by Qiu Xiaolong
“Since then the doctors and nurses have been extraordinarily nice to me. They moved me here. This is a much better room, normally for high cadres, they said,” she told him and shook her head. “You must be somebody nowadays, son.”
“No, not me, but Mr. Gu. I’ve been doing some translation for him.”
“Really!” She appeared to be in better spirits and there was amusement in her voice as she said “Perhaps I’m too old to understand things in today’s world, but since when have you had a secretary working for you at home?”
“She’s no secretary.” He had foreseen that his mother would mention this. In her eyes, he must have strayed far enough from his father’s path. Now the news that he had a “little secretary” would only confirm her opinion. “She is just a temporary assistant for the translation project.”
“She is young, clever,” his mother said. “And she makes a very good home-made chicken soup.”
“Yes, she is very capable.” He doubted that the soup had been made in White Cloud’s home. She bought the soup from a restaurant with Gu’s money, probably. But he decided not to correct his mother.
“And she’s a university student. She likes your work, she has told me.”
He realized that his mother was already launched in a different direction. It should not have surprised him. “Yes, she’s a Fudan University student,” he said. He was not about to disclose that he had first met White Cloud when she was working as a K girl in a private room of the Dynasty Club.
Fortunately, his mother was still too weak to push this topic any further. He decided to leave well enough alone. If she wanted to cherish hopes, in spite of everything, especially in her present frail health, why not let her?
He did not like Confucianism, despite his late father’s influence. Like many other people of his generation, Chen believed that Confucian ideology had caused rather than solved problems in the course of the history of Chinese civilization. Still, the chief inspector considered it only human nature to be a filial son. That was the least a man should do—to provide for his parents in their old age, and, whenever possible, to make them happy.
He shuddered to think of those who refused to pay the deposit for their parents at the hospital. And for those who were unable to do so. It was not their fault, of course. Chen was able to do so, in the last analysis, because of his Party cadre position.
Someday, he might be able to make his mother happy in that particular aspect, but his first priority must be to do a good job as a chief inspector of police. In the Confucian ethical system, responsibility to one’s country was more important than to one’s family.
As for White Cloud, she was just a temporary assistant, as he had told his mother. He did not know whether the future would ever throw her into his path again. There was no predicting with Mr. Gu, of course. Two lines came to mind: Waving my hand lightly, I’m leaving, / leaving, carrying not a cloud with me.
He thought he had forgotten this poem by Xu Zhimo, and he wondered whether it had come back to him now because of her name. Or was it because of something else?
* * * *
Chapter 22
T
he ringing of the telephone woke Yu.
Chen told him, “Bao’s address is 361 Jungong Road. Second floor. It’s in the Yangpu District.”
Yu said, “How did you get this information?”
“Through one of my connections,” Chen replied vaguely.
The boss did not sound too willing to go into detail. Yu understood.
“I’m on my way,” Chen continued. “Not a word to Old Liang or anybody else. Meet me there.”
This was a surprise to Yu. So far, Chen had made a point of staying in the background. When Yu reached that section of Jungong Road, the chief inspector was already waiting for him, smoking a cigarette.
In the pre-1949 era, this area had been a slum. It had been upgraded in the early fifties, when some workers’ housing was built there to show the superiority of the socialist system. Nothing further had been done, as the city was overwhelmed by one political movement after another. The area was now considered a depressed neighborhood that had a markedly different living standard from other parts of the city. It had acquired a nickname—”the forgotten corner.”
In recent years, it had also become one of the streets where provincials gathered because of the cheap rentals that they could obtain there by means of illegal subleases. Five or six people usually squeezed into a single room when they first arrived in the city. When they bettered their finances, they moved out into other areas.
“According to my information, Bao lives by himself in a small room here,” Chen said. “He moved in about two months ago. He does a not have a regular job; he survives by working part-time for an interior construction company.”
“If he has a room for himself, he is better off than others,” Yu commented.
Bao’s building, 361 Jungong Road, was one of the old two-story workers’ houses from the fifties. It boasted neither the sophisticated style of a shikumen house nor the modern facilities of the new apartment buildings. The house consisted of units, rather than apartments; each unit was inhabited by several families; each family had one room and shared the common kitchen area. Bao’s room had originally been a balcony accessed from the kitchen area of the unit. Beneath it was a small restaurant on the first floor of the building. It, too, looked like it had been converted from a residential room.
Chen and Yu went up the stairs. Their knock on the door was answered by a tall, lean young man of sixteen or seventeen. Bao looked like an undeveloped green bean sprout. His small eyes dilated with fear at the sight of Detective Yu in uniform. His room was one of the barest Yu had ever seen. There was hardly any furniture. A hardboard had been placed on two bamboo benches as a bed, and beneath it stood a disorderly pile of cardboard boxes. A broken chair and something like a student desk completed the furnishings, which appeared to be castoffs Bao had found and brought back.
