by Qiu Xiaolong
“Thank you,” he said. “Do you know that man’s name?”
“We were not formally introduced to one another, but I think she called him Little Tiger. It could be his nickname.”
“What was he like?”
“Tall, well-dressed. He had a fine foreign camera, too.”
“He did not speak much, but he was polite to us.”
“Did he speak with any accent?”
“A Beijing accent.”
“Can you give a detailed description of him?”
“Sorry, that’s about all we can-” Wei stopped suddenly, “The gas-”
“What?”
“The gas is running out.”
“The gas tank,” Hua said. “We’re too old to replace it.”
“Our only son was criticized as a counter revolutionary during the Cultural Revolution, and sentenced to a labor camp in Qinghai,” Wei said. “Nowadays he’s rehabilitated, but he chose to stay there with his own family.”
“I’m so sorry. My father was also put into jail during those years. It’s a nationwide disaster,” Chen said, wondering if he was in any position to apologize for the Party, but he understood the old couple’s antagonism. “By the way, where is the gas tank station?”
“Two blocks away.”
“Do you have a cart?”
“Yes, we have one. But why?”
“Let me go there to fetch a new gas tank for you.”
“No, thank you. Our nephew will come over tomorrow. You are here to question us, Comrade Chief Inspector.”
“But I can be of some service, too. There’s no bureau rule against it.”
“All the same, no,” Wei said. “Thank you.”
“Anything else you want to ask?” Hua added.
“No, if that’s all you can remember, our interview is finished. Thank you for all your information.”
“Sorry, we have not helped you much. If there are some questions-”
“I’ll contact you again,” he said.
Out on the street, Chief Inspector Chen’s mind was full of the man in Guan’s company in the mountains.
The man spoke with a clear Beijing accent.
So did the man with an unmistakable Beijing accent in Uncle Bao’s description.
The man was tall, polite, well dressed.
Could it also be the same tall gentleman that Guan’s neighbor had seen in the dorm corridor?
The man had an expensive camera in the mountains.
There were many high-quality pictures in Guan’s album.
Chief Inspector Chen could not wait any longer. Instead of going back to his office, he turned in the direction of the Shanghai Telephone Bureau. Luckily, he had carried in his briefcase stationery with an official letterhead. It took him no time to pen an introduction on it.
“Nice to meet you, Comrade Chief inspector,” a clerk in his fifties said. “My name is Jia. Just call me Old Jia.”
“I hope that’s enough,” he said, showing his I.D. and the letter of introduction.
“Yes, quite enough.” Jia was cooperative, keying in the numbers on a computer immediately.
“The owner’s name is-Wu Bing.”
“Wu Bing?”
“Yes, the numbers starting with 867 belong to the Jin’an district, and-”The clerk started fidgeting. “It’s the high-ranking cadre residential area, you know.”
“Oh, Wu Bing. Now I see.”
Wu Bing, the Shanghai Minister of Propaganda, had been in the hospital for most of the last few years. Wu Bing was out of the question, but somebody in his family… Chen thanked Jia and left in a hurry.
To find information about Wu’s family was not difficult. A special folder was kept for every high cadre, along with his family, in the Shanghai Archive Bureau where Chen happened to have a special connection. Comrade Song Longxiang was a friend he had made in his first year in the police force. Chen dialed Song’s number from a street corner phone booth. Song did not even ask why Chen wanted the information.
Wu Bing had a son whose name was Wu Xiaoming.
Wu Xiaoming, a name Chen had already run across in the investigation.
It was in a list Detective Yu had compiled of the people he had interviewed or contacted for possible information. Wu Xiaoming was a photographer for Red Star magazine; he had taken some pictures of Guan for the People’s Daily.
“Do you have a picture of Wu Xiaoming?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you fax one to my office? I’ll be there in half an hour, waiting by the fax machine.”
“Sure. You don’t need a cover letter, do you? Just a picture.”
“Yes, I’ll call you as soon as I get it.”
“Fine.”
Chen decided to take a taxi.
He soon had a faxed copy of Wu Xiaoming’s picture. It might have been taken a few years ago. But clearly Wu Xiaoming was a tall man.
It was urgent for Chief Inspector Chen to move forward.
He did two more things that late afternoon. He made a phone call to the Red Star editorial office. A secretary said that Wu was not in.
“We’re compiling a dictionary of contemporary artists, including young photographers,” Chen said. “Any information about Comrade Wu Xiaoming’s work would be helpful.”
The tactic worked. A list of Wu Xiaoming’s publications was faxed to him in less than one hour.
And Chen went to visit the old couple again. The second visit turned out to be less difficult than the chief inspector had expected.
“That’s him,” Wei said, pointing at the fax copy in Chen’s hand, “a nice young man, always with a camera in his hand.”
“I’m not sure if he’s nice or not,” Hua said, “but he was good to her in the mountains.”
“I’ve got another picture,” Chen said, taking out Xie Rong’s picture. “She was your guide in the mountains, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, actually-” Wei said with an inscrutable smile, “she may be able to tell you more about them, much more.”
