by Qiu Xiaolong
“Yes. Some people say a woman reporter from the Wenhui Daily has been seeing him. For an article about him, he says.”
“Do you think that he would tell people if it were for something else?”
“Well, he’s somebody in the bureau. Everybody is watching. Of course he will not say anything.”
“Just like Guan,” she said.
“There may be one difference.”
“What’s that?”
“She was more well-known.”
“All the more reason she would not say anything to others.”
“Peiqin, you’re extraordinary.”
“No, I’m an ordinary girl. Just lucky with an extraordinary husband.”
A light breeze had sprung up.
“Sure,” he said ruefully, “an extraordinary husband.”
“Oh, Guangming, I still remember so clearly those days in Xishuangbanna. Lying alone at night, I thought of you coming to my rescue in elementary school, and it was almost unbearable. I have told you that, haven’t I?”
“You never stop amazing me,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“Your hand in my hand,” she said with twinkle in her eyes, “that is all I ask for in the Grand View Garden. I’m so happy sitting here with you and thinking of those poor girls in the novel.”
A soft mist drifted away outside the antique chamber.
“Look at the couplet on the moon-shaped door,” Peiqin said.
Hill upon hill, the road seems to be lost,
Willows and flowers, another village appears.
Chapter 14
Saturday morning, Chief Inspector Chen had arrived at the bureau earlier than usual, when the old doorman, Comrade Liang, called out of his cubicle by the iron gate, “Something for you, Chief Inspector Chen.”
It was an electronic money order, 3,000 Yuan, a substantial advance for his translation from Lijiang Publishing House. After the loan to Overseas Chinese Lu, Chen had written to Su Liang, the editor in chief, mentioning his new position and apartment as causing him extra expense, but 3,000 Yuan was still a surprise. Enclosed was also a short note from Su:
Congratulations.
With the current inflation, we believe it is fair to give an author the largest advance possible. Especially you.
As for your new position, don’t worry about it. If you don’t take it, those turtle eggs would jump at it. Which is the worse scenario? That’s what I told my self when I took my job.
I like your poem in the Wenhui Daily. You are enjoying the “fragrance from the red sleeves that imbues your reading at night,” I have heard.
Su Liang
Su was not only a senior editor who had helped him, but also an old friend who had known him well in the past.
He phoned Wang, but she was not in her office. After he put down the phone, he realized that he did not have any specific topic. He’d just had an impulse to speak to her after he had read the note. The reference to “the fragrance of the red sleeves” could have caused it, though he would probably not talk about it. Wang would guess his mind was on the case again. But that was not true.
Detective Yu was having the day off. Chen was resolved to do something about the routine work of the squad. He had been giving too much time to Guan. Now he found it necessary to make a wholehearted effort, at least for half a day, to clear off the arrears of paperwork piling up on his desk before he gave the case another thought. He took a perverse delight in shutting himself up, polishing off a mass of boring administrative work, signing his name on Party documents without reading them, and going through all the mail accumulated during the week.
The effort lasted for only a couple of hours. He did not have his heart in it. It was a beautiful, sunny morning outside. Chen went to Guan’s dorm again. He had not yet received a phone call from Uncle Bao, but he was eager to know if there was anything new for him.
The early summer heat, with no air conditioning, dictated a sidewalk life. At the lane entrance, several retired old men were playing a game of mahjongg on a bamboo table. Kids were gathered around a small earthen pot that contained two crickets fighting each other, the crickets chirping, the children cheering. Close to the dorm building, a middle-aged woman was leaning over a public sink, scrubbing a pan.
In the phone booth, a young girl was serving as the operator. Chen recognized her, Xiuxiu. Uncle Bao was not there. He thought about asking for Uncle Bao’s address, but reconsidered. The old man deserved a Saturday off with his grandchildren. So he decided to take yet another look at Guan’s room.
Once more he went through all the albums. This time he discovered something else tucked inside the backcover of the most recent one. It was not the picture of Guan in the mountains, but a Polaroid of a gray-haired lady standing underneath the famous Guest-Welcome pine.
He took out the picture, and turned it over. On the back he saw a small line: To Comrade Zhaodi, Wei Hong October 1989.
Comrade Zhaodi. Who was that?
Could Zhaodi be another name for Guan?
Zhaodi was a sort of common pet name, meaning “to bring a young brother into the world.” A likely wish to have been cherished by Guan’s parents, who had only one daughter. Some Chinese parents believed in such a superstitious name-giving practice. As Confucius once said, “Naming is the most important thing in the world.”
The date seemed to fit. It was the very month that Guan had made the trip to the mountains. Also fitting was the unmistakable Guest-Welcoming pine in the background. If it had been meant for somebody else, why should Guan have kept the picture in her album?
He lit a cigarette under the portrait of Comrade Deng Xiaoping before he put the photo into his briefcase. Downstairs, he looked into the small window of the phone station again. Still no Uncle Bao.