“Let’s crack this nut here before we take him to the bureau,” Chen whispered.
This was not like Chen, who normally made a point of following procedure. But they were pressed for time, Yu knew. If they took Bao to the bureau, Party Secretary Li and others might join their interrogation. In one way or another, they might slow things down.
It was Thursday. They had to get the truth from Bao before the press conference on Friday.
“You’d better spill the beans,” Chen told Bao. “If you come clean about what you did on the morning of February seventh, Detective Yu may be able to work out some sort of a deal for you.”
“We know everything, young man,” Yu said, “and if you are cooperative, we will recommend leniency.”
Detective Yu did not know if he could guarantee this, but he had to back up Chen.
There was nothing for them to sit on, except for the broken chair. Bao squatted against the wall, like a wilting bean sprout.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, officers,” he said, without looking at either of them.
“You question him, Detective Yu,” Chen said. “I will search the room.”
Again, Chen was departing from his usual standard of behavior this morning, Yu observed. They did not even have a search warrant.
“Go ahead, Chief,” Yu said, playing along. “Where were you on the morning of February seventh, Bao? We know what you did, so there’s no point denying it.”
Perhaps Bao was too young. He did not know that the police had to have a search warrant before they could go through his room. Still he evaded Yu’s questions, mechanically proclaiming his innocence of any wrongdoing.
Chen, searching under the bed, pulled out a couple of cardboard boxes. Inside a shoebox he found a bunch of paper, rubber-banded together.
“This is the manuscript you took from Yin’s place on the morning of February seventh,” Chen said in a composed voice, as if this discovery was a foregone conclusion. “This is the manuscript of the novel that Yang wrote i
n English.”
Yu manage to conceal his surprise as he said, “The game is over. Better come clean right now.”
Bao looked like a green bean sprout that had been boiled and shrunken.
“I have the evidence now; you took this from Yin’s room,” Chen said. “There is no use denying it. This is your last chance to cooperate.”
“Use your brains, Bao,” said Yu.
“I did not mean it—” Bao started, all in a fluster. “I really did not mean to do it.”
“Hold on,” Chen said, taking out a mini tape recorder from his pocket.
“Yes, we can tape him here,” Yu said.
“It’s your case, Detective Yu. You question him. I’ll take a look at the manuscript over a bowl of noodles in the small restaurant downstairs.”
“Come on, Chief. You should question him too. Surely you can read here.”
“I have not had breakfast yet. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had a bite.”
So Bao began to confess. His head buried between his hands, squatting in a posture Detective Yu had seen in a movie about the farmers in the northwest region, with the tape recorder on the floor in front of him and Yu, seated on the hardboard bed gazing down on him, Bao spoke.
It had all started with Bao’s first trip to Shanghai three and a half years earlier, on the occasion of his grandmother’s death. The dying Jie had asked to see her grandson for the first and also the last time. Theirs was one of the numerous tragic stories from the Cultural Revolution. Hong, who had been a teenager then, had tried to join the Red Guard, but had been rejected because of her family background. Hong felt she had no choice but to prove her revolutionary fervor by cutting all her family ties. She denounced her parents as well as Yang, the Rightist uncle she had never seen. Hong was among the first group that went to Jiangxi Province in the movement of educated youths going to the countryside. She went one step further by marrying a local farmer, a decisive break with her former self.
At the end of the Cultural Revolution, Hong must have come to regret those “revolutionary decisions” of hers, but there was little she could do. Her father had passed away, and her mother would never forgive her. After the first two years of her marriage, she had practically nothing to talk about to her husband. All her hopes rested with her son Bao. She made him read books, and she told him stories. Most of the stories were about the wonderful city in which she had grown up. And there were a few about Yang too. With the passage of time, Yang no longer appeared so black or counterrevolutionary to her; now he was a glamorous intellectual.
When her mother’s dying request reached her, it took Hong several days to borrow enough money for a train ticket for Bao. The old woman still had not forgiven her. Bao alone boarded the train. By the time he reached Shanghai, Jie had passed away. Her room had already been reclaimed by the government. What she had left behind had been divided among her neighbors. One claimed that Jie had given her all her furniture, and another took Jie’s old clothes. They were not worth much, but to Bao this was a huge disappointment. Hong had sent him forth with the expectation that he would receive an inheritance.
When Jie had lain dying, she had been alone. Now that she was dead, her grandson arrived out of nowhere to claim his due. No one wanted to put themselves out on his behalf. Bao did not even have a place to stay in the city. From the neighborhood committee, however, Bao learned one thing: among those who had attended the funeral service for Jie was Yin Lige. She had taken away with her an old photo album, as well as several old letters that no one else wanted.
