by Qiu Xiaolong
“Did you take a look at what he was writing?”
“I did not understand English. Nor did I really want to read a single word of it.”
“Why, Comrade Zhuang?”
“Yang said it was a story of an intellectual, and he was an intellectual himself. That’s it. If the school authorities ever looked into the matter, I could claim that it was his diary—at least so I thought. It was no crime to keep a diary. But if I read it, and it was a book, I would have turned into a counterrevolutionary by withholding the information from the authorities.”
“Yes, I see: you did not want to get him—and yourself too—into trouble. Did Yang tell you anything else about it?”
“It was really naive of him to tell me that he was writing a story. Fortunately, I had no idea then who or what Doctor Zhivago was— perhaps a doctor Yang knew personally. Zhivago surely sounded like a Chinese name. The Chinese translation did not appear—let me think—until the mid-eighties. It had been banned, as you know, as an attack on the great Soviet Revolution. In those years, a Nobel-Prize-winning book had to be counterrevolutionary.”
“I know. I happen to know someone who went to jail because of a copy of Doctor Zhivago. You were lucky that you remained in the dark,” Chen said. “Did you ever talk to Yang about it again?”
“No. Pretty soon the Cultural Revolution broke out. All of us were like broken clay Buddhist idols drifting down the river— already too disintegrated to care about anybody else. I was thrown into jail for the so-called crime of listening to the Voice of America. When I got out, he was already away at that cadre school. And there he died.”
“Do you have any knowledge about his continuing writing during the Cultural Revolution?”
“No, but I doubt it. It’s hard to imagine somebody like him writing in English in those years.”
“Well, Yang was actually allowed to keep English books because of one particular word—fart, I think it was—in Chairman Mao’s poetry translation.”
“Oh, yes, I have heard that.”
“Do you think anybody else may have known about this manuscript?”
“No, I don’t think so. It would have been suicidal for him to tell anybody,” Zhuang said. “Except Yin, of course.”
When he finished with Zhuang, Chen scribbled something else on another napkin. He had also come to a different decision about dinner. There was no point moving to another restaurant. He could use some time to himself, just thinking. White Cloud dancing, away from the table most of the time, was all to the good.
The abbreviations on the poetry translation manuscript started to make sense. If it were a novel Yang had been writing, as Zhuang had supposed, “ch” could refer to chapters. Yang might have tried to use poems in his novel, to insert them at various places in the text, in a way similar to Doctor Zhivago. And Peiqin’s suggestion of plagiarism would fit in, too. The portions of Yin’s novel that seemed to be too well-written—
But where was this novel manuscript? Chen could not be sure that such a manuscript had ever really existed.
Often, Chen put down some thoughts in his notebook, on a piece of paper, or even on a napkin like this evening, but afterward, for one reason or another, he failed to develop these ideas, and what he put down remained in fragments.
So, too, could Yang have written down some ideas on a sleepless night, in the days of the Socialism Education Movement when he was with Zhuang in that dorm room. But those notes might never have been developed into a novel. Still, Chen added a few more words to the napkin and put it into his pocket before he looked up.
White Cloud seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself in Golden Time Rolling Backward, like a fish in water. Although the new culture of nostalgia did not appeal that much to him, he found it quite pleasant to spend an evening in such a trendy place, in the company of a pretty girl. She was popular here; her face became flushed as she danced with one young man after another. They kept coming over to the table, like flies drawn to spilled syrup. Chen refrained from dancing with her. With a touch of quizzical self-scrutiny, he diagnosed something akin to jealousy. Naturally a young girl preferred companions of her own age; a temporary boss meant nothing but business to her.
He thought of several lines by Yan Jidao, an eleventh-century poet.
I was so happy drinking with you,
heedless of my flushed cheeks, dancing
with the moon sinking
in the willow trees, singing
until I was too tired
to wave the fan that unfolds
a peach blossom.
The narrator of the poem was a young girl like White Cloud, and then he thought of another line by an American poet, already paraphrased in his mind: I do not think she will sing to me.
He had the waitress bring the dinner menu as White Cloud returned to their table. He did not have much experience choosing non-Chinese cuisine, but a medium-done steak was something he could not order in a Chinese restaurant. She had Red House baked clams as an appetizer, and French roast duck for her entree. He tried to encourage her to choose the more expensive items, caviar and champagne. People at other tables appeared to be doing so. He felt he was obliged.
To his surprise, she chose a bottle of Dynasty, a fairly inexpensive domestic wine from Tianjin. “Dynasty is good enough. No point choosing the imported XO whiskey or champagne,” she said, pushing aside the wine list.
