Becoming Inspector Chen

by Qiu Xiaolong

  ‘It’s not easy for an old rich man like Fu to do so.’

  ‘People may talk about the age difference, but in today’s society, a man with his wealth could have had much younger women, and prettier too. I’m but an ill-starred provincial “white tiger”, but in his company I felt like an equal human being. If anything, it’s me who was so unworthy of him. I was willing to do anything for him. One evening after my recovery, I believe I made myself clear, washing his feet, murmuring that in the village it’s what a woman does for her man. He sat up and said to me in earnest,

  ‘My wife passed away at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, you know, taking away the better part of me with her. Years later, when I got the diamond ring back, I made a pledge to her memory: I would never give it to another woman. She died wearing the ring because of me. Now I’m an old man. Not many years left for me in this world of red dust, but you’re young, with your life unfolding in front of you. It would not be fair for you. Having said that, I appreciate your taking care of me like that. And I’ll do whatever possible to have you properly taken care of.’

  ‘Believe me. We never crossed the line. Because of his suffering from gout attacks, I slept on the couch in his room from time to time – for help at night, but never on the bed.’

  The story seemed to be taking her breath away. She paused to drink the soup directly from the bowl, like from a cup. Still a provincial sister in her way, but Chen did the same, as if making a subconscious gesture of solidarity.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But not some other people. What they’re talking about is just like throwing dirty water on his memory. Worse than you could have imagined. That’s why we have to do our best to solve the case.’

  ‘What dirty water are you talking about?’

  ‘In front of the lane, someone yarned at length about a Jiangxi handyman who installed the air conditioning for Fu. About the possible relationship between you two, with real or imagined details. And about Fu’s singular acquiescence, too. And even about that Jiangxi handyman as a suspect involved in the murder case because of his clandestine affair with you—’

  ‘Say no more, Comrade Chen. For an ill-starred woman like me, they may say whatever they like. But not about Mr Fu. Absolutely not,’ she said, turning pale. ‘You have to catch the murderer, or the evil-tongued gossips will never stop. I know why you told me all this. Yes, I’ll answer whatever questions you want to ask, if you think that may help the investigation.’

  ‘Yes, I have several specific questions, some of which may be personal, and I hope you will take no offence. It’s all for the sake of the investigation. Since we’re on the subject, please tell me something first about the talk – they said it was a long, heated talk you had with that handyman outside the shikumen house about a week before Fu’s death. Mind you, that does not mean I give any credit to those wild stories circulating among your neighbors.’

  ‘His name is Dabao, that handyman. He comes from the same county in Jiangxi Province. Believe it or not, we never met there, but in the city of Shanghai it’s natural for people from the same countryside to get introduced and acquainted. It’s like a small community, in which people are supposed to help each other. When I tried to remodel the wing unit for Mr Fu, Dabao gave me a couple of useful suggestions. So I suggested to Mr Fu that he hire Dabao for the job, and Mr Fu paid him fairly. That’s all there is to it. About two or three weeks ago, the air conditioning seemed not to be working properly, so I had him come over to do the maintenance job. To my chagrin, Dabao maintained I should have paid him more since it was Mr Fu’s money anyway. I was so upset with his greediness. That’s why we argued.’

  That matched with what Chen had learned from Little Huang in the evening talk, who happened to have overheard fragments of the argument between the handyman and Meihua. So it ruled out the line of Liu’s speculation.

  ‘Thank you. Once the investigation is successfully concluded, those busybodies in the lane will shut up. You can count on that. Now for another question, did you notice anything unusual or suspicious during the last days of his life?’

  ‘No, I did not. He said or did nothing unusual, at least so it appeared to me. He liked my cooking, but he still dined out, once or twice a week. But those restaurants can be ridiculously expensive, yet with the food not clean or healthy. So I suggested that he eat more at home, and he said he would do that when it was too hard for him to walk out. He seemed to be in a reasonably good mood.’

  ‘Did he tell you about his plan to visit the restaurant that evening?’

  ‘Yes, he told me about it, saying I did not have to cook for him that night. He also mentioned a possible trip afterward to Suzhou for special noodles. He said he could take a nap for three or four hours on the night train, and get out just in time for the first pot noodles in Suzhou. People like him believe that the noodles from the first pot early in the morning – with no flour residue in the water – taste the best.’

  ‘He’s a knowledgable gourmet.’

  ‘That he was. Particularly about the Suzhou specials. According to him, the local foodies there make a point of enjoying the seasonal specials. In summer, they must have the noodles with three shrimp toppings – shrimp brain scarlet, shrimp roe rounded, promenade-like, and peeled shrimp transparently white, and that with the fresh fragrant lotus leaves in the soup too.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the three shrimp noodles,’ Chen said, gazing at the cold soup in front of him and shaking his head in spite of himself.

  ‘But not just the noodles, he would stay there for a day or two tasting other specials. Like the soft shell-shedding baby crabs, the goose immersed in yellow wine, and the yang berry too. He liked talking about them, and it was a great opportunity for me to learn. After all, what else enjoyable was there for a lonely old man like him? The trip would bring back the memories of those years he had spent with his wife, who had accompanied him for such whimsical trips to Suzhou.’

