by Qiu Xiaolong
The bronze elevator had been sprayed with some supposedly high-class air freshener; the air inside felt inexplicably close. He was unable to shake off the sense of being caged even as he left the elevator, which deposited him just in front of Yao’s office.
The Party Discipline Committee had been founded in the early eighties, with its central office in Beijing and branch offices in all large cities. After the Cultural Revolution, it was realized that the Party, with its unlimited, uncensored power, was unable to resist corruption, which would eventually lead to its downfall. So the committee, mainly consisting of retired senior Party members, came into existence to prevent and punish Party members’ abuses of power. Its main responsibility as a watchdog was to exercise a sort of censorship but the committee was not an independent institution. While it had conducted several intra-Party corruption cases, most of the time it barked rather than bit. However, the committee, which was authorized to perform background checks on Party members, was influential in the process of young cadre promotion.
Chen’s knock on the office door brought out a middle-aged woman with an inquiring look. When he handed over his card, the woman, whose voice he recognized as that of the secretary on the phone, led him into an elegantly furnished reception room containing a large oyster-colored leather sofa, flanked by two mahogany chairs and a tall antique hat stand.
He had anticipated that Director Yao would keep him waiting for a while. To his surprise, Yao came out immediately and shook his hand firmly. She led him into her office and had him sit in a leather club chair in front of a huge oak desk.
Yao was an impressive-looking woman in her late sixties, squared-faced with thick eyebrows, wearing a dark suit, which was immaculate, without a single wrinkle. No jewelry. Minimal makeup. She sat straight, appearing unusually tall behind her impressive desk, perhaps due to the combined impression of her starched collar, the splendid view from the office window in back of her, as well as his seat. Sitting in a chair much lower than Yao’s, almost as if he was a witness at an inquisition, he was nervous.
“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, I’m pleased to meet you today.” Yao spoke with a pronounced Shandong accent, which also fit the image of an “old Marxist woman,” a notorious character in the movie Black Cannon Incident, in which a Marxist bureaucrat made a fool of herself by punctuating her every speech with quotations from Marx and Mao. Chen had seen it with Wang, who joked about his becoming a “young Marxist man.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Comrade Director Yao.”
“You’re probably not surprised to learn that you are highly regarded by us old comrades, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve spoken to a number of people, and they all praise you as an intelligent and dedicated young cadre. You are on the seminar list of the Central Party Institute, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m still young, inexperienced. So I have so much to learn from old comrades.”
“And you are working hard, too, I know. You’ve been quite busy recently, Comrade Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, we’re short-handed.”
“Is there some important case you are responsible for?”
“Several. Every case is important—to us.”
“Well, I have heard that you are investigating the case of Guan Hongying, the national model worker.”
He didn’t know whether that was a statement or a question, so he just nodded. But how could she have heard of it, he wondered.
“Is there any result so far?”
“A few promising leads, but nothing definite. A lot of questions are unanswered.”
“What are they?”
“Such as evidence, motive, and witnesses.” He was growing uneasy, as it was beyond the scope of Yao’s office to be concerned with a homicide case. “At present, everything is just hypothetical.”
“I have asked you to come here,” she said with a stern quality in her Shandong-accented voice, “because I want to know how you are conducting the investigation.”
“It is a homicide case. We are following routine procedure.”
“You have targeted your suspect, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” He saw no point withholding the information. “At this stage, Wu Xiaoming is our main suspect.”
“Comrade Wu Bing’s son?”
“Yes.”
“How could that be? Wu Bing and I were colleagues in the early fifties, in the same office, and Wu Xiaoming used to play with our kids in the same kindergarten. I haven’t seen him lately, but he is doing a good job, I’ve learned from a cadre recommendation report from the Red Star. People have a very high opinion of him.”
“Wu might be doing a good job at the magazine, but he had an affair with Guan. In fact, he called her on the very night of her death.”
“Really!”
“Yes, we have evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
He chose to be vague: “At present, circumstantial evidence.”
“So from this circumstantial evidence you conclude,” she said sharply, “that Wu Bing’s son has committed the murder.”
“No, we are not jumping to any conclusion. It’s still under investigation.”
“Still, the news would be a terrible blow to Wu Bing, and he’s in such poor health.”
“Comrade Wu Bing is an old comrade I have always respected. We know he is in the hospital. We know that. So we are being very careful.”
“Whatever Wu Xiaoming’s family background, I am not going to shelter him. Far from it. If he is found guilty, he should be punished. That’s Party policy.”
“Thank you for your support, Comrade Director Yao.”
“But, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, have you thought about the people’s reaction to your investigation?”
Director Yao was surrounded by walls of thick, gold-edged government books. All the furniture in her office was massive. Everything bespoke the solidity of authority.
“Reaction?” he asked. “I am not clear what reaction you’re talking about.”
“People would say, ‘What, Wu Bing’s son has committed murder! Those HCC!’ That will not be helpful to our Party’s image.”
