by Qiu Xiaolong
“Now there’s another thing. I’ve heard people talking about a train ticket found in Wan’s room as the piece of evidence that pinned the crime on him, but I happen to know something else about it.”
“What is it, Mr. Ren?”
“Another coincidence,” Mr. Ren said. “As a frugal gourmet, I eat around, not just at Old Half Place. Another of my favorite restaurants is close to the Shanghai railway station. Western Hill is known for its mini soup buns. The soup inside the bun is so juicy and delicious.
“One morning half a year ago, I happened to see Wan standing in a long line in front of the railway ticket window. I did not pay too much attention then. He might have been buying a train ticket for a relative, if not for himself.
“Then one morning several weeks ago, I saw Wan standing in a long line there again.”
“That’s strange,” Yu said. “Wan seems to have lived by himself. I have not heard anything about his making frequent trips out of Shanghai.”
“It’s none of my business. But that morning, Western Hill was so packed with customers that I had to wait for more than an hour and half before a bamboo steamer of mini soup buns appeared on my table. On my way out, I caught sight of Wan again. This time, he was not standing in line; he was selling tickets to some provincials in the railway station square. So Wan earned a little money by selling tickets to those unable to stand for hours in line.”
“That’s the very information I need. Instead of going out for tai chi practice, Wan goes out early every morning to buy and sell train tickets. Now I see.”
“I have never talked to anybody about this. Wan is a man who cannot afford to lose face. It’s terribly humiliating for an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member to end up being a train ticket scalper. So he told the neighbors he practiced tai chi in the morning.
“A Propaganda Member could be as relentless as a Red Guard during those years, but I have no personal grudge against them. No one should be wronged, Wan or anybody else, just to conclude a murder investigation.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Ren. This is a real breakthrough.”
Yu was now convinced that Wan was not the murderer. But this did not mean that he could throw out Wan’s confession. He would have to have another discussion with Party Secretary Li.
It had turned out to be a more interesting breakfast than Detective Yu had expected.
* * * *
Chapter 19
C
hief Inspector Chen’s morning was again punctuated by phone calls.
The first was from Detective Yu. Yu recounted for Chen the “breakfast discovery” he’d made earlier at Old Half Place.
“The case against Wan has too many holes,” Yu said. “I cannot conclude my investigation yet.”
“You don’t have to.” Chen added, “We don’t have to.”
“But Party Secretary Li is in a great hurry to do so.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll call him.”
“What will you say?”
“Well, isn’t Comrade Wan himself a political symbol? A Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Member during the Cultural Revolution, and a murderer in the nineties? Party Secretary Li will not like it.”
“So you are piercing his shield with his own lance, so to speak.”
“Exactly,” Chen said, catching the note of excitement in Yu’s voice. This was a card he knew how to play. “Hoisting him with his own petard. I’ll discuss this with Party Secretary Li.”
Chen brewed himself a pot of tea. Before he finished the first cup, as he was chewing a tender green tea leaf and preparing his speech to Party Secretary Li, the phone rang again.
The caller was a nurse at Renji Hospital. His mother needed to be hospitalized for a test in connection with her stomach trouble. According to the nurse, the doctor was very concerned.
This news came at an untimely juncture. Apart from the new development in the investigation, he was also putting on a final spurt to complete the translation. He had made a promise to Gu. Time mattered for the New World, he knew. For a moment he wished he had not accepted the project which interfered with his responsibilities as a cop, and now as a son.
Still, there was also some benefit to working on the translation. The hospital demanded a deposit before a patient would be admitted. The advance would come in handy now, as it was more than enough to cover the deposit.
Of course, he could have made a couple of phone calls to his “connections.” His mother might have been admitted then without the deposit. He chose not to do so; now at least he had a choice.
This was another aspect of China’s economic reform that he did not like. What about those who could not pay the deposit and had no connections? There should be a touch of humanity in the management of a hospital.
Everyone looked for the money in the nineties. Xiang Qian Kan, Look to the future, the revolutionary political slogan, was cruelly parodied, as qian could mean money as well as the future. In the market economy, hospitals made no exception. Doctors and nurses were human too. Their own incomes depended upon the hospital’s profit.
While he was still talking with the nurse on the phone, White Cloud came into the room.
“My mother has to be admitted to a hospital for a test as an inpatient,” he said as he put down the receiver.