  All of a sudden, she stretched out her feet, sighing, and gazing down at the worn-out wooden sandals, which could once have been brightly painted, but were now discolored and worn-out, with the straps simply made of faded canvas. He wondered why she chose to gaze at her sandaled feet at the moment, though the wooden sandals had the effect of accentuating her shapely bare feet.

  ‘His wife wore the sandals. That’s why he kept them in the attic,’ she said in a low voice, as if reading his mind. ‘I came upon the dust-covered sandals without knowing anything about them. I did not want to throw things away, so I thought it might be a good idea for me to wear them. That morning, he turned ghastly pale at the sight of my walking to him in the sandals. He told me they reminded him of his late wife, who too was very economical, wearing the sandals for years with the straps replaced a couple of times. Nevertheless, he wanted me to go on wearing them. It was a very special permission he gave me. And truth be told, he sort of insisted on it afterward.’

  Xiaoqiang and Hongxia might have had reason to be worried. The old man had shared a lot with Meihua, and perhaps more than that, Chen thought, helping himself to another spoonful of the cold soup, which tasted greasy.

  ‘You may look down on me,’ she went on, almost inaudibly, ‘but when I’m wearing them, I feel as if …’

  There was something infinitely touching about the way she uttered the unfinished sentence, and there was nothing contemptible in it whatsoever.

  ‘A different question, Meihua,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘According to the neighborhood committee, an ex-Red Guard surnamed Pei approached Fu in the lane not too long ago. But for your help, Fu would not have been able to get away from him that easily. Can you tell me a bit more about that?’

  ‘I had a hard time trying to separate the two in the lane. And I remember Pei kept on saying he needed the money, that he deserved the money because of some precious list a long time ago. I had no idea what Pei was talking about. Later on, Mr Fu told me that Pei begged for a loan for his sick son, but Mr Fu did not beli
eve him.’

  ‘I would not have believed him either,’ Chen said. ‘Another specific question: did Fu ever talk to you about the future arrangement of his wealth?’

  ‘No, not exactly. He cared little about money. That’s no secret to people. He once mentioned to me that he might donate the money to some charity fund in his wife’s name, but I don’t think he had made up his mind about it yet.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me? I have no objection whatsoever to his arrangement – whether it would go to his children or to the charity. It has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But what about your future plans, I mean, now with the city residence permit for you? As we all know, he wanted you taken good care of.’

  ‘I think I will stay in Red Dust Lane for a while. That’s what he wanted me to do, I believe. But I’m going to find a job, and then I’ll move out. He wanted me to have a place to stay in the city, but not necessarily here when I can take care of myself.’

  ‘That’s up to you to decide, but legally speaking, you may be able to stay on in the shikumen house as long as you like. If you need any legal advice in that aspect, I can ask people in the bureau for help,’ Chen said, finishing the last fried bun with the soup inside cold and dried up. ‘Now there’s something else I have just thought of this afternoon. Of late, to be exact, perhaps just one or two weeks before Fu’s death, did you notice any suspicious stranger lurking, prowling around the lane?’

  ‘That I cannot say for sure. I did not go out a lot. Once in the morning, once or twice in the afternoon, mostly to the street food market and back. And a few other shopping errands. But now you mention it—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About a week or so before his death, I walked out of the shikumen house and happened to catch a glimpse of someone. Perhaps there was something about him that struck me as vaguely familiar, but he vanished out of sight before I could take another look.’

  ‘Hold on, Meihua. Can you tell me more – exactly where and when?’

  ‘I was going out for the late afternoon shopping in the food market. About five o’clock, I would say. The man was just outside the mid-entrance of the lane, on Fujian Road. Now Mr Fu’s shikumen house is located in the sub-lane around the mid-section of the lane, you know. As soon as you step out of the shikumen house, you’re able to see the mid-entrance of the lane.’

  ‘In other words, the one staking himself there can also see people coming out of the shikumen house.’

  ‘Yes, you can certainly say that. But why?’

  ‘Any unusual experience afterward?’

  ‘No, things like that may happen from time to time. Someone familiar-looking can turn out to be a total stranger. I’m mentioning it because I believe I saw him again, just one or two days before Fu’s death. Like the first time, he instantly ducked his head out of view, as if he was afraid of being seen or recognized by me. At least, that’s the feeling I had at the time, but I was not one hundred percent sure about it.’

  ‘That may really be something, Meihua. How about the distance – from where he stood to the shikumen house?’

  ‘About fifteen feet, give or take a little.’

  ‘Can you give me a description of the man?’

  ‘Middle-aged. Of medium height. Hair gray-streaked,’ she said, with evident uncertainty. ‘But as I’ve said, it was just a fleeting impression. I can be wrong. There’s a tiny convenience store near the mid-entrance. Some people in the neighborhood hang out there too.’

  ‘But he’s not someone in the lane?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And you can tell it is not Pei, the ex-Red Guard.’

  ‘No, not Pei, who’s taller.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘A final question. Do you know Red-nosed Zhang’s address in the lane?’

