by Qiu Xiaolong
At a quarter to six, the phone started ringing again.
“Detective Yu,” he said, picking up the phone.
“What in heaven’s name are you up to, Yu?” Peiqin’s voice sounded exasperated.
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you remember the parents’ meeting in Qinqin’s school today?”
“Oh-I forgot. I’ve been so busy.”
“I’m not nagging, but I hate being here all by myself, and taking care of him without your help.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a long day for me, too.”
“I know. I’ll come home right now.”
“You don’t have to come home just for my sake. It will be too late for the meeting anyway. But remember what your father said yesterday.”
“Yes, I do remember.”
Peiqin had been worried since Old Hunter told them about Chief Inspector Chen’s trouble. So it was not just a call about his absence from the school meeting, but more about his continuing the investigation. Peiqin was too sensible to say a single word on the phone about that case.
Yu had chosen to be a cop, even though there had not been too much for him to choose from. He had not given much thought to the comfortable orthodoxy that law and order were the cornerstone of the society. He simply thought that the job was right for him, not only for his self-support, but for his self-justification, too. A capable cop, he had believed, could make a difference. Not too long after he had joined the force, however, he had few illusions left about it.
The more Yu pondered, the more upset he became about Commissar Zhang. That ancient diehard Marxist, with an always-politically-correct smile printed across his face like a postmark, must have tipped off somebody high up. Somebody who had the power to protect Wu-at any cost. Now both Chief Inspector Chen and he were practically suspended.
Outside the sun was passing behind heavy clouds. Yu hoped that he would still get a phone call from Chen. It was late, and nobody else was in the large office. He turned off the electric cup, a gift from the First Department Store, which the manager had given him in gratitude for his work on the case. At the moment, it served as an ironic reminder.
Forty-five minutes later, Yu remained sitting doggedly at his desk, with a piece of blank paper in front of him, a reflection of his mind.
The telephone started ringing. He snatched it off the hook with an uncharacteristic eagerness.
“Special case squad.”
“Hello, I want to speak to Detective Yu Guangming.”
It was a stranger speaking with a gurgling voice.
“Speaking. This is he.”
“My name is Yang Shuhui. I work at Shanghai Number Sixty-three Gas Station in Qingpu County. I think I have some information for you.”
“What kind of information?”
“The information your squad has offered a reward for.”
“Hold on.” Yu immediately became alert. There was only one case in which he had offered a reward. “About the corpse in the canal, right?”
“Yes, that’s it. Sorry, I forget the case number.”
“Listen, Comrade Yang, I happen to be on my way out, but I would like to meet you today. Tell me where you are right now.”
“At home, near the Big World, on Huangpi Road.”
“Good, I have to pick up something at Jingling Market, not too far from there. There is a Hunan restaurant on the corner of Xizhuang Road. Yueyang Pavilion, that’s the name, I think. If you can be there in about forty-five minutes, we will see each other.”
“Is the offer of a reward still good?” Yang asked. “It’s been some time. I happened to read about it in the old newspaper today.”
“Yes, three hundred Yuan. Not a cent less. And your telephone number?” Yu added almost automatically. “Oh, well, don’t worry. We’ll meet, I’m leaving right now.”
At the bureau gate, the old doorman Comrade Liang reached out to him with an envelope in his hand. “Got something for you.”
“For me?”
“This morning Chief Inspector Chen received his assignment package here. There were some tickets along with the schedule. Some extra tickets, in case some others wanted to join the group at the last minute, but no one did. So he left two Beijing Opera tickets for me, and two karaoke tickets for you.”
“The Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office spared no expense arranging activities for the Americans,” he said. “It’s very considerate of him.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector Chen is a really decent man.” Comrade Liang then said. “You are his assistant, and you have your work cut out for you.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you, Comrade Liang.”
Putting the tickets in his pocket, Yu hurried toward the restaurant.
The meeting with comrade Yang turned out to be more fruitful than Yu had expected. After interviewing this witness for more than one hour, and taping his testimony on a micro-cassette recorder, he thought of one of Old Hunter’s favorite old Chinese sayings: “The god’s net has large meshes, but it lets nothing through.”
What would be the next step? Whatever Detective Yu was going to do, he had to contact Chief Inspector Chen. It was even more urgent as he was going to be stationed in Jiading County the following week.
Chen must have discovered something in Guangzhou, and so had he, here in his interviews with Jiang and Ning, along with the newest information he had just gotten from Yang. Only as a team could he and Chen hope to ride out the crisis.
It was not easy, however, for him to reach Chen. As an escort for the American Writers’ delegation, Chen had to accompany the guests from one place to another. Besides, it was not safe for Yu to call the Jinjiang Hotel where Chen stayed with the American guests.
A case had already been rigged against Chen, according to Old Hunter. Yu’s movements might be watched as well. Signs of their continuing the investigation would prompt further reaction. It was not that Detective Yu hesitated to take a risk, but they could not afford to make any mistakes.
There had to be a way to discuss the situation with Chen, a way discreet enough not to arouse any suspicion.