“Is Uncle Bao off today?” he asked.
“You must be Comrade Chief Inspector,” the girl said, eyeing his uniform. “Comrade Bao has been waiting for you. He wants me to tell him as soon as you are here.”
In less than three minutes, Uncle Bao came trotting in with a big envelope in his hand.
“I have something for you, Comrade Chief Inspector.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bao.”
“I’ve called you a couple of times, but the line was busy.”
“Sorry, I should have given you my home phone number.”
“Let’s have a talk. My place is quite close, you know, but it’s a bit small.”
“Well, we may talk over a pot of tea in the restaurant across the street.”
“Good idea.”
The restaurant was not crowded on Saturday morning. They chose a table inside. The waiter seemed to know Uncle Bao well, and he brought over a pot of Dragon Well tea immediately.
The old man produced several stub books, which covered the period from February to early May. Altogether, there were more than thirty stubs showing that Guan had received calls from the number 867-831, quite a few of them after nine o’clock. The caller’s surname was Wu.
“So all are from the same number,” Chen said.
“And from the same man, too,” Uncle Bao said. “I’m positive.”
“Do you know anything about the number, or the man?”
“No, I don’t know anything about the number. As for the man, I think I told you already, he’s middle-aged, speaking with a clear Beijing accent, but he is not from Beijing. More likely a Shanghainer who speaks the Beijing dialect a lot. He’s rather polite, too, calling me Old Uncle. That’s why I remember that the most calls came from him, and the records prove it.”
“You’re doing a great job for us, Uncle Bao. We’ll check the number today.”
“Another thing. I don’t know who Guan called, but that person did not use the public phone service. Most likely it was a home phone. Every time she dialed, she got through immediately. And she made a number of calls after nine or ten o’clock at night.”
“Yes, that is another important point,” he said. “Now what about the night of May tenth?”
>
“I’ve found something.”
Uncle Bao produced a small envelope, which contained just one stub.
It was just a simple message: We’ll meet as scheduled. And it was from a caller surnamed Wu, though with no phone number written underneath it.
“These may not be his words exactly,” Uncle Bao said, “but they were to that effect.”
So a couple of hours before her trip, Guan had received a call from a man surnamed Wu, evidently the same one who had called more than thirty times in the period from February to May.
“Why is no phone number recorded on the stub of May tenth?”
“Because the caller did not request a call back,” Uncle Bao explained. “In such cases, we just put down the message for the recipient.”
“Do you remember anything else he said that evening?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Well, you’ve already helped us such a lot,” he said. “It is definitely a lead for our investigation. I don’t know how we can ever thank you enough.”
“When the case is solved,” Uncle Bao said, “give a me call.”
“I will. And a long call, you bet.”
“And we’ll have another pot of tea. At Mid-Lake Teahouse, my treat.”
“Yes, we will. So see you soon—” Chen said, standing up, “at Mid-Lake Teahouse.”
Chapter 15
Chief Inspector Chen hurried back to his office.
The first thing he did was to call the Shanghai Telephone Bureau. He told the operator that he wanted to check out the owner of the number 867-831.
“That is not a listed residential phone,” the operator said. “I’m not authorized to reveal the owner’s name.”
“It is crucial for our investigation.”
“Sorry. You need to come with an official letter from your bureau, proving that you’re engaged in a criminal investigation. Otherwise we are not supposed to tell you anything.”
“No problem. I’ll be over with an official letter.”
But there was a problem. Pan Huizhen, the bureau assistant clerk in charge of the official seal, happened to have the day off. Chen had to wait until Monday.
Then he thought about the photo of the gray-haired lady tucked into Guan’s album. Was she Wei Hong?
At least that was something he could do.
Detective Yu had compiled a detailed list of travel agencies with phone numbers and addresses. Chen had a copy of it. It just needed some narrowing down.
Chen called the Shanghai Tourism Bureau. He had to wait about ten minutes before anyone answered. But he got the information. There were five travel agencies that sponsored Yellow Mountains trips.
So he dialed these agencies. All the agents were busy, and it was out of the question for them to provide offhand the information he requested. Some promised to call back, but he suspected that it would take them days. The manager of East Wind Travel did call back, however, within twenty minutes. She had found the name Wei Hong in her computer.
“I’m not sure if she’s the one you are looking for,” she said, “but you can come and take a look.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
East Wind Travel Agency occupied a single office suite on the second floor of a colonial-style building on Chengdu Road. In front of the reception desk were gathered a group of people with various pieces of baggage, which made the office appear even more congested. All of them had plastic name tags on their lapels. It looked like a group that had just arrived and was waiting for a guide. Several people were smoking. The air in the office was bad.
The manager threw up her arms in an apologetic gesture to Chen, but she lost no time in giving him a computer printout. “We have the name, date, and address here. We do not store photos in our database. So we cannot say if this Wei Hong is the one you’re looking for.”
