by Qiu Xiaolong
“How can that possibly be?”
“I used to hope that she, too, would study literature, but after graduating from high school, she started working at Shanghai Sheldon Hotel. From the very beginning, she earned three times my salary, not to mention all the free cosmetics and tips she got there.”
“I’m so sorry, Professor Xie. I don’t know what to say.” He sighed. “But as the economy improves, people may change their minds about literature. Well, let us hope so.”
He decided not to tell her about his own literary pursuits.
“Have you heard that popular saying—’The poorest is a Ph.D., and the dumbest is a professor.’ I happen to be both. So it is understandable that she chose a different road.”
“But why did she quit the hotel job to work for a travel agency?” he said, anxious to change the subject. “And then why did she quit the travel agency to go to Guangzhou?”
“I asked her about that, but she said I was too old fashioned. According to her, young people nowadays change jobs like clothes. That is not a bad metaphor, though. The bottom line is money, of course.”
“But why Guangzhou?”
“Urn, that’s what worries me. For a young girl to be there—all alone.”
“Has she talked to you about a trip to the Yellow Mountains last October?”
“She did not talk to me much about her work. But as for that trip, I do remember. She brought back some green tea. The Cloud and Mist tea of the mountains. She seemed a bit upset when she got back.”
“Did you know why?”
“No “
“Could that be the reason she changed her job?”
“I don’t know, but soon afterward she left for Guangzhou.”
“Can you give me a recent picture of her?”
“Certainly.” She took a picture out of an album, and handed it to him.
It was of a young slim girl standing by the Bund, wearing a tight white T-shirt and a very short pleated skirt rather ahead of current Shanghai fashion.
“If you find her in Guangzhou, please tell her that I’m praying for her to come back. It can’t be easy for her, all alone there. And I’m alone here, an old woman.”
“I will,” he said, taking the picture. “I’ll do my best.”
As he left Professor Xie’s home, the earlier excitement he had felt about the new development was fading. It was not just that Xie Rong’s having moved to Guangzhou—without leaving an address—added to the difficulty of the investigation. It was the talk with the retired professor that had left him depressed.
China was changing rapidly, but with honest intellectuals now viewed as “the poorest and dumbest,” the situation was worrisome.
Wei Hong’s address was Number 60, Hetian Road, a new apartment complex. He pushed the doorbell for several seconds, but no one answered. Finally he had to bang on the door with his fist.
An elderly woman opened it and looked at him with suspicious eyes. “What’s the problem?”
He immediately recognized her from the photo.
“You must be Comrade Wei Hong. My name is Chen Cao,” he said, producing his I.D., “from the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
“Old Hua, there is a police officer here.” Wei turned round, speaking loudly into the room before she nodded to him. “Come on in then.”
The room was a tightly packed efficiency. He was not so surprised to see a portable gas tank stove inside the doorway, for it was the same arrangement as he had seen in Qian Yizhi’s dorm room. There was a pot boiling above the gas jet. Then he saw a white-haired old man rising from an oyster-colored leather sofa. There was a half-played game of solitaire on the low coffee table in front of him.
“So what can we do for Comrade Chief Inspector today?” the old man said, studying the card Wei had handed him.
“I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Us?”
“It’s not about you, but about somebody you knew.”
“Oh, go ahead.”
“You went to the Yellow Mountains several months ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we went there,” Wei said. “My husband and I like traveling.”
“Is this a picture you took in the mountains?” Chen took a Polaroid picture out of his briefcase. “Last October?”
“Yes,” Wei said, her voice containing a slight note of exasperation, “I can surely recognize myself.”
“Now what about the name at the back—” he turned over the picture. “Who is Zhaodi?”
“A young woman we met during the trip. She took some pictures for us.”
He took out another picture of Guan making a presentation at an important Party meeting in the People’s Great Hall.
“Is she the woman named Zhaodi?”
“Yes, that’s her. Though she looks different, you see, in different clothes. What has she done?” Wei looked inquisitive, as he took out his notebook and pen. “At our parting in the mountains, she promised to call us. She never has.”
“She’s dead.”
“What!”
The astonishment on the old woman’s face was genuine.
“And her name’s Guan Hongying.”
“Really!” Hua cut in. “The national model worker?”
“But that Xiansheng of hers,” Wei said, “he called her Zhaodi too.”
“What!” It was Chen’s turn to be astonished. “Xiansheng”—a term rediscovered in China’s nineties—was ambiguous in its meaning, referring to husband, lover, or friend. Whatever it might have meant in Guan’s case, she’d had a companion traveling with her in the mountains. “Do you mean her boyfriend or husband?”
“We don’t know,” Wei said.
“They traveled together,” Hua added, “and shared their hotel room.”
“So they registered as a couple?”
“I think so, otherwise they could not have had the same room.”
“Did she introduce the man to you as her husband?”
“Well, she just said something like ‘This is my mister.’ People do not make formal introductions in the mountains.”
“Did you notice anything suspicious in their relationship?”
“What do you mean?”
“She was not married.”
“Sorry, we didn’t notice anything,’’ Wei said. “We are not in the habit of spying on others.”
“Come on, Wei,” Hua intervened. “The chief inspector is just doing his job.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Do you know that man’s name?”
“We were not formally introduced to one another, but I think she called him Little Tiger. It could be his nickname.”
“What was he like?”
“Tall, well-dressed. He had a fine foreign camera, too.”
“He did not speak much, but he was polite to us.”
“Did he speak with any accent?”
“A Beijing accent.”
“Can you give a detailed description of him?”
“Sorry, that’s about all we can—” Wei stopped suddenly, “The gas—”
“What?”
“The gas is running out.”
“The gas tank,” Hua said. “We’re too old to replace it.”