  ‘He’s also in the mid-section of the lane. In the shikumen opposite to Fu’s. Second floor.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Meihua. What you have told me surely helps a lot. Here is a business card of mine, with the phone number on it. You can call me any time. Now give me the number of the public phone service here and I’ll also call you with any progress.’

  ‘Here it is,’ she said, putting down the number on a paper napkin.

  ‘I think I’ve kept you long enough. It’s six forty now. You may leave first. I’ll come to the front of the lane in a short while, to see if there’s still an evening talk today.’

  As Meihua stepped out with the bamboo basket, he rose to watch her moving away, her bare heels flashing above the clinking wooden sandals in the gathering dusk.

  He paid for the snack. It was not expensive, but together with the stinking tofu treat the previous evening, he had to be more careful with his monthly budget.

  First, he walked around to the mid-entrance of the lane, where he did see a tiny convenience store on Fujian Road. An elderly man, possibly the owner of the store, was idly stroking a white cat on the counter. No real customers there at the moment, except for several youngsters hanging around nearby, standing or squatting, yet all of them at a distance from the mid-entrance – much more than fifteen feet. They were busy smoking energetically, like there was nothing else left for them to do in the world.

  As he headed back to the front of the lane, the drizzle was still going. Not too surprisingly, no one sat out for the evening talk.

  He turned, whistling to himself, as if entering into the depths of the darksome woods, before he knocked on the door of the old shikumen house opposite to Fu’s.

  Back home, it was past ten thirty.

  His mother had gone to bed. Chen saw on the table underneath the attic a bowl of Shanghai-style cold noodles prepared with vegetable oil. Beside the bowl stood bottles of soy sauce and vinegar and sesame butter, in addition to a small dish of sliced cucumber for the topping. There was a small note on the table saying, ‘That’s for you. Just add whatever seasoning you like, stir the noodles with them. You know how to do that.’

  He climbed up to the attic, which was partitioned with a wall-like book shelf. He tiptoed to the other side, bowl in hand, and finished the noodles in silence, though he was not really hungry.

  Then he slumped down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. The excitement experienced during the talk with Meihua, and then with Red-nosed Zhang in the shikumen house, was receding. Zhang too had provided some interesting information, especially with his theory about Pei’s alibi. More importantly, the presence of the suspicious man seen around the mid-section of the lane was confirmed. Like Meihua, Zhang could not tell who it really was, though he had a vague feeling that he had seen the man there before. But it was not Pei. Not a lane resident, either, Zhang was positive.

  Nevertheless, it could turn out to be just a red herring.

  Chen massaged his temples, feeling the onset of a dull headache. Sleepiness appeared to be the farthest thing from his mind. He took out The Unbearable Lightness of Being again. Reading a book in English often helped, paradoxically, with his falling asleep. Perhaps it was because of the nature of the second language, which more easily tired him out after a short while.

  He was more than halfway through the novel, and that night, in Part 5 of the book, he unexpectedly came across a German phrase: Es muss sein.

  From the little German he had studied as the second foreign language at college, he knew it meant ‘it must be’. According to Kundera, the phrase develops from a joke among friends into a motif for one of Beethoven’s songs, which acquires a solemn ring, as if issued directly from the lips of Fate, and then, in turn, into a crucial concept for the novel. When Tomas is debating whether or not to return to Prague after Tereza has left him in Zurich, he tells himself ‘Es muss sein’. In other words, he has to follow her all the way back, whatever the cost. Even though it’s a decision hardly understandable to others under the circumstances, it makes perfect sense to Tomas, changing his otherwise unbearable lightness of being.

  Chen put down the novel, feeling tired. It w
as brilliant, that metaphysical digression made by Kundera in those paragraphs. People tell themselves ‘Es muss sein’ when making a difficult decision just like that, yet with the real reason unknown to others, and sometimes not even to themselves.

  He jumped up as the book fell to the attic floor with a thump, which could have woken up his mother sleeping below.

  Then things suddenly started falling into perspective …

  The next morning, Chen stepped into Detective Ding’s office again. It was about eleven fifteen. The detective had on the desk a paper cup of beef instant noodles, with the lid half torn away from the cup. A hot water bottle stood ready at his feet.

  Chen could read the surprise on Ding’s face. Perhaps more than surprise. A visible trace of annoyance in spite of his effort to conceal it.

  ‘Another report from an apprentice under your guidance,’ Ding said with a disarming smile, half-jokingly. ‘So you are continuing the investigation on your own?’

  ‘No, not exactly, it’s just that your discussion about the action taken against Pei put things into perspective for me, so I want to make another report to you.’

  ‘How?’ Ding said curtly, without so much as pulling out a chair for the unwelcome intruder.

  ‘In our last discussion, you pointed out to me that Pei’s motive may not necessarily be a strong one, but with the pressures from the city government, you had to work on the only workable scenario for the moment. You’ve been so busy, I know. But for someone like me, not a real cop with any workload, I can well afford the time to check and explore in the direction you have carved out. Remember I told you about someone nicknamed Red-nosed Zhang in the evening talk?’