“How?”
“Guan had a big fight with Xie in the mountains. You know what, Guan called Xie a whore.”
Chapter 16
S unday morning, Chief Inspector Chen took more time than usual brushing his teeth, but it was a futile attempt to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth.
He did not like the development of the investigation. Nor his plan for the day: to do a day’s research in the Shanghai Library.
It was evident that Guan Hongying had had an affair with Wu Xiaoming. Though a national model worker, Guan had led a double life under a different name in the mountains. So had Wu. This was far from proving, however, that her death came about as a result of the clandestine affair.
Whatever complications might be involved, Chen was determined to solve the case. He could not be a chief inspector without taking up the challenge. So he planned to learn more about Wu Xiaoming by examining his work. The approach could be misleading; according to T. S. Eliot’s “impersonal theory,” Chen recollected, what could be learned from a creative artist’s work was nothing but his craftsmanship. Nonetheless, he would give it a shot.
In the reading room of the Shanghai Library, Chen soon found that there was a lot more for him to do. The list he had received the previous day included only the work published in the Red Star magazine; as for Wu’s publications elsewhere, the list gave only the total number with abbreviated magazine names minus dates. As most of the magazines had no year-end index for photographs, Chen had to go through them issue by issue. The back issues were in the basement of the library, which meant a long wait before he could get what he ordered.
The librarian was a nice woman, moving about briskly in her high heels, but a stickler for library rules. All she could give him at one time were the issues of one particular magazine for a year. For anything more, he had to write out a new order slip and to wait for another half an hour.
He sat in the lobby, feeling idle on a supposedly busy day. Every time the libr
arian came out of the elevator with a bundle of books on a small cart, he would stand up expectantly. But they were other peoples’ books. Waiting there, he felt disturbed, distantly…
How long ago it was-the fragments of the time still book-marked- another summer, another library, another sense of waiting with expectations, different expectations, and the pigeons’ whistles fading in the high, clear Beijing sky… He closed his eyes, trying not to conjure up the past.
Chief Inspector Chen had to pull himself back to the work of the present.
At eleven thirty, he concluded that he had accomplished little for a morning; he packed up all his notes and went out for lunch. The Shanghai Library was located on the corner of Nanjing Road and Huangpi Road. There were a number of fancy restaurants in the neighborhood. He walked to the north gate of the People’s Park, where there was a young vendor selling hot dogs and sandwiches from a cart on the sidewalk sporting a Budweiser umbrella, an imported coffee maker, and a radio playing loud rock-and-roll music. The chicken sandwich he bought was not cheap. He washed it down with a paper cup of reheated, lukewarm coffee, not at all like what he had enjoyed with Wang at the River Cafe.
When he returned to the library, he phoned Wang at Wenhui. He could hear a couple of phones ringing at the same time in the background as he chatted a little about her heavy responsibility on Sunday as a Wenhui reporter before he switched topics.
“Wang, I have to ask a favor of you.”
“People never go to a Buddhist temple without asking for help.”
“They do not grab Buddha’s legs unless in desperation,” he said, knowing she enjoyed his repartee. A cliche for a cliche.
“Grab or pull Buddha’s legs?” She giggled.
He explained the problem he had with his library research.
“With your connections, maybe you can help. Of course, only as long as you are not too busy at the moment.”
“I’ll look into it,” she said. “I’m busy, but not that busy.”
“Not too busy for me, I know.”
“When do you need it?”
“Well… as soon as possible.”
“I’ll call you.”
“I’m in the library. Beep me.”
He resumed his reading. For the next twenty minutes, however, he did not come across a single issue containing Wu’s work, and he had to wait again. So he started reading something else. A collection of Bian Zilin’s poems. A brilliant Chinese modernist, Bian should have enjoyed much more recognition. There was a short one entitled “Fragment” Chen especially liked-” Looking at the scene from the window above, / You become somebody else’s scene. / The moon decorating your window, / you decorate somebody’s dream.” He had first read it in the Beijing Library, together with a friend. Supposedly it was a love poem, but it could mean much more: the relativity of the things in the world.
Suddenly his beeper sounded. Several other readers stared at him. He hurried out into the corridor to return the call. “Have you got something for me already, Wang?”
“Yes, I contacted the Association of Photographers. As a member, Wu Xiaoming has to fill in a report every time he publishes something.”
“I should have thought of that,” he said. “You’re so clever.”
“Too bad I’m not a detective,” she said, “like that cute little girl in the French movie. What’s her name-Mimi or something? Now, how can I give the list to you?”
“I can come to your office,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m on my way to a separator factory in the Yangpu District. I’ll change to Bus Number Sixty-one on Beijing Road. If the traffic’s not too bad, I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. Just meet me at the bus stop.”
“How far is the factory from there?’
“Another fifty minutes, I think.”
“Well, see you at the bus stop.”
Chen then dialed the bureau’s car service-a privilege he was going to enjoy for the first time in the investigation.
It was Little Zhou who answered the call. “Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Little Zhou said, “you have hardly used our service at all. If everybody were like you, we’d all be out of a job.”