“Hospitals make a point of doing tests now. The test may not even be necessary, but the hospital will collect a large fee for it. They like to make money,” White Cloud said. “Don’t worry too much, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“That may be true. Thank you,” he replied.
He, too, wondered why this test required that his mother be hospitalized. She had been complaining about her stomach trouble for years. No one had said it was so serious.
“Let me go to the hospital for you this morning to deliver the admission money, to make any necessary arrangements, and to keep your mother company. It’s really up to me—as your little secretary. Call me any time if you have questions. You have my cell phone number.”
What would his mother think? He had never told her anything about having a little secretary who worked for him at home. At this moment, however, he could not afford to hesitate.
“Fine. Tell her that I will come over in the afternoon or in the evening. Thank you so much, White Cloud.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said as she put a brown paper bag into the refrigerator. “Oh, here is roast beef with steamed buns. Last night you did not even have time to finish the steak. You like beef, I guess. For lunch, put them in the microwave.”
Again, he was lucky to have her help.
Then it was Party Secretary Li’s turn to call.
“Detective Yu said that you wanted to talk to me about something. What’s it about, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Oh, yes. Detective Yu discussed the latest development in the investigation with me. So I would like to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Since our last talk, I have been giving a lot of thought to the case. As you have said, we should be aware of the political repercussions of the case. Just as you explained, the higher authorities have every reason to want us to solve the case without any political complications. So in my understanding, it is necessary for us to depoliticize the case.”
Chen went on after a meaningful pause. “Now if we conclude in a hurry—with Wan as the murderer—this might be against the interests of the Party—”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“I mean, if Wan proves to be the real murderer beyond any reasonable doubt, we will punish him. No question about it. But there are still holes in his confession, as Detective Yu pointed out, so why not wait for a couple of more days?”
“I’m still confused. Please explain.”
“Once the press conference is held, people will come to know who and what Wan is. He is an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member, who was once very politically red, but now what? Unfortunately, Wan is not alone. Many retired
workers are having a hard time. Wan may well be seen as an example of an old worker going downhill, going to ruin. If Wan was capable of committing a murder in his desperation, then so could a lot of other people in a similar position. Wan might be seen as highly symbolic.”
“You have a good point, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Li said after a long pause, “but the city government is putting a lot of pressure on the police bureau.”
“That’s what we have to take into consideration,” Chen said equivocally. “If some of the details were seized upon by a reporter, and published, and twisted—think about it—’the antagonism between an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member and a dissident writer who denounced the Cultural Revolution.’ Such political associations could be disastrous.”
“Then we have to apply strict information control.”
“I doubt if it will work. Following your suggestion, I went to the shikumen house last week. There’re so many people there, all mixed together, that news and rumors spread as if they had wings. And reporters could go there too. Today, some of the newspapers are no longer what they used to be—they’re not so loyal to the Party authorities any more. To increase their newspaper’s circulation, they need sensational news.”
Li said, after a slight hesitation, “If Detective Yu wants to take a couple of more days for his investigation, I think it should be okay. But it is important for people to know that the government is not involved in Yin’s death. And for them to learn this as soon as possible.”
“I have one question, Party Secretary Li.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“It’s about Internal Security. There’s something that puzzles me. It’s not their case. No one has told us about any involvement on their part. Yet they had searched Yin’s room even before Detective Yu first reached the building. And then they withheld information about Yin’s application for her passport renewal. Why, Party Secretary Li?”
“Well, Yin was a dissident writer. It is understandable that Internal Security would be interested in the case. They are not responsible to us, as we know.”
“But if it was such a politically sensitive case, they should have shared information with us.”
“If they had found something of substance, I believe they would have informed you,” Li said. “Have you discovered anything that might interest Internal Security?”
“No,” Chen said. Of course, he would have denied it even if he had found something. “That’s why I asked you the question.”
“The ministry in Beijing has called us, too. Minister Huang has a high opinion of you, you know. Since you have given a lot of thought to the case, what about your taking it over?”
“No, Party Secretary Li. My mother is in the hospital. I’ve just gotten a phone call about it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anything the bureau can do for you? You are still on your vacation. If necessary, you can take a few more days. Or we can send someone to the hospital to help. Have you any particular request?”
“No, not at the moment. But thank you very much. And I will assist Detective Yu in whatever way I possibly can. I give you my word, Party Secretary Li.”