“Comrade Director Yao, as a Party member as well as a police officer, I’ve always regarded it as my highest responsibility to defend the unsoiled image of our Party, but I don’t see how our investigation can endanger it.”
“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” she said, sitting even more upright and crossing her hands on the desk, “our Party has made tremendous progress in economic and political reform, but during such a transitional period, there may be some problems people will complain about. And currently there is a social view opposed to high cadres’ children—the so- called HCC—as if they were all capable of any wrong. Of course it’s not true.”
“I see your point, Comrade Director Yao,” he said. “As early as elementary school, I learned what a great contribution the high cadres—the revolutionaries of the old generation—made to our country. So how can I have any prejudice against their children? Our investigation has nothing to do with any misconception about HCC. This is just a homicide case assigned to our special case group. We’ve made a point of keeping it from the media. I don’t see how people could know anything about our investigation.”
“You never know, Comrade Chief Inspector.” She then changed the subject. “So you went to Guangzhou a few days ago.”
“Yes, to make inquiries there.”
Director Yao’s knowledge of his trip disturbed him. Neither the Shanghai nor Guangzhou Public Police Bureau had to report a police officer’s activity to the Party Discipline Committee. In fact, there were not too many people who knew about the trip. He had left for Guangzhou without making a report to Party Secretary Li. Commissar Zhang and Detective Yu were the only people he had informed.
“It is close to Hong Kong. The special zone. You must have seen a different spirit there—a different lifestyle.”
“No. I was conducting an investigation there. Whateve
r the difference may have been, I did not have time to experience it. Trust me, Comrade Director Yao, I’m doing a conscientious job.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. Of course the Party trusts you. That’s why I wanted you to come to my office today, I’d also like to make a suggestion to you. For a politically sensitive case like this, I think we all need to proceed with the utmost caution. It is best left in the hands of the Internal Security.”
“Internal Security? It’s a homicide case, Comrade Director Yao. I don’t think I see the necessity.”
“You will, if you think about the possible political impact.”
“If Wu Xiaoming proves to be innocent, we’re not going to do anything. But if he is guilty, everybody is equal before the law.” He added, “Of course, Comrade Director Yao, we’ll be very careful to keep your instruction in mind.”
“So you’re determined to go on with the investigation.”
“Yes, I’m a cop.”
“Well . . .” she said finally, “it is just my suggestion. You’re a chief inspector, and it is up to you to decide. Still, I would appreciate it if you’d report to me when you make some progress in your investigation. It is in the Party’s interests.”
“That will be fine,” he said, trying to be vague again. He did not think it was his responsibility to report to her. “I’m a Party member. I will do everything in accordance with bureau procedure, and in the interests of the Party, too.”
“People are talking about your dedication to your work. Their praise seems to be justified,” she said, rising from her desk. “You’ve a great future ahead of you, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. We are old. Sooner or later we will have to entrust our socialist cause to young people like you. So I expect to see you soon.”
“Thank you, Director Yao,” he said. “Your advice and instructions are very important to me.”
Everything she said was like a quotation from a political textbook, he reflected, nodding nonetheless.
“Also,” she continued in the same serious voice, “we’re concerned about your personal life.”
“My personal life?”
“You are a young cadre in the process of being promoted, and it’s proper and right for us to be concerned. You’re in your mid-thirties, aren’t you? It’s time for you to settle down.”
“Thank you, Comrade Director Yao. I’ve just been so busy.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve read the article about your work by that Wenhui reporter.”
She walked him to the elevator. Once more, they shook hands, formally.
Outside, the drizzle was heavier.
Director Yao’s interference was ominous.
It was not just that this senior Party official knew Wu Xiaoming so well. Yao and Wu’s families had moved in the same circles. An old cadre herself, her reaction to an investigation against an HCC was not too surprising. But her knowledge of the case was alarming, and she was so inquisitive about his investigation in Guangzhou, and even about his personal life, including “that Wenhui reporter.” In her position, Yao was not supposed to be aware of these things— unless Chen himself was under investigation.
The committee was the most powerful institution determining a cadre’s promotion or demotion. A week earlier, Chief Inspector Chen had told himself that he was on the way up—to serve the people.
Now he was not sure.
Chapter 26
When Chief Inspector Chen returned to the bureau, it was past twelve o’clock.
Party Secretary Li was still not in. Nor was Detective Yu. And Chen’s phone was ringing off the hook. The first call came from Beijing headquarters. It was about a case solved long ago. He had no idea why Chief Inspector Qiao Daxing, his counterpart in Beijing, wanted to talk to him about it. Qiao spent twenty minutes of a long-distance call without mentioning anything new or substantial, and ended up saying that he looked forward to seeing Chen in Beijing and to treating him to Beijing roast duck on Huangfujing Avenue.
The second call was also a surprise. It came from the Wenhui Daily, not from Wang Feng but from an editor whom he hardly knew. A reader had written to the newspaper, asking the editor to forward her thanks to the poet for the realistic description of down-to-earth police officers. Ironic, he thought, since no one had called him “realistic” before.