Little Zhou, a former colleague of Overseas Chinese Lu, had applied for a position in the bureau at the beginning of the year. Chief Inspector Chen had put in a word for his friend’s friend. That was not the reason, however, Chen hesitated to use the bureau car. All the bureau cars were used-theoretically- only for the official business of high cadres. As a chief inspector, Chen was entitled to a car. With the snarl of traffic everywhere, and buses moving at almost a snail’s pace, it could be a necessary privilege. He was aware, however, that people were complaining about high cadres using the cars for all kinds of private purposes. But for once, Chen felt justified in requesting a car.
“You’re so busy, I know. I hate to bother your people.”
“Don’t mention it, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll make sure you have the most luxurious car today.”
Sure enough, it was a Mercedes 550 that arrived at the entrance of the library.
“Superintendent Zhao is attending a meeting in Beijing,” Little Zhou said, opening the door. “So why not?”
As the car pulled up at the bus stop on Beijing Road, he saw a surprised smile on Wang’s face. She moved out of the line of passengers waiting there, some squatting on their heels, some eying her with undisguised envy.
“Come on in,” he said, reaching out of the window. “We’ll drive you there.”
“So you’re really somebody nowadays.” She stepped in, stretching her long legs out comfortably in the spacious car. “A Mercedes at your disposal.”
“You don’t have to say that to me.” He turned around to Little Zhou, “Comrade Wang Feng is a reporter for the Wenhui newspaper. She has just compiled an important list for us. So let’s give her a ride.”
“Of course, we should help each other.”
“You’re going out of your way,” she said.
“No, you’re going out of your way for us,” he said, taking the list from her. “There are-let’s see-four pages in the list. All typed so neatly.”
“The fax is not that clear, with all the magazine names in abbreviation, and things added here and there in pen or pencil. So I had to type them out for you.”
“It must have taken you a lot of time.”
“To tell you the truth, I have not had my lunch yet.”
“Really! I, too, have had only a sandwich for the day.”
“You should learn to take care of yourself, Comrade Chief Inspector.”
“That’s right, Comrade Wang,” Little Zhou cut in, turning over his shoulder with a broad grin. “Our chief inspector is a maniac for work. He definitely needs somebody to take good care of him.”
“Well,” he said smiling, “there’s a small noodle restaurant around the corner at Xizhuang Road. Small Family, I think that’s the name. The noodles there are okay, and the place is not too noisy. We may discuss the list over there.”
“It’s fine with me.”
“Little Zhou, you can join us.”
“No, thank you,” Little Zhou said, shaking his head vigorously, “I’ve just had my lunch. I’ll wait for you outside-taking a good nap in the car. We had a mahjongg game until three this morning. So enjoy yourselves.”
The noodle restaurant had changed. He remembered it as a homely place with only four or five tables. Now it appeared more traditionally fashionable. The walls were paneled with oak, against which hung long silk scrolls of classical Chinese painting and calligraphy. There was also an oblong mahogany service counter embellished with a huge brass tea urn and an impressive array of purple sand teapots and cups.
A young, fine-featured waitress appeared immediately, slender and light-footed, in a shining scarlet silk Qi skirt with its long slits revealing her olive-colored thighs. She led the way to a table in the corner.
He ordered chicken noodles with plenty of chopped green onion.
She decided on a side dish of fried eel with plain noodles. She also had a bottle of Lao Mountain spring water. She slipped her blazer from her shoulders, put it on the chair back, and unbuttoned the collar button of her silk blouse.
There was no ring on her left hand, he observed.
“Thank you so much,” he said.
He did not open the list in his hand. Enough time for him to read it in the library. Instead, he put it down and patted her hand across the table.
“You know who Wu Xiaoming is,” she said, without taking back her hand.
“Yes, I do.”
“And you’re still going on with the investigation.”
“I’m a cop, aren’t I?”
“An impossibly romantic cop who believes in justice,” she said. “You cannot be too careful with this case.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said. “You’re concerned for me, I know.”
Her eyes met his, not denying his message.
At that hour, they were the only customers, sitting in the corner as if enclosed in a capsule of privacy.
“They should have put candles on the table,” she said, “to match your mood.”
“What about dinner at my place tomorrow night?” he said. “I’ll have candles.”
“A dinner to celebrate your enrollment in the seminar?”
“No, that’s in October.”
“Well-a lot of people may wonder what our chief inspector is doing-over a candlelit dinner.”
She was right, he admitted to himself. An affair with her was not in his best interest at the moment.
“What’s the point of being a chief inspector,” he said, “if I cannot have a candlelit dinner with a friend?”
“But you have a most promising career, Comrade Chief Inspector. Not everybody has your opportunity.”
“I’ll try to be discreet.”
“Coming to a restaurant in a bureau Mercedes,” she said, “is not the best way of exercising discretion, I’m afraid.”
The arrival of the noodles forestalled any reply he was going to make.
The noodles were as good as he had remembered. The green onion in the soup smelled wonderful. She liked it too, wiping the sweat from her brow with a pink paper napkin.
