When Red is Black - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 03]

by Qiu Xiaolong

  He parted with her before a ramshackle one-story shelter and started back toward the taxi. A minute later, he turned to see her still standing by the door. The hut appeared stunted, its roof looming merely inches above her hair. In the dark night, he was surprised to make out a small pot of flowers blossoming on top of the roof tiles, placed there as a decoration.

  As the taxi started winding out of the slum area, he had a weird feeling, as if the city had suddenly turned into two disparate halves. The first city was made up of old shikumen houses, narrow lanes, and slum alleys like the one he was leaving, in which people still had a hard time making ends meet. The second city was composed of trendy places like the bars on Henshan Road, the new high-end apartment complex in Hongqiao, and the would-be New World.

  When Gu had first approached him about his ambitious business project, Chen had almost considered the New World and its like as myths, but he was wrong. A myth would not survive if it was not rooted in present realities.

  There was also an untold part of that myth, of course: the suffering of the people shut out of it; that was the part familiar to Chief Inspector Chen from his elementary-school textbooks. At that time, all the glitter and glory were represented as decadent, evil, sustained at the cost of the working class. The emphasis was then on what was in back of the glamour, an emphasis that had justified the Communist Revolution.

  It had been true to some extent. What had changed was the emphasis. Now it was on the facade, the glitter and glory, an emphasis that justified the reversal of the Communist Revolution, although the Party authorities would have never acknowledged this.

  Chen was momentarily confused. History in textbooks was like colored balls in a juggler’s hands.

  If truth could not be found in textbooks, then where else could one look?

  But what could he do? He was just a cop. He had once beleaguered himself with those questions. He had long since given that up.

  Even as a cop, Chief Inspector Chen wondered, when he started thinking about his conversation with Zhuang earlier in the evening, whether he had done a decent job.

  * * * *

  Chapter 18

  Y

  u awoke early on Saturday morning. He decided not to get up immediately. This was a decision reached from necessity. In his family’s small room, if one got out of bed, the others had to follow.

  Qinqin had stayed up late last night studying. Nowadays, middle-school students worked like crazy, and Peiqin pushed him like crazy too, insisting that Qinqin had to enter a first-class college at all costs. “He must never end up like us.”

  She might not have meant anything by it, but this statement did not sound pleasant to Yu, especially as he was unable to do anything to assist Qinqin. Peiqin was the one responsible for helping with their son’s homework; it had already proven too much for Yu.

  Qinqin was still sound asleep on the fold-out sofa, his feet hanging over the edge. He had grown into a lean, tall boy. The sofa bed was no longer long enough for him.

  Normally, Peiqin would have been up and about by this time, but it was a weekend. She had stayed up late with Qinqin, going over math problems with him. In the morning light, her face looked pale, tired.

  Lying awake, Detective Yu could not help becoming increasingly upset by the latest developments in the Yin investigation. He was aware of the pressure being brought to bear on the bureau, pressure that was especially maddening to Party Secretary Li. The news of Yin’s tragic death had caused wild speculation not only in China, but overseas as well. The case had been reported in several foreign newspapers, which added fuel to the fire back in Shanghai. In addition, Yin’s novel had now been reprinted by underground publishers, and it was selling like hotcakes in private bookstores. Fei Weijin, the Propaganda Minister of Shanghai, was so concerned that he had visited the Shanghai Police Bureau in person to declare that the longer the case remained unsolved, the greater would be the damage to the new image of China.

  As a result, Party Secretary Li was anxious for the immediate conviction of Wan for murder in spite of Yu’s arguments. All Yu’s efforts to persuade Li that they had to look further were like eggs thrown against a concrete wall.

  Yu tried to recall how Chen had worked his way through the jungle of bureau politics, though he was not too pleased with Chen either. Last night, he was sure he had heard a girl’s whisper and some music in the background of their phone conversation. What Chen had been up to was none of his business. Perhaps the chief inspector could afford to enjoy himself, with his position, with his “lucrative project,” with his promising career, and with a free “little secretary” too. Still, Yu felt uncomfortable at the thought.

  At the same time, he was amazed by Chen’s suggestions. He had no idea how, in the midst of working on a rush translation, Chen had managed to come up with those theories. Still, they were no more than hypotheses, with nothing substantial to support them. Yu himself had made tentative forays in these directions without result.

  Peiqin stirred beside him—still dreaming, perhaps.

  Suddenly he felt sorry for himself, but more so for Peiqin and Qinqin. All these years, they had been together, squeezed into this tiny shikumen room, in this shabby lane. Working on one homicide case after another, he was more often than not away even on weekends, and he earned so little. Why was he doing it?

  Perhaps it was time for him to rethink his future career, as Peiqin had suggested.