The steak was tender. The waitress insisted that it was genuine American beef. He did not know whether this made any difference, except in price. The clams appeared exquisitely done, golden in the candlelight, with the clam meat picked out, mixed with cheese and spices, and put back onto the shells. It was easy for her to pick up the mixture on her fork.
“So delicious,” she exclaimed, putting a second helping on her fork, and offering it across the table to him to taste.
For Chen, it was still not going to be an evening of Golden Time Rolling Backward. His cell phone started ringing again. This time it was Yu, reporting the latest development in the investigation. Chen smiled apologetically to White Cloud.
“I have just received a new report from Dr. Xia. None of the fingerprints in the room matches Wan’s. That throws his statement further into question. At the very least, we may assume that the drawer-searching part is a fabrication.”
“Yes, that’s an important point.”
“I tried to discuss it with Party Secretary Li again, but he said that Wan might not have remembered everything while he was committing the murder in a moment of rage; afterward, since everybody talked about the emptied drawers, Wan spoke of them too.”
“No, Party Secretary Li cannot brush it aside like that.”
“Absolutely not,” Detective Yu said in a voice of mounting frustration. “But when I pressed the point, Li lost his temper, shouting ‘It’s a case of high political significance. Someone has already confessed, but you still want to go on investigating forever. For what, Comrade Detective Yu?’”
“Li understands nothing but politics.” Normally, it was Chen who had to deal with Party Secretary Li about “politically significant cases,” and he understood how frustrating it must have been for Yu.
“If political considerations override everything else, what is the point of being a cop?” Yu asked. “Where are you, chief? I think I hear music in the background.”
“I’m with a business associate on the translation project.” That was true, Chen thought, to some extent. He felt upset, not with the question, but because of it. “Don’t worry. Go on speaking, Detective Yu.”
White Cloud poured more wine into his glass, in silence.
“And then, after the talk with Party Secretary Li, guess who I met just in front of the bureau? Li Dong.”
“Ah, Li Dong.” Li, a former member of the special case squad, had quit the police force to run a private fruit store. “How is he?”
“Li Dong has developed that single store into a business chain that supplies fruit for the Shanghai airport and th
e Shanghai railway station. He’s used the connections he made in the police force. And he talks like another man. ‘Nowadays, one month’s profit from the airport alone is more than the bureau pays in a year. You are still working here, Comrade Detective Yu, but for what?’”
“That little rascal. Now that he has gotten a little money, he speaks like a rich man. How could he have changed like that? It’s only a year since he quit the police force.”
But that was not the answer Yu sought, Chen knew. What had Detective Yu been working so hard for? The official answer was that people worked for the sacred cause of communism. Party newspapers might still occasionally say this, but everybody knew it was a joke.
Chief Inspector Chen worked hard too, yet at least he could say that he worked for his position, for the benefits of his position: the apartment, the bureau car, the various bonuses—including this well-paid project from Mr. Gu. That, too, came from his position; there was no question about it.
In terms of social Darwinism, what was happening was not too surprising. In any social system, the strong stay in power, whether they be the CEOs of capitalism, or the Party cadres of communism. Actually, he had first read this argument in Martin Eden, an American novel translated by Yang.
“The steak is getting cold,” White Cloud whispered as she cut off a small piece with his knife to feed to him.
He stopped her with a wave of his hand.
He could also say that he worked for a night like this, with a little secretary at his service.
“Where are you, Yu?”
“At home.”
“Let me call you back in five minutes.”
The cell phone bill for this month was going to be staggering. The police bureau would pay it, but Chen did not want the accountant to raise her eyebrows at him again. Nor did he want to say more in front of White Cloud.
The antique phone in the corner still worked, he had noticed. It was a pay phone for the bar. Most of the status-conscious customers here, with their cell phones, would never consider using the pay phone.
Chen picked it up and dialed Yu’s number.
“I have been doing some thinking about the case,” Chen resumed. The sound quality of the phone was affected by the wear and tear of time, but it was reasonably clear. “In a shikumen house like that, with so much broken stuff and furniture stored here and there, it would not have been impossible for someone to hide until he had a chance to sneak out, especially if the shrimp woman was temporarily absent. But a question occurred to me: why should the murderer have wanted to hide if he was an outsider?”
“That’s a good question,” Yu said.
“One possibility is that he was not so much afraid of being seen as of being recognized. With that in mind, I called the Shanghai Archives Bureau. I asked them to check all Yin’s relatives, with special focus on information about a possible nephew of hers. But the information they provided is the same you had obtained.”
“She could have referred to someone who was a boy as a ‘nephew.’ He did not have to be her real nephew.”
“Yes, that’s possible. But would she have let someone totally unrelated stay with her, and for a week?” Chen asked. “And then there is Peiqin’s point. Now that I have read a few chapters of the novel, I agree with Peiqin: Yin may well have plagiarized somebody else’s work.”
