to wipe his brow.

“Thank you.” I went to him.

He took a drag of his cigar and then expelled the air. “This is the right thing to do.”





CHAPTER 22


FENGSHAN


In his office, he opened the drawer and took out the carefully folded paper Mr. Rosenburg had given him. He studied them: Gunther, Schultzman, Bussbang. He picked out a name, Dr. Joseph L?wenherz, the director of the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center in Vienna, and dialed the phone number. The phone wasn’t answered.

The next day, Fengshan dialed again. The phone was answered by a gruff man’s voice. Fengshan sat upright and introduced himself.

“Herr Consul General!” The man’s voice was full of joy. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since I talked to Mr. Rosenburg yesterday. I have many desperate people who seek their way out of Vienna. What are your requirements for visas?”

“Dr. L?wenherz, the consulate of the Republic of China is open to accepting applications. We waive the police records and other certificates, and we only accept a small fee for the application.”

“I’ll be there right away.”

Dr. L?wenherz arrived at the consulate about ten minutes later. He was a heavily built man with a thick mustache. He stood in a stance akin to a boxer’s—his back arched, his arms held by his chest, ready to accept blows. He didn’t come alone, accompanied by eight men in three-piece business suits who all requested visas for their families.

Fengshan led them to Vice Consul Zhou, who had just arrived at his desk. Eleven o’clock! Two hours late. For the sake of the Viennese, Fengshan held his tongue. “I’d like to see the application forms on my desk as soon as possible, Vice Consul Zhou,” he said politely, though his subordinate deserved a good admonishment.

One hour later, he went to check on the vice consul to make sure he had not spent his time scratching his scalp with his long nails. In the lobby, Dr. L?wenherz and his friends were waiting patiently; near them were the peddlers from Qingtian County in China who had received their passports a month ago.

Fengshan asked the traders if there was anything he could help them with. They appeared grateful, saying that they had been caught by the police for unlawfully selling their wares on the street, who had confiscated their passports and expelled them to Hungary. But they had successfully climbed over the mountains to Austria so now they’d need new passports. Fengshan promised to issue them passports as soon as possible.

“Herr Consul General, Mr. Wiley’s office just called. The American consul general would like to have a word with you. He’s waiting outside the consulate.” Frau Maxa stomped close to him. A tall, strongly built woman, she often announced herself with her heavy footfalls.

“Mr. Wiley?” Mr. Wiley had rarely visited him in his consulate, and he almost never came unannounced.

“His office said it was urgent.”

Outside the consulate, a black sedan was parked at the curb. The window rolled down to reveal Mr. Wiley’s face.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Ho.”

“Well, Mr. Wiley. What a surprise to see you. Would you like to come in for some tea?”