For a while after this conversation, Chen found it hard to concentrate on the translation, but he finally managed. Not too long afterward, however, White Cloud called. Everything at the hospital had been taken care of, and his mother was not in any real danger. The doctor explained that they wanted to admit her to the hospital for the test because of her age. That seemed reassuring. So Chen went on revising the translation.
Before lunch time, he dialed Yu’s home number, but it was Peiqin who answered the phone. It was just as well; he had questions for her too. After their last talk, he had obtained a copy of Death of a Chinese Professor, and tried to read as much as possible in the little time available. Peiqin had been right: the novel was uneven, with striking contrasts in style and content, so much so that it was difficult not to notice them.
“I think you are right,” he said. “Yin may have plagiarized. Her source was probably not newspapers or bestsellers. Some parts of the novel are of high literary quality.”
Peiqin said, “Some parts are far better written than others. But I cannot see the connection between her novel and the murder.”
“Neither can I. If somebody—either the writer of the work she copied, or a reader—had discovered this, he could have contacted her or the media. In a similar case, I remember, the plaintiff sued for monetary compensation. But nothing could have been gained from killing her,” Chen said. “Have you discovered anything else, Peiqin?”
“Nothing new,” she said, “except for one small point. As Yu must have told you, I have read a number of translations—I was a bookworm in my high school years. In a close reading, books translated into Chinese often read quite differently from those originally written in Chinese. Linguistically, I mean.”
“That’s a very interesting point. Can you try to be a bit more specific, Peiqin?”
“There are certain ways of putting a phrase or a sentence in one language that are changed in another. Sometimes even a word can be different. For instance, Chinese writers seldom if ever use the pronoun ‘it,’ and experienced translators like Yang are aware of this. But not so with third- or fourth-rate translators. Exotic expressions keep popping up in their texts. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with the meaning, but Chinese sentences should not read that way.”
“You are right. Some paragraphs do not read smoothly; that’s my impression too. But I have not done as close a reading as you.”
“There’s another example. Ten years ago, the word ‘privacy’ hardly existed in Chinese. If used at all, it was with a negative connotation—indecent or evil, incapable of being open and above-board. But in Death of a Chinese Professor, Yin used the word in a positive sense, like some fashionable young people use it today.”
“Your English is really good, Peiqin!” he said. “Even today, some people would still use the word cautiously, because of its lingering negative connotation.”
“No, don’t laugh at me, Chief Inspector Chen. I have to help Qinqin with his English homework, and he asked me how to translate ‘privacy’ into Chinese just a couple of weeks ago.”
“You are perceptive, Peiqin. I have done translations, but I have paid little attention to such linguistic complexities.”
“Oh, forgive me. This is really like an apprentice giving a lesson to Master Ban. I know you have done a lot of translations. But some paragraphs in the Death of a Chinese Professor read like a literal translation.”
“So you are suggesting that Yin might have plagiarized an English text and translated it herself?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
It was possible. A number of books about the Cultural Revolution had been written in English. As a college English teacher, Yin could have read some of them. But, then, Death of a Chinese Professor had subsequently been translated into English too. Yin would surely have considered the possibility of discovery.
Perhaps Peiqin was like him, too focused on what she could do to help in the investigation. The only help she could provide was through her reading; as a result, she was susceptible to exaggerating some possibilities. Still, she did all this for her husband, who had been left to deal with a difficult case all by himself.
Then Chen spoke on the spur of the moment. “Yu told me about your family breakfast at Old Half Place this morning. That’s great. He deserves a break.”
“Yes, he does. He’s been under a lot of pressure of late. Due to a lot of things.”
“I understand. Detective Yu and I are in the same boat. I depend on him, and of course I will do whatever I can for him. He is a great cop. I consider myself fortunate to be his partner.”
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so, Chief Inspector Chen.”
Afterward, he regretted having made such patronizing statements, which might have sounded like the empty compliments Party Secretar
y Li usually paid. It was perhaps little wonder that he was in line to become Party Secretary Chen. What had he really meant, he wondered. And what would Peiqin think?
He brewed himself another pot of coffee before he resumed reading his own translation.
He put the roast beef and steamed buns into the microwave. It was a clever combination. The roast beef was prepared in a Western way, for in traditional Chinese cuisine there was only soy-sauce-stewed beef. The mixing of the opposites, like yin and yang—he stopped himself with the first bite. The digital timer on the microwave read 3:00 in green lights and there was a sharp beep. There was some strange correspondence between this sound and his new thought.