  When Yu had first entered the police force, his objective was a clear-cut one: to do better than his father, Old Hunter, who, though a capable policeman, never rose higher than sergeant in rank. It was from him that Yu had inherited the job in the Shanghai Police Bureau. In terms of rank, Yu had already achieved his objective. As a detective, he was one notch higher, but he did not feel nearly as good as Old Hunter used to feel—in the years of the proletarian dictatorship. In those years, people were not that different from one another, each had the same paycheck, the same housing, and believed in the same Party doctrine of “hard work and a simple life.” A cop was just one of the people, and he might take extra pride in being the tool of the proletarian dictatorship.

  But to be a policeman nowadays was not that rewarding. In an increasingly materialistic society, a cop was nobody. Take Chief Inspector Chen, for example. Though a much more successful cop, Chen still had to take a vacation to earn some extra money for himself.

  And then there were stories about corrupt cops, true stories, as Yu knew. What was the point being a cop at all?

  As he got out of bed, he announced a decision, which was a surprise even to himself.

  “Let’s go out to Old Half Place for breakfast.”

  “Why?” Qinqin asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Our family deserves to enjoy a good weekend.”

  “It’s a great idea. I’ve heard of the restaurant,” Peiqin agreed sleepily, looking startled, for it was not like Yu to take the family out for breakfast in the midst of an investigation.

  “So early, for breakfast?” Qinqin said, getting up reluctantly from the creaking sofa.

  “Old Half Place is well-known for noodles from the first pot of the morning,” Yu said. “I’ve read about it in a restaurant guide.” He did not want to explain how he had actually learned about the restaurant.

  In half an hour, the three of them arrived at Old Half Place, which was located on Fuzhou Road. Sure enough, many customers were already sitting there waiting, most of them elderly people who held bamboo chopsticks in their hands before the noodles even appeared on the tables.

  Above the front counter, the variety of noodles listed on the blackboard menu was impressive. Yu hardly had time to choose. People standing behind them were growing impatient. They must be regular customers, familiar with their favorite noodles, capable of telling the round-faced cashier their choices without having to consult the menu.

  Yu ordered noodles with pickled green cabbage and winter bamboo shoots, plus a small dish of xiao pork—a must at this restaurant, acco
rding to Mr. Ren. Peiqin had noodles with fried rice paddy eels and shrimp, and xiao pork too. Qinqin chose noodles with a smoked carp head, in addition to a Coca-Cola.

  The service was far less impressive. The oil-and-soup-smeared round tables were large enough for ten or twelve people, so the Yu’s could not have a table for themselves. The first floor of the restaurant was large, but there were only two middle-aged waitresses who bustled around, carrying plates and bowls overlapped along their outstretched arms. They were unable to clean up the tables in a timely way, especially since other customers were still eating. That might be one of the reasons the restaurant was able to keep prices low.

  Two other noodle-eaters shared their table. One looked as thin as a bamboo stick. The other appeared as round as a winter melon. They seemed to know each other well.

  “Eat and drink while you can. Life is short.” The thin one raised his teacup, took a sip, and buried a piece of chicken deep under his noodles.

  “This bowl of plain noodles has the same delicious soup,” the round one said, smacking his lips. “Besides, I need to keep to my diet.”

  “Come on.” The thin one sounded sarcastic. “It’s a miracle that you look so prosperous and can come here every day—on your waiting-for-retirement pay.”

  Plain noodles must be the cheapest in the restaurant, but for someone in the waiting-for-retirement program, with a monthly paycheck of around 200 Yuan, a bowl of plain noodles for 3 Yuan might be all he could afford.

  From a bamboo container, Peiqin picked out chopsticks which were still wet, dried them with her handkerchief, and gave a pair to each member of the family. Qinqin took the old-fashioned black pepper bottle and studied it like a math problem. As they waited for their orders, Yu noticed some less patient customers going to the kitchen counter and bringing back their orders with their own hands.

  Finally, their noodles arrived. Following Mr. Ren’s advice, Yu immersed slices of xiao pork in the soup, waited for a minute or two until the warmed pork grew nearly transparent, and then let it melt on his tongue. The noodles’ texture was indescribable, resilient but not too hard, seasoned by the tasty soup.

  To impress Qinqin, Yu tried to analyze the special ingredients of the noodle soup, but he ended up remembering only that some tiny nameless fish were boiled in a cloth bag in its preparation. Qinqin appeared to be quite interested.

  Yu was pondering whether to order a portion of xiao pork for his son when an old man took a seat at a table next to them. The newcomer wore a long purple down-padded jacket and a cotton-padded hat with two long earflaps, which nearly masked his face. He kept rubbing his hands which seemed to be stiff from the cold morning air outside. He also ordered a bowl of plain noodles, over which he breathed a long sigh with an air of utter satisfaction.

  “Look,” Qinqin whispered to Yu. “He took pork out of his pocket.”

  It was true. The old man actually produced plastic-wrapped slices of pork from his jacket pocket, put them into the soup, and waited for the celebrated soaking effect.