“Thank you so much for your information. Also, I’m looking for another person.” He showed the manager Guan’s photograph, “Guan Hongying.”
“A couple of weeks ago, somebody else in your bureau inquired about her, but we do not have the name in our records,” she said, shaking her head. “The national model worker—we should have recognized her. You think she traveled together with Wei Hong?”
“That’s possible.”
“Little Xie was the escort for that group. She may be able to tell you whether Guan was one of the tourists. But Little Xie no longer works with us.”
“What about Zhaodi?” he asked. “Was there someone named Zhaodi traveling in the group?”
“I’m afraid you have to check for yourself.” She pounded several times on the keyboard, gesturing for him to sit down. “I’ve got so many people waiting here, you see.”
“That’s all right, I understand.”
The agency did a good job of storing data. He started searching by date. After pulling up that October’s records, he found the name of Zheng Zhaodi listed for a trip to the Yellow Mountains. The information was not complete, however. There was no entry for her address or occupation. But there were also a few others with missing addresses, too. To key in all the data in Chinese was a time-consuming job.
Wei Hong was listed for the same trip.
Before he took his leave, Chen also asked for Little Xie’s address. The address was Number 36 Jianguo Road, 303, and her full name was Xie Rong. Since she lived not too far away, he decided to go there first.
His destination was at the end of a small apartment complex built in the style of the mid-fifties. The staircase was dark, damp, difficult. There should have been a light on even during the day. He failed to detect the switch. He knocked at the door, which was opened a little, though still secured with a chain from inside. A white-haired woman wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses peeked out.
He told her who he was, showing her his card through the door. She took it and studied it carefully before admitting him. She was in her early sixties, and she wore a pearl-colored blouse with a high pleated neckline, a full skirt, stockings and oxford shoes, and carried a foreign-language book in her hand.
The room had little in the way of furniture, but he was impressed by the tall bookshelves lining the otherwise bare walls.
“What can I do for you, Comrade Chief inspector?”
“I am looking for Xie Rong.”
“She’s not here.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know. She’s left for Guangzhou.”
“For a trip?”
“No, a job.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re her mother, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know where she is in Guangzhou.”
“What do you want with her?”
“I want to ask her a few questions. About a homicide case.”
“What—how could she be involved in a homicide case?”
“No, she’s a witness, but an important one.”
“Sorry, I don’t have her address for you,” she said. “I received only one letter from her when she first arrived there, just the address of the hotel where she was staying. She said that she was going to move out, and that she would send me her new address. Since then I’ve heard nothing from her.”
“So you do not know what your daughter is doing there?”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “She’s my only daughter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be, Comrade Chief Inspector,” she said. “It’s the Modern Age, isn’t it? ‘Things fall apart; the center cannot hold’.”
“Well, that’s true,” he said, surprised at the old woman’s literary quotation, “from one perspective. But it is not necessarily that anarchy is loosed upon the world. It is just a transitional period.”
“Historically, a transitional period is short,” she said, in her turn surprised, but animated for the first time in the course of their conversation, “but exist
entially, not so short for the individual.”
“Yes, you’re right. So our choice is all the more important,” he said. “By the way, where do you work?”
“Fudan University, comparative literature department,“ she added, “but the department is practically gone. And I’m retired. No one wants to study the subject in today’s market.”
“So you are no other than Professor Xie Kun?”
“Yes, retired Professor Xie Kun.”
“Oh, what an honor to meet you today! I have read The Modernist Muse.”
“Have you?” she said. “I had not expected that a high-ranking police officer would be interested in it.”
“Oh, yes, in fact, I have read it two or three times.”
“Then I hope you did not buy it when it first came out. I came across it the other day on a broken rickshaw, marked on sale for twenty-five cents.”
“Well, you never know. ‘Green, green grass spreading out everywhere,’” he said, pleased to make another quick-witted allusion which suggested that she had readers and students everywhere who appreciated her work.
“Not everywhere,” she said, “not even at home. Xie Rong, for one, has not read it.”
“How can that possibly be?”
“I used to hope that she, too, would study literature, but after graduating from high school, she started working at Shanghai Sheldon Hotel. From the very beginning, she earned three times my salary, not to mention all the free cosmetics and tips she got there.”
“I’m so sorry, Professor Xie. I don’t know what to say.” He sighed. “But as the economy improves, people may change their minds about literature. Well, let us hope so.”
He decided not to tell her about his own literary pursuits.
“Have you heard that popular saying—’The poorest is a Ph.D., and the dumbest is a professor.’ I happen to be both. So it is understandable that she chose a different road.”
“But why did she quit the hotel job to work for a travel agency?” he said, anxious to change the subject. “And then why did she quit the travel agency to go to Guangzhou?”
“I asked her about that, but she said I was too old fashioned. According to her, young people nowadays change jobs like clothes. That is not a bad metaphor, though. The bottom line is money, of course.”
