by Qiu Xiaolong
When the phone finally rang, waking him from the scene of a French girl dancing a modern dance, her bare feet flashing like snow on a red-carpeted stage inside a postmodern shikumen house, he felt disoriented as he abruptly returned to reality. The caller was Yu. He had not made much progress in the investigation, he reported. Chen was not surprised. Not that he did not have a high opinion of Yu’s ability. Investigations took time.
“I don’t know if the interviews will lead to anything,” Yu said.
“We may at least learn something more about Yin.”
“That’s another thing. Her neighbors seem to have known very little about her. She was a writer, she had published a book about the Cultural Revolution. That’s about it. Otherwise, she was an outsider in the building.”
“What about her colleagues?”
“I’ve talked to her department head. I got nothing really informative from him. As for the file provided by her school authorities, it contains little except a bunch of official clichés.”
“Anybody would be nervous discussing a dissident writer,” Chen said. “The less said, the better. It’s understandable.”
“But to substantiate the insider-murderer theory, and to rule out people who knew her at the college, I would have liked to have interviewed some of her colleagues.”
“My guess is that they will not say much either, but it’s too early to exclude any possibilities.”
At the end of the conversation, the clock said one thirty.
But for the translation project, Chen thought as he made a cup of soybean milk for himself, it might have been a good idea for him to visit some of the scholars who had known Yin or Yang. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed Professor Zhou Longxiang, who had worked at the same college as Yin. Chen had once consulted Zhou about classical Chinese poetry, and had since kept in touch.
Professor Zhou, apparently lonesome after his retirement, was glad of Chen’s call. He launched into a lecture about the death of poetry for fifteen minutes before Chen was able to bring the conversation to the subject of Yin. At once Zhou’s voice showed irritation. “She was a shameless opportunist, that Yin Lige. I should not speak ill of the dead, I know, but when she was a Red Guard, she showed no mercy at all toward others.”
“Perhaps she was too young then.”
“That’s no excuse. What a disaster of a woman! She brought nothing but trouble to people close to her. Including Yang, who was a fine scholar.”
“That’s a very interesting point, Professor Zhou,” Chen said. “As you are not superstitious, please enlighten me.”
“It’s simple. But for the affair with her, he would not have been subject of criticism meetings at the cadre school,” Zhou said. “Karma. By her actions during the Cultural Revolution, she brought her troubles upon herself.”
It was a cruel thing to say, whether one was Buddhist or not. The old professor’s opinion must have been fixed there and then in the furnace of the Cultural Revolution. It did not throw much light on the investigation, but it reconfirmed the impression of her unpopularity even among her colleagues.
Looking at his watch, Chen told himself he could not afford to make many phone calls like that. Then he had an idea: he might try an approach of a different sort. It would be something else for White Cloud to do. It was surprising that she kept floating into his mind like a cloud that hovered over his work, and not just the translation work. He was not without a touch of self-satisfaction as he thought a little more about it. He could send her to talk to Yin’s former colleagues. He was, as in the proverb, A general who makes plans in his tent, and determines the outcome of a battle thousands of miles away. Even on his vacation, he was still able to contribute to the investigation.
A few minutes before four, White Cloud returned carrying two plastic bags. She had changed her clothes, and wore jeans and a leather jacket over a low-cut white sweater. On her feet were a pair of short, shiny black boots.
“I’ve got something for you.” She put one of the plastic bags on the desk.
“You’ve been really quick. Thank you so much. I know I can count on you, White Cloud.”
“I have photocopies of Yang’s poetry translations. You may read them for yourself.” Still carrying the other bag, she added, “I’ll fix something for you in the kitchen.”
“What do you have in your hand?”
“A surprise.”
He had no clue as to what the plastic bag contained. It was large and black, and there seemed to be a faint, indistinct sound coming out of it.
He started reading the photocopied pages. Yang’s poetry translations had been published in a number of English study journals, mostly in the last few years. Such journals had an enormous circulation in China, where so many people were now engaged in learning English.
In most cases, to Chen’s surprise, the editors had put in a few words as to why people should read Yang’s poetry today. According to one magazine editor, it would be a good way to impress Americans. According to another, it would become fashionable, especially among lovers, to quote these translated poems on Valentine’s Day, which was being introduced into China. There were also several short introductions by Yin, about the techniques employed in the translation of these poems, which might be helpful to beginners. However, he failed to find any clue to the mysterious abbreviations.
White Cloud was making noises in the kitchen area. She must be cooking, even though it was still a bit early for dinner.