At the bus stop, several people were lining up along the railing. Yu stood behind them. They were talking excitedly about some new exotic show in the Meixin Theater, but he listened absentmindedly, without really making sense of their conversation.
His mind was still a blank when he got back home.
There was no light in his room. He knew it was already past ten o’clock. Qinqin had to get up early for school. Peiqin had had a busy day all alone. At six, he had promised her he would come back immediately. He felt guilty as he closed the door behind him. He was surprised to see Peiqin still awake, waiting for him.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said, sitting up.
He slumped onto a bamboo stool to take off his shoes. She came over to him, barefoot. Lightly, she sank to her knees to help, bringing her head to his level.
“You’ve not had your supper, Yu?” she said. “I’ve kept something for you.”
It was a steamed rice ball stuffed with minced pork and vegetables.
She sat with him at the table, watching him in silence.
“I’m late, Peiqin. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to say that to me. I should not have been so fretful this afternoon.”
“No, you were right. The rice ball is so good,” he said between the bites. “Where did you get the recipe?”
“Remember our days in Yunnan? Those Dai girls sang and danced the whole night. When they were hungry, they took rice balls out of their pockets.”
He remembered, of course. In those long nights of Xishuangbanna, they had watched the Dai girls dancing against the rugged line of the Dai bamboo bungalows, nibbling at their rice balls at the intervals. And they had both thought that the rice balls were a good idea.
At that instant, holding the rice ball in his hand, Detective Yu had an idea.
“Have you heard of a Dai-style restaurant at the Jingj
iang Hotel?” he asked. “A fabulous one, called the Xishuang Garden.”
“Yes, the Xishuang Garden,” she said. “I’ve read about it in the newspapers.”
“What about going to the Xishuang Garden tomorrow evening?”
“You’re kidding!”
He experienced a twinge of regret at her surprise. It was the first time he had asked her out for a date since they had Qinqin. Now he was going to do so, but with an ulterior motive.
“No, I’ve just got an urge to go there. You have no other plans for tomorrow night, have you? So why not go out and have fun?”
“Do you think we can afford it?”
“Here are a couple of all-inclusive tickets, covering drinking, dancing and singing-along, or karaoke. You know what it is, so fashionable nowadays. Free tickets.” Yu took the tickets out of his shirt pocket. “A hundred and fifty Yuan for each, if we had to pay out of our own pocket. So it would be a shame not to go.”
They were the tickets Chen had left for them. Perhaps Chen just did not want to waste the tickets. But perhaps Chen had meant for him to go there.
“Where did you get the tickets?”
“Somebody gave them to me.”
“I’m no dancer,” she said hesitantly. “And I’ve no idea how to karaoke.”
“It is easy to learn, my wife.”
“Easy for you to say.” She was not untempted with the prospect of a special night. “We’re already an old husband and wife.”
“There are older people dancing and singing in People’s Square everyday.”
“But why are you asking me out all of a sudden?”
“Why not? We deserve a break.”
“It does not sound like you, Comrade Detective Yu, to enjoy a break in the middle of an investigation.”
“Well, that’s exactly where we are, in the middle of it,” he said.
“And that’s also why I want you to be there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to pass some information to Chief Inspector Chen. He may be there, too. It’s not a good idea for us to be seen together.”
“So you are not inviting me out to a party,” she said, making no attempt to conceal her disappointment. “On the contrary, you are asking me to join your the investigation.”
“I’m sorry, Peiqin,” Yu said, reaching out to touch her hair. “I know you are worried about me, but I want to say one thing for Chief Inspector Chen-and for myself, too. This is a case that really gives meaning to our job. In fact, Chen is ready to sacrifice his career for justice.”
“I understand.” She took his hand. “Chief Inspector Chen shows his integrity as a police officer. So do you. Why apologize to me?”
“If it upsets you so much, forget it, Peiqin. It may just be another lousy idea of mine. Perhaps it will be my last case. I should have listened to your advice earlier.”
“Oh no,” she protested. “I just want to know what kind of information you want me to pass to him.”
“Let me make one point clear: As soon as this case’s over, I’ll start looking for another job. A different job. Then I can have more time with you and Qinqin.”
“Don’t think like that, Guangming. You’re doing a great job.”
“I’ll tell you about the case, and then you can tell me if it’s really a great job or not.”
So he started to tell her everything. When he came to the end of his account after half an hour, he reemphasized the necessity of exchanging information with Chen.
“It’s a job worth your effort, and Chief Inspector Chen’s, too.”
“Thank you, Peiqin.”
“What shall I wear?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s a casual event.”
“But I’ll come back home first. We may be out quite late. I need to prepare supper for Qinqin.”
“Well, I have to go straight from the office. Not in my uniform, of course. We’ll see each other at the Xishuang Garden, but let’s pretend to be strangers there. Afterward we can meet outside.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “To be cautious, you should not go at all.”
“No, I’d better be there, in case something unexpected happens to you, but I don’t think that’s likely.” He added after a pause, “I’m sorry to bring you into this.”
“Don’t say that, Guangming,” she said, “If it’s for you, it’s for me, too.”
Chapter 31
It was the third day Chen had served as an escort to the American Writers’ Delegation.