“Peiqin reads too much. I believe she applies Yang’s high standard to the work of others,” Yu said. “But I just do not see how this can possibly be related to our investigation.”
“I have a feeling that there may be something in it. Coincidentally, I had a phone call earlier this evening, from a former colleague of Yang’s. According to him, Yang had been writing a novel before his death. There may be a connection,” Chen said slowly, feeling something eluding him in the hidden recesses of his mind as he spoke.
White Cloud had finished yet another dance and returned to their table, Chen noticed. The music had stopped.
”Had Yang written a novel?”
”We don’t know for sure. He might not have finished it,” Chen said, “but he could have left part of one behind. So far, we have not found a novel manuscript of his, not even a few pages. We have only that manuscript of poems translated into English.”
”That’s true.”
”And finally, I cannot figure out why Internal Security should have withheld the information about her passport application. Was their reason related to her writing or to her trip to United States? If so, which? And why keep us in the dark?”
“We may continue to work on all these possible leads but do we have time, Chief Inspector Chen? Party Secretary Li will hold a press conference early next week. How can we be sure that we will make find the right answers in just a few days?”
“Let me stall him. It’s your case, but it’s also our special squad’s case,” Chen said. “It will be difficult, however, to hold him off for long, if we come up with nothing but some inconsistencies in Wan’s statement. For Li, Wan is ideal, but the culprit does not have to be Wan. Anybody will serve as a murderer, so long as we give him a quick solution.”
“Yes, we have to make progress. Once the real criminal is apprehended, we won’t have to worry about Wan or about Party Secretary Li.”
Finally, Chen put down the antique receiver and went back to the table.
“Sorry, White Cloud,” he said, “we simply cannot have a nice quiet evening.”
“An important man like you cannot expect a quiet evening, but it is nice. I appreciate your taking me out tonight.”
“The pleasure is all mine. Those interruptions aside, I’ve enjoyed the evening—and your company.” He said, turning toward the approaching waitress, “Another double scotch for the lady.”
He did not know whether scotch was a proper choice after dinner, but it was what she had ordered earlier, and on the wine list it appeared to be expensive.
It was late. Some people began to leave, but others were arriving. A couple of new waitresses appeared, perhaps a later shift. Here, the night was still young.
In those myths of the thirties, Shanghai was called a nightless city—a place of red neon and white wine, of intoxicating money and glittering gold.
When he suggested to White Cloud that he take her back home in a taxi, she looked at him before responding in a low, husky voice. Perhaps she had drunk too much wine. “It’s too far from here. The taxi fare will be very expensive. Can’t we go back to your apartment? I’ll have to come over tomorrow morning anyway. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“Don’t worry about the taxi money, White Cloud,” he said hastily. “The police bureau will reimburse me.”
It was out of the question for her to stay overnight at his place. In these new apartment complexes, the arms of the neighborhood committee might not reach as far, but people still watched. Stories traveled up and down in the elevators, if not on the staircases. Chief Inspector Chen could not afford to have such stories circulating about himself.
Nor did he consider himself a Liu Xiahui, a legendary Confucian figure who kept himself under restraint with a naked girl sitting on his lap. Chen doubted he was capable of imitating Liu Xiahui with a pretty young girl, a little secretary, asleep on the sofa in his room.
It was a long drive. She did not speak much. He wondered whether she was slightly disappointed or even displeased with his rejection of her offer. At one point, she leaned against him in the back seat, as if she was slightly drunk, then she straightened up again.
She had the taxi pull up at the street corner. “The road ahead is under repair. I can walk from here to my home. It’s only two or three minutes away.”
“Let me walk you home. It’s late,” he said before turning to the taxi driver. “Wait here for me.”
Even at this late hour, there were still several young men loitering around the corner with lit cigarettes shimmering between their fingers like fireflies. One whistled shrilly as they passed by in the chilly night. They walked into a long, dark alley. Originally it
must have been a passageway between two blocks of houses, but people had built illegal makeshift one-story huts or shelters along both sides. The city government did nothing, because those people had to live somewhere. So the passage was squeezed into a much narrower lane, not even wide enough for two people to walk abreast. He followed her in silence, stepping carefully between the coal stoves and piles of winter cabbages stored outside. This was too sharp a contrast to the Golden Time Rolling Backward.
It was no wonder that White Cloud studied at Fudan University while working hard at the Dynasty Club. She had to get a life that was different from her parents’, by whatever means possible.
It was easy to say that poverty was no excuse for what people chose to do with their lives. It was not easy, however, for a young girl to follow the Party’s principles of a simple life and hard work. In fact, few Party members, as far as he knew, still adhered to those principles.