She finally emerged, carrying a large tray with a broad smile. “From the Dynasty Club,” she announced, placing on the folding table an impressive dinner that included some delicacies he had never seen before. One was a small dish of fried sparrow gizzards, golden crisp. How many sparrows had gone into the making of that dish, he wondered. The other dish, of duck, was also original—it was duck heads with the skulls removed, so people could easily reach the tongues, or suck out the brains. It was the sauna shrimp, however, that really impressed him. River shrimp were brought to the table in a glass bowl, live, still jumping and wriggling. She also provided a small wooden pail whose bottom was covered with red hot stones. She poured some wine into the bowl of shrimp, then took the drunken shrimp from the bowl and put them into the pail. There was a shrill hiss, and, in two or three minutes, a plate of sauna shrimp appeared.
Gu must have given her many instructions, including how to prepare the sauna shrimp. She might not be an excellent cook, but she knew how to procure delicious food, and that was good enough for him.
“Is that what you wanted?” she said, picking up one copied page of the poetry translation.
“It may be a piece of the puzzle. I will have to try to fit it in.”
“You will,” she said. “I hope you like the shrimp too.”
“Thanks. You are spoiling me.”
“Not at all. It’s a great honor to work with you, as Mr. Gu tells me.”
To Chen, however, it sounded somewhat like a reminder to concentrate on the translation lying on the desk, and to remember that theirs was a business relationship.
He recalled their first meeting in a private room in the Dynasty Club. She, too, had been quite professional—as a K girl. The least he could do now was to show his appreciation. He picked up another shrimp with his fingers.
* * * *
Chapter 10
D
etective Yu arrived at the neighborhood committee office early. He wanted to do some reading, even after Peiqin had told him the story of Yin’s novel. Peiqin had also underlined some parts for him to study more closely. The first few pages he turned to described Yang reading to Yin at night behind the pigsty, with piglets grunting off and on as a chorus.
The cloud seems to be changing its shape. / Insubstantial, soft, wrapping itself against the other, / curling up. Then comes the rain. ... It took Yu a minute to figure out the metaphor. It was clever of Yin to write in such highly suggestive language, without being explicit. He wondered, however, if Yin and Yang could have really
done anything while they were at the cadre school. They both lived in the dorm, with many roommates in their respective rooms. Even if their roommates were out of the way for an hour or two, it would have been too risky for the two to attempt anything. In those years, if people were caught having extramarital sex, they could be sentenced to years of imprisonment. He read the lines one more time. After close study, it was even more provocative. Chief Inspector Chen, who wrote his own poetry more or less like that, might appreciate it.
The few other underlined sections were largely about politics. There was one long paragraph about the head of the cadre school, another about the worker propaganda team. Yu could imagine how some people might feel uncomfortable about this book. It would be easy for them to believe that the characters in the book were based on themselves.
He did not know why Peiqin wanted him to read those parts. And he was not able to read for long. He was rung up by Party Secretary Li, who had traced him to the neighborhood committee office. This phone call had been provoked by a fairly long article in the latest issue of a popular magazine, published under the pretext of commemorating Yin’s death, but actually more about the death of Yang. It also contained several long quotes from Death of a Chinese Professor. One was a statement, made at the professor’s deathbed, toward the end of the novel: “From this moment on, she would live for him, and die for him too.”
That was a subtle insinuation that Yin’s death might be politically complicated.
The magazine had sold out immediately, which served as yet another reminder of the mounting popular interest in this murder case. Such interest was far from pleasant to the Party authorities.
“The case has to be solved as quickly as possible,” Party Secretary Li declared once again.
In a non-political case, it might not matter much if the investigation took a few weeks longer. Some of them remained dormant, with no clues and no solution in sight, for many months, or longer, sometimes forever. But this particular case needed a quick resolution. As a member of the special case squad, Detective Yu was not unfamiliar with the usual arguments.
“If unsolved, the case may keep on feeding wild speculation,” Li continued sternly, “and that will bring too much pressure to bear on the city government, and the bureau too.”
“I understand, Comrade Party Secretary Li,” Detective Yu said. “I will do my best.”
“What is Chief Inspector Chen up to? It’s hard to understand. He insists on taking his vacation in spite of the urgency of solving this important case. And I don’t know how long his vacation will last.”
“Nor do I,” Yu said, knowing that Chen had not told the Party boss about his translation project. But he did not like the implication—whether Party Secretary Li really meant it or not—that he would not be able to handle a “special case” without Chief Inspector Chen supervising him.
In the special case squad, the spotlight usually was on Chen, and the credit went to him too. It was little wonder since Chen was an emerging Party cadre with connections stretching as far as Beijing. It was plain that he was being groomed to succeed Party Secretary Li and it would be good for the bureau to have a party secretary who actually knew something about policework, even if he had not been trained for it. And to be fair, Chen did a good job. It did not matter to Yu how much credit he personally received for an investigation he conducted together with Chen. It was all the work of their special case squad. Yu had not complained about staying in Chen’s shadow. Not too many bosses like Chen were left in the police force. Yu sometimes considered himself lucky to be Chen’s partner. Nevertheless, this did not mean that only Chief Inspector Chen was up to the job.