  “Is that pork really so special?” Qinqin asked in amusement.

  Yu did not know how to answer. For regular customers here, he supposed, it could be a ritual to place a piece of xiao pork on top of the noodles. But he did not know what kind of pork the old fellow had brought with him. Perhaps it was ham, processed in a very special way.

  But there was another mystery: xiao pork was prepared only at Old Half Place. What the old man brought must have been home-cooked pork. If so, why had he bothered?

  Then, when he took off his hat and turned toward them, Yu recognized the old customer to be none other than Mr. Ren.

  “Ah, Mr. Ren!”

  “Comrade Detective Yu, I’m so glad to see you here in Old Half Place!” Mr. Ren said with a genial smile. “You have taken my advice, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have brought my wife and son as well. Peiqin and Qinqin.”

  “Great. A wonderful family dining out together. That’s the spirit,” Mr. Ren said with an energetic gesture. “Please go ahead and enjoy your noodles or they will get cold.”

  Turning back, Yu whispered in Peiqin’s ear, “He is someone I met at Yin’s building.”

  “I should have known better,” she whispered back. “Imagine you having the leisure to take us out for breakfast in the midst of your investigation.”

  “No, our breakfast has nothing to do with the case.”

  But that was not exactly true. Yu might have intended, subconsciously, to check the accuracy of Mr. Ren’s statement.

  “He told me a lot about Old Half Place when I interviewed him. Does that count as something related to the case?”

  “He’s one of the suspects on your list, I remember,” she said with a smile of subtle sarcasm. “And are you satisfied now?”

  “Well, he’s not on my list any longer, but I’m satisfied with breakfast.”

  That was true. The breakfast, at a total of sixteen Yuan for the three of them, was inexpensive yet delightful. It was also good for the whole family to go out occasionally, like this.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mr. Ren turned around to their table. His noodles were finished. “You may be surprised that I took some pork out of my pocket. That’s a trick only an old gourmet knows how to play.” He grinned at Qinqin.

  “Yes, please tell me why you did that,” Qinqin said.

  “After lunchtime, the restaurant sells xiao pork by the kilo. Fifty Yuan for one kilo. It sounds expensive, but it is not really. If you slice the pork at home, one kilo will make about seventy-five or eighty portions. How much do you pay for a side dish here? Two Yuan. So I buy half a kilo, put it in the refrigerator—you must have a refrigerator at home—and take out a few slices before I come here.”

  “You surely don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Mr. Ren, with all—” Yu did not say “all your compensation money.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Detective Yu. An old gourmet will do anything but let his stomach down. I’m too old to care for what’s called—oh, conspicuous consumption. The xiao pork I bring with me tastes the same in my mouth. Old Half Place is a good place. I hope I’ll see you here again.”

  “We will certainly come back,” Yu said. “When the investigation is over, you will have to tell me more about your gourmet tricks.”

  “Come to my restaurant some day, Mr. Ren,” Peiqin said. “Ours is not well-known—it is called Four Seas—but we have some quite good specialties, and they are inexpensive too.”

  “Four Seas? I think I’ve heard of it. I will be there. You may count on that. Thank you, Peiqin.”

  They rose from their tables, ready to leave.

  Near the entrance, Qinqin stopped to look over the counter into a window, behind which two white-clad, white-capped chefs were slicing the chunks of xiao pork deftly on huge stumps. There were rows of chickens, dripping oil, hung on the shining steel hooks overhead.

  “It’s like in Zhaungzi,” Qinqin said.

  “Really!” Yu said vaguely, without catching the reference. Perhaps Peiqin had.

  Then he saw Mr. Ren, who had walked out ahead of them, walking back toward the restaurant.

  “Did you forget something, Mr. Ren?”

  “No—that is, I forgot to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe it is nothing, but I’d better tell you about it, I think,” Mr. Ren said. “On the morning of February seventh, when I went out of the shikumen building, I saw somebody leaving in front of me.”

  “Who?”

  “Wan.”

  “Really! Do you remember the time?”

  “Well, as I have told you, it was around five forty-five.”

  “Are you sure it was Wan, and that it was that morning?”

  “I’m pretty sure. We may not be close as neighbors, but we have lived in the same building for many years.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, I did not. As a rule, I do not talk much t
o my neighbors— after so many years of being a black capitalist.”

  “Neither did my father. He was a black capitalist too, when he was alive,” Peiqin interjected. “He was in the import-export line of business.”

  “Yes, it’s understandable only to those who have lived through the years of humiliation. I used to be so black, politically black, and Wan used to be so politically red,” Ren said, his lips hardening into a bitter smile. “Of course it’s possible that Wan, too, came back that morning—earlier than usual—to commit the murder, but isn’t that too far-fetched?”

  “You are absolutely right, Mr. Ren. That is a very important point. In his statement, Wan did not mention going out earlier that morning.”