The visitors had come through an exchange program sponsored by the China-U.S. Distinguished Scholars Committee. William Rosenthal, a well-known professor, critic, and poet, was accompanied by his wife Vicky. Rosenthal’s position as chairman of the American association added weight to the visit. Shanghai was the last stop on their itinerary.
At Jinjiang Hotel, Chen was assigned a room on the same floor as the Rosenthals. The American guests were staying in a luxurious suite. Chen’s was much smaller, but still elegant, a world of difference from the Writers’ Home in Guangzhou.
Downstairs, he accompanied the American guests to choose souvenirs in the hotel gift shop.
“I’m so glad I can talk to someone like you. That’s what our cultural exchange is about. Vicky, Mr. Chen has translated T. S. Eliot into Chinese,” Rosenthal said, turning to his wife, who was busy examining a pearl necklace. “Including ‘The Waste Land.’” Apparently Rosenthal knew of Chen’s literary background, but he seemed unaware of both his mystery translations and his police position.
“In Beijing and Xi’an, the interpreters also spoke good English,” Vicky said, “but they knew little about literature. When Bill started quoting something, they were lost.”
“I’m learning a lot from Professor Rosenthal,” Chen said, taking a schedule out of his pocket. “I’m afraid we have to leave the hotel now.”
The schedule was packed full. Days before their arrival, the activities had been arranged in detail and faxed to the Foreign Liaison Office of the Shanghai Writers’ Association. Chen’s job was to follow the printed instructions. Morning in the City God’s Temple, lunch with local writers, an afternoon’s riverboat cruise, then shopping on Nanjing Road, and a Beijing opera for the evening… There were several places they’d had to visit-politically necessary-such as the Red Brick House where the Chinese Communist Party had allegedly held its first meeting, the well-preserved remains of the Fangua slum under the Nationalist regime in contrast to the new building under the Communist regime, and the new development zone east of the Huangpu River, all of which they had already covered.
“Where are we going?”
“In accordance with the morning schedule, to the City God’s Temple.”
“A temple?” Vicky asked.
“Not really. It’s a market with a temple in the center of it,” Chen explained. “So some people call it City God’s Temple Market. There are quite a few stores-including the temple itself-selling all kinds of local arts-and-crafts products.”
“That’s great.”
As usual, the market around the temple was packed with people. The Rosenthals were not interested in the newly refurbished temple front with the vermilion posts and huge black gate, nor in the display of arts and crafts inside, nor even in the Yuyuan Garden behind the temple, with its glazed yellow dragons atop the white walls. The sight of various snack bars impressed the Americans more than anything else.
“Cooking must have been an integral component of Chinese civilization,” Rosenthal said, “or there wouldn’t be such a variety of cuisines.”
“And such a variety of people,” Vicky added cheerfully, “eating to their hearts’ content.”
According to the schedule of the foreign liaison office, they were supposed to have Coca-Cola and ice cream for their morning snack. Each activity was listed in a printout, including the place and price range. Chen would be reimbursed after turning in the receipts.
The Rosenthals came to a stop in front of the Yell
ow Dragon Bar, behind the window of which a young waitress was cutting up a roast duck, still steaming from its stitched rump, while an iridescent fly sucked the sauce on her bare toes. It was a dingy, crowded snack bar, but known for its variety of exquisite appetizers. For once, Chen decided to break the rules. He led them into the bar. At his recommendation, the Rosenthals had special sticky rice dumplings with mixed pork and shrimp stuffing. One dumpling had cost six cents in his elementary-school days- nowadays it was five times more. Still, he could afford to pay out of his own pocket even if he did not get reimbursed.
He was not sure whether the Americans liked it. At least he had given them a genuine taste of Shanghai.
“It’s delicious,” Vicky said. “You are so considerate.”
“With your command of English,” Rosenthal said, busy between his bites, “there is a lot you could do in the States.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“As English department chairperson, I would be delighted if something could be arranged for you at our university.”
“And you will always be welcome at our home in Suffern, New York,” Vicky added, nibbling at the transparent dumpling skin. “Try our American cuisine, and write your poems in English.”
“It would be so wonderful to study at your university and to visit your home.” Chen had thought about studying abroad, especially when he had first entered the force. “It’s just there is such a lot to be done here.”
“Things can be difficult here.”
“But things are improving, though not as fast as we wish. After all, China is a large country with a history of more than two thousand years. Some of the problems cannot be solved overnight.”
“Yes, there’s a lot you can do here for your country,” Rosenthal nodded. “You’re not just a wonderful poet, I know.”
Chen was annoyed, however, by his own mechanical response. Cliches-nothing but cliches from the newspapers-as if a People’s Daily cassette was being played inside him. He did not mind occasionally saying stupid things, but it had gotten to the point where he was turning into an automatic recording.
And the Rosenthals were sincere.
“I’m not sure whether there is such a lot I can do,” he said reflectively. “Lu You, a Song dynasty poet, dreamed of doing something great for the country, but he proved to be a mediocre official. Ironically, it was Lu’s dream that vitalized his poems.”