Yu did not care much what others might think, or say, behind his back, but he could not help feeling upset when his colleagues, and now Party Secretary Li, brought the issue up to his face, as if the special case squad was nothing but Chen, as if Yu deserved no recognition.
Even Peiqin had once mentioned something to that effect, he remembered.
What Party Secretary Li said hurt him, Yu realized somberly. It was as if the earth stopped moving with the absence of Chief Inspector Chen.
But what else could Chen possibly have done if he had been involved with the investigation? In fact, Yu and Chen had discussed every aspect of the case.
“Don’t worry, Party Secretary Li. I’ll take care of it,” Yu said. “The case will be solved shortly.”
“I have given my junlingzhuang to the city government, Comrade Detective Yu.” Junlingzhuang was a pledge an ancient Chinese general gave: something would be done or he would be removed from his position.
“Then I give mine to you, Party Secretary Li.”
Afterward, Yu regretted his impulsive response. Perhaps something had been going on in his subconscious for a long time. Perhaps it was the time for him to think about a career change. For him, the case of Yin Lige was taking on a new dimension. It was no longer simply that he was determined to solve it all on his own, with Chief Inspector Chen on leave. It was also an investigation that might testify to the meaning of his profession, his career. He had believed that, even though only a bottom-level cop, he could make a meaningful difference to society. In addition, his was a meaningful task because it was significant to Peiqin, as Yang’s writing had meant such a lot to her.
The political aspect of this investigation was not his concern. If anything, it only highlighted the fact that nothing was free from politics in China, a fact he had known for a long time. The problem was how to make a breakthrough at the shikumen house. Instead of continuing the interviews of the shikumen residents, he decided to review his strategy with Old Liang first.
They had concentrated on the possibility that someone who lived in the building had killed Yin. They seemed to have excluded the possibility that an outsider had committed the crime because no stranger had been seen entering or exiting, either through the front or the back door. But what about the possibility of a cover-up? What if one witness, or more than one, was not telling the truth?
A problem immediately presented itself. There were three people in the courtyard who came from three different families. While the neighbors’ relationships—with the exception of those with Yin—might have been as wonderful as Old Liang declared, it was hard to imagine that three different families were involved in a conspiracy to commit or cover up a murder. That someone had left through the front door was therefore practically impossible. As for the back door, the shrimp woman was positive about her statement: she had never budged. But was she telling the truth?
While Detective Yu made this analysis, Old Liang clung to his insider theory.
“You should keep interviewing the shikumen residents,” Old Liang maintained. “If you want me to participate in the interviews here with you, that’s fine, but I think it’s worthwhile for me to continue making background checks.”
“Your background checks are important, but we really need to speed it up. There are more than fifteen families in the building. Party Secretary Li is pushing me for results.”
“So we are running out of time.”
“We have to be more selective in choosing our interviewees. Let’s take a look at the next name on the list.”
Lei Xueguang was the fifth suspect listed.
“Oh, that Lei! Believe it or not, Yin helped him, in her way,” Old Liang began, in a most dramatic tone that reminded Yu of his father, Old Hunter. “But you know what they say, No good deed goes unpunished.”
In the early seventies, Lei, then a high school student, had been caught in the act of stealing from a district government van and sentenced to ten years. It was his hard luck that this particular year there was a “strike-hard-against-crime campaign.” As a result, those caught were punished much more severely than in other years. When Lei was released, he was jobless. There was no possibility of his finding work in a state-run company. Private business was then just beginning to be allowed, but only in a very limited way, as a “nonessential supplement to the soc
ialist economy.” If Lei had a first-floor room with a door opening onto the street, he might have been able to turn it into a tiny store or eatery. Several people in the area had done that, converting most of their living space to business use. Lei did not have such a room. Nor any connections. His attempt to obtain a business license proved to be fruitless.
To the surprise of everyone in the lane, Yin mentioned Lei in an essay published in Wenhui Daily, as an example of the insensitivity of the neighborhood committees. “A young man has to find some way to support himself, or he may get into trouble again,” she wrote. The local committee members must have read the newspaper; Lei was granted a business license to run a green-onion-cake booth at the head of the lane. Nobody had any real objection, except those reckless bike riders who tore in and out of the lane all the time. The new onion-cake maker must have heard about the newspaper column. The first time Yin came to the booth to buy food, he refused to accept any money from her.