The most unexpected call came from Old Hunter, Detective Yu’s father.
“You recognize my voice, Chief Inspector Chen. I know you’re busy, but I want to discuss something with you. Guangming, that young rascal, is going to send my gray hair into the grave.”
“What! Guangming? He’s the most filial son under the sun.”
“Well, if you can spare me half an hour of your precious time, I will tell you all about it. Now you’re having your plastic box of lunch again, I guess. No good. What about coming to the Mid-Lake Teahouse, you know the one, behind the City God’s Temple. I’ll buy you a cup of genuine Dragon Well green tea. It will agree with your stomach. I’m calling from a pay phone there.”
It was a request to which Chen could hardly say no, and not just because of his friendship with Detective Yu. Old Hunter had served in the force for over thirty years. Though retired, the old man still considered himself an insider, with his connections in the bureau and out.
“Okay, I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Don’t worry, Guangming’s fine.”
In the case of serious trouble between father and son, however, Chen didn’t think that he was the best choice as a mediator, nor was it the right time for him to intervene. The talk he had just had at the Discipline Committee weighed heavily on his mind. But he swallowed his plastic-box lunch, then made his way to the temple in a hurry.
The City God’s Temple was said to have been built during the Southern Song dynasty in the fifteenth century. The temple had been rebuilt and refurbished a number of times, the last in 1926. The main hall had been reinforced with concrete, the clay images gilded. In the early sixties, the images had been smashed to pieces as a result of the Socialist Education Movement, and in the early eighties the temple had undergone another drastic renovation after being used as a general storage place, for it was then turned into an arts-and-crafts shopping center. The original appearance of the temple was now restored, with black-painted doors and yellow walls. Its interior presented a dazzling array of shining glass counters and stainless steel shelves. On the door was a couplet engraved in bold brush strokes: Be an honest man so that you can enjoy a peaceful sleep,/ Do something good so that God will know about it.
Communists, of course, did not believe in God, Oriental or Occidental, but it was nonetheless good advice to people to do something good and to have a clear conscience, especially from a cop’s point of view.
So a marketplace had been made from a temple.
In front of the temple, however, he saw a group of elderly women gathering around something like a cushion. Several were kneeling on the ground. One was kowtowing before the cushion with bunches of burning incense in her hands and murmuring something almost inaudibly:
“City God . . . protect . . . family . . . stock . . .”
It was obvious that the temple was still a temple—at least to these worshippers.
Appearance and reality.
Some people said that sooner or later a temple would be made out of the market. Maybe this was a metaphor for commodity fetishism. Maybe not. He was becoming befuddled.
The surrounding bazaar consisted of numerous small shops selling a variety of local products, but what made the bazaar special was an incredible number of Chinese snack shops, bars and booths. The snacks were not expensive, but delicious in their unique flavors. In his high-school years, Chen had once invited Overseas Chinese Lu and Four-Eyed Jiang to an ambitious campaign— to sample every snack shop in one afternoon. Their tactic was to share everything. Each tried no more than one small bite. So in one afternoon they had tasted chicken and duck blood soup, radish-shred cake, shrimp and meat dumplings, beef soup noodles, fried b
ean curd and vermicelli. . . . They had not succeeded. Halfway through, their joint funds ran out. But that had been one of their happiest days.
Four-Eyed Jiang had thrown himself into a well during the Cultural Revolution, Overseas Chinese Lu had his restaurant now, and he, he was a police inspector.
The Mid-Lake Teahouse was a place they had not visited during that campaign, but he knew it to be a two-storied pavilion shaped like a pagoda in the middle of a man-made lake, opposite the Crane and Pine Restaurant. There was a nine-turn stone bridge with a flight of steps leading to the teahouse. He made his way across the bridge, which was full of tourists at every turn: People pointing at the lotus flowers swaying in the breeze, throwing bread crumbs to the golden carp swimming among the blossoms, or posing for pictures with the teahouse in the background.
There were only a few tea drinkers on the first floor. Chen looked around without catching sight of Old Hunter, so he walked up the vermilion-railed stairs. On the second floor there were even fewer customers, and he saw the old man sitting by the window with a teapot.
“Come and sit with me, Comrade Chief Inspector,” the old man said, waving his hand, as Chen moved toward a seat beside him.
“Thank you,” Chen said. “It’s so elegant here.”
Their table overlooked the lake filled with lotuses. The view was serene.
“On the second floor everything costs twice as much. But it’s worth it. A cup of tea here is the only indulgence I’ve permitted myself since retirement.”
Chen nodded. A cup of tea here was different from one in the crowded, stuffy room that contained the retired old man’s daily life since he had relinquished the front room to his son.
There was a whisper of southern bamboo music in the teahouse, perhaps from a tape player somewhere. A silver-haired waiter carrying a heavy shining brass kettle poured the water in a graceful arc into the tiny cup before Chen. There was lore to this. In ancient China, teahouse waiters had been called Doctors of Tea, and the teahouse was a place of spiritual cultivation, as well as where people exchanged daily information.