One of the committee members suggested that Bao approach Yin for help. Hong had also mentioned Yin’s name. She had heard that some of Yang’s earlier translations had already been reprinted. Or maybe it was his poetry. There might be money awaiting him or at least Yin might have some information about it.
That’s why Bao first went to Yin’s room in Treasure Garden Lane.
Yin was all hospitality when he introduced himself. After all, Bao was closely related to Yang. She urged him to stay on for a few days. The location of the lane was convenient, and she suggested that he go sightseeing while she was busy with her teaching. She took him out when she had time. She even treated him to a meal at the Xinya Restaurant on Nanjing Road. Everything went well, until the moment he made known why he had come to Shanghai.
Her attitude changed completely. She had not earned any money from Yang’s earlier translations, but Yang’s poetry collection was another matter. She showed him the statement the publisher had sent to her. It did not specify how much was due to her as special editor, so she arranged a meeting for them with the editor. She insisted on the condition that, in return for a small payment from the publisher, Bao promise that he would never bother her again.
But Bao did not think it was fair. He believed that these city people, especially Yin, had taken advantage of a country bumpkin like him.
He went back to his village with less than a thousand Yuan. It was not such a small a sum to the villagers, but Bao was no longer the same young man, content to work there like his father and forefathers, toiling in the rice paddy, his legs covered in mud. The trip to Shanghai had opened his eyes to a new world. The fact that his grandmother had lived in the city all her life, and his mother for seventeen years, and, more than anything else, the legend of his granduncle, made it impossible for Bao to stay on in the poor, backward village.
He told his mother he was going to become a success in the city of Shanghai.
He was not alone. Several young men from the village had already left for big cities.
Shanghai, however, did not turn out to be the city of Bao’s dreams. He had neither capital nor any skills with which to compete. Low-paying, hard-working temporary jobs on construction sites were all he could find. Yet he saw with his own eyes how the rich wallowed in money and luxuries, while his wages for a month were not even enough for one karaoke night. Still, if he had been willing to work hard like other provincials, it would not have been impossible for him to survive. But that was not enough for Bao.
With his Shanghai background, he considered himself different. He could not forget his great expectations, his hopes that there would be a lot of money awaiting him as the grandnephew of Yang.
He started reading about Yang and discovered the novel, Death of a Chinese Professor. Like others, he believed that its success was derived from Yin’s relationship with Yang. So Bao felt that his claims as Yang’s legal heir should not have been forgotten.
And if one poetry collection had been left to Yin, he thought there might have been other manuscripts, perhaps translations or novels. His mother had once mentioned that Yang had been writing a story before the Cultural Revolution. Then he learned that, but for the notoriety of Death of a Chinese Professor, Yang’s poetry collection would have gone into a second or even a third printing, from which he would have gotten some money.
Bao did not simply lose himself in such speculations. While working at menial jobs, he tried hard to make a fortune in the ways that occurred to him. He started gambling on mah-jongg. This did not work out. He did not lose much, but those long, sleepless nights at the mah-jongg table cost him several odd jobs. Then he threw himself into the stock market with borrowed money. While he made a couple of hundred Yuan at first, he soon began to pile up losses as the money seemed to sink into a quagmire, and his creditors began hounding him, knocking at the door at all hours of the night.
In desperation, he thought of approaching Yin again. She had a lot of money—at least, it seemed so to him.
He thought she should have helped him.
Yin would have been nobody without Yang. The book, the money, the fame ... all of it had come to her because of her relationship with him. And what was that relationship? They had not even been married. She did not even have a marriage certificate.
He, Bao, was Yang’s only legal heir.
Bao hesitated to approach her because of the agreement he had signed. And the effort would most likely be
useless, he supposed. When he learned about her visit to Hong Kong, however, he had an idea. At the time, those who came back from their visits to foreign destinations, including Hong Kong, were entitled to a certain quota for imported goods, such as a Japanese TV or an American stereo system. If they did not want to use the quota for themselves, they could sell it on the black market for a fairly large amount of money. Bao did not think Yin would have the space for this kind of equipment in the tingzijian room, or the guts to sell the quota for a profit on the black market. So what he was going to ask of her was to let him have the quota, something that would probably be of no value to her.
He phoned her but before he could begin to explain his proposal, she flew into a rage, threatening to call the police if he came to the lane again. Instead, he paid a visit to her at the school where she taught, calculating that a college teacher like her would not choose to make a public scene about something in her private life. He got through the college gate by claiming to be a former student of hers. And he found her in her office, alone.
