“Why was this playing?” I twisted toward Arun, drawing a shaky breath.
“This interview aired yesterday afternoon.” Arun stooped beside his mom again and touched her slack arm, the one clenching the control. “She never watched her interviews on-screen.” Even as he spoke, the program rebooted again to start from the beginning of the show. He glanced up, the whites of his eyes standing out in his face. We were both thinking the same thing: Dr. Nataraj had been murdered.
Arun swiped a hand over his eyes. In that instant, he looked like he had aged ten years. He tugged his Palm from his vest pocket.
“Are you calling the police?” I asked.
“We can’t,” he said. “We can’t go to the police. What proof do we have?”
I cursed. After meeting with Dr. Nataraj, Lingyi had managed to hack into a Taichung legislator’s account, finding a message between him and a “Mr. Wu.” Since then, she had extracted five more similar exchanges with other legislators Dr. Nataraj had tried to meet. All with the same veiled threats, all with the hint of large bribes if they obeyed. Still, we weren’t any closer to discovering who was behind Mr. Wu’s work. And now Arun’s mom was dead.
“Hey, Arun.” Lingyi’s cheery voice carried through his Palm. “What’s up?”
Arun opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Tears streamed down his face; his throat worked.
I looked away, feeling a hot pressure behind my own eyes. “Lingyi, we have to meet,” I said. “Something’s happened.”
A pause. Then she replied, “Tomorrow morning? My apartment?”
“Yes,” I said.
It had all seemed harmless before, working with Dr. Nataraj. To help someone we loved and respected. To help the meis, to save Taiwan. Playing the good guys. Now, with Dr. Nataraj’s calculated murder, it was obvious we were screwed—up against professional criminals who were older, wiser, better funded. We could be the ones suffering an “accidental” death next.
“Done.” Lingyi’s voice floated to me. “See you tomorrow.” A soft chime; she had clicked off.
Arun was holding his mom again in his arms, rocking her. I clenched my jaw.
“Let’s get the assholes who did this,” I said.
He raised his head and jerked his chin in agreement.
No. We wouldn’t let the bastards get away with this.
? ? ?
Rain drizzled all morning on Qingming Festival day. Taipei seemed empty, subdued. Most shops were closed, and only a few pedestrians wandered on the sidewalks, some holding colorful umbrellas. I wore a cap but chose to go barefaced this morning. The rain was warm where it hit my exposed skin, on the backs of my hands, my neck and cheeks. Not heavy enough to sting. It wasn’t often the meis of Taipei could go barefaced in the day. Our rains carried enough pollutants to taint our waters, but they still had the ability to wash away our brown air, even if for a few hours.
We were meeting at Lingyi’s apartment in central Wanhua, the oldest district in Taipei. I passed vacant storefronts and abandoned buildings, boarded up and scrawled with graffiti, but the mood changed when I neared the Longshan Temple, a few blocks from where Lingyi lived. Clusters of people who couldn’t leave the city to pay respects to their ancestors and many foreigners were gathered around the temple, wandering in and out of its main courtyard. The tiles of the curved roof stood stark against the ominous sky, smears of red and green. Smoke curled into the air, and the scent of sandalwood carried to me, defying the weather. Hundreds of incense sticks would be lit today to pay tribute to the dead.
I glanced at the Vox strapped to my wrist. Jogging past the crowds, I found a monk selling incense at a table tucked into the corner of the large courtyard. No cashcards here. The monk, his face untouched by age except for two deep grooves marking either sides of his mouth, gestured to a wooden bowl on the table. I was poor. Not enough to be starving, but enough to be hungry all the time. My friends were good to me, especially Lingyi, but I didn’t want to be their charity case. I did translations between Chinese and English and earned enough to survive. But a kid without a high school education could only get so far. My clients were referred out of kindness or used me for my cheap rates.
And there was Arun’s mom, who had always made sure she passed me something delicious to take home whenever I saw her. Just last week, I had stopped over at Arun’s to check out his latest game purchases, and Dr. Nataraj had sent me off with a stack of naan wrapped in aluminum foil and a container of bhindi bhaji. My vision blurred, remembering her warm brown eyes crinkling with a smile when she pulled away from our hug. It would be the last time I saw her alive.
Digging in my jeans pocket, I fished out two yuan coins and tossed them in the bowl. The monk handed me three incense sticks without a word. I took the incense and jostled my way to the closest brass urn in the courtyard. It rested on a pedestal, its domed top towering over me. A small fire shimmered like a mirage at its center, and I lit the incense sticks, breathing in the sandalwood smoke before closing my eyes. I clasped my hands together, bowing.
It took a moment before I could remember my mother’s features. My mind then leaped to Arun, clutching Dr. Nataraj’s slack body, his face twisted as if in physical pain. At thirteen, I had been too young to understand the injustice of my mother’s death. I only knew that we didn’t have money, which meant we couldn’t get her the help that she needed. Now, after almost five years living on the streets on my own, I understood. I saw the city I loved teetering on the edge of ruin, on the verge of taking its people with her. Only the yous remained untouched in their wealth, impervious. Now Arun’s mom was gone—murdered—and I felt again that anguish. I bowed once more, heart heavy, before opening my eyes and planting the three incense sticks in the urn. There would be no grave sweeping for my friends and me today.