“Our only son was criticized as a counter revolutionary during the Cultural Revolution, and sentenced to a labor camp in Qinghai,” Wei said. “Nowadays he’s rehabilitated, but he chose to stay there with his own family.”
“I’m so sorry. My father was also put into jail during those years. It’s a nationwide disaster,” Chen said, wondering if he was in any position to apologize for the Party, but he understood the old couple’s antagonism. “By the way, where is the gas tank station?”
“Two blocks away.”
“Do you have a cart?”
“Yes, we have one. But why?”
“Let me go there to fetch a new gas tank for you.”
“No, thank you. Our nephew will come over tomorrow. You are here to question us, Comrade Chief Inspector.�
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“But I can be of some service, too. There’s no bureau rule against it.”
“All the same, no,” Wei said. “Thank you.”
“Anything else you want to ask?” Hua added.
“No, if that’s all you can remember, our interview is finished. Thank you for all your information.”
“Sorry, we have not helped you much. If there are some questions—”
“I’ll contact you again,” he said.
Out on the street, Chief Inspector Chen’s mind was full of the man in Guan’s company in the mountains.
The man spoke with a clear Beijing accent.
So did the man with an unmistakable Beijing accent in Uncle Bao’s description.
The man was tall, polite, well dressed.
Could it also be the same tall gentleman that Guan’s neighbor had seen in the dorm corridor?
The man had an expensive camera in the mountains.
There were many high-quality pictures in Guan’s album.
Chief Inspector Chen could not wait any longer. Instead of going back to his office, he turned in the direction of the Shanghai Telephone Bureau. Luckily, he had carried in his briefcase stationery with an official letterhead. It took him no time to pen an introduction on it.
“Nice to meet you, Comrade Chief inspector,” a clerk in his fifties said. “My name is Jia. Just call me Old Jia.”
“I hope that’s enough,” he said, showing his I.D. and the letter of introduction.
“Yes, quite enough.” Jia was cooperative, keying in the numbers on a computer immediately.
“The owner’s name is—Wu Bing.”
“Wu Bing?”
“Yes, the numbers starting with 867 belong to the Jin’an district, and—”The clerk started fidgeting. “It’s the high-ranking cadre residential area, you know.”
“Oh, Wu Bing. Now I see.”
Wu Bing, the Shanghai Minister of Propaganda, had been in the hospital for most of the last few years. Wu Bing was out of the question, but somebody in his family. . . . Chen thanked Jia and left in a hurry.
To find information about Wu’s family was not difficult. A special folder was kept for every high cadre, along with his family, in the Shanghai Archive Bureau where Chen happened to have a special connection. Comrade Song Longxiang was a friend he had made in his first year in the police force. Chen dialed Song’s number from a street corner phone booth. Song did not even ask why Chen wanted the information.
Wu Bing had a son whose name was Wu Xiaoming.
Wu Xiaoming, a name Chen had already run across in the investigation.
It was in a list Detective Yu had compiled of the people he had interviewed or contacted for possible information. Wu Xiaoming was a photographer for Red Star magazine; he had taken some pictures of Guan for the People’s Daily.
“Do you have a picture of Wu Xiaoming?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you fax one to my office? I’ll be there in half an hour, waiting by the fax machine.”
“Sure. You don’t need a cover letter, do you? Just a picture.”
“Yes, I’ll call you as soon as I get it.”
“Fine.”
Chen decided to take a taxi.
He soon had a faxed copy of Wu Xiaoming’s picture. It might have been taken a few years ago. But clearly Wu Xiaoming was a tall man.
It was urgent for Chief Inspector Chen to move forward.
He did two more things that late afternoon. He made a phone call to the Red Star editorial office. A secretary said that Wu was not in.
“We’re compiling a dictionary of contemporary artists, including young photographers,” Chen said. “Any information about Comrade Wu Xiaoming’s work would be helpful.”
The tactic worked. A list of Wu Xiaoming’s publications was faxed to him in less than one hour.
And Chen went to visit the old couple again. The second visit turned out to be less difficult than the chief inspector had expected.
“That’s him,” Wei said, pointing at the fax copy in Chen’s hand, “a nice young man, always with a camera in his hand.”
“I’m not sure if he’s nice or not,” Hua said, “but he was good to her in the mountains.”
“I’ve got another picture,” Chen said, taking out Xie Rong’s picture. “She was your guide in the mountains, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, actually—” Wei said with an inscrutable smile, “she may be able to tell you more about them, much more.”
“How?”
“Guan had a big fight with Xie in the mountains. You know what, Guan called Xie a whore.”
* * * *
Chapter 16
S
unday morning, Chief Inspector Chen took more time than usual brushing his teeth, but it was a futile attempt to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth.
He did not like the development of the investigation. Nor his plan for the day: to do a day’s research in the Shanghai Library.
It was evident that Guan Hongying had had an affair with Wu Xiaoming. Though a national model worker, Guan had led a double life under a different name in the mountains. So had Wu. This was far from proving, however, that her death came about as a result of the clandestine affair.
Whatever complications might be involved, Chen was determined to solve the case. He could not be a chief inspector without taking up the challenge. So he planned to learn more about Wu Xiaoming by examining his work. The approach could be misleading; according to T. S. Eliot’s “impersonal theory,” Chen recollected, what could be learned from a creative artist’s work was nothing but his craftsmanship. Nonetheless, he would give it a shot.
In the reading room of the Shanghai Library, Chen soon found that there was a lot more for him to do. The list he had received the previous day included only the work published in the Red Star magazine; as for Wu’s publications elsewhere, the list gave only the total number with abbreviated magazine names minus dates. As most of the magazines had no year-end index for photographs, Chen had to go through them issue by issue. The back issues were in the basement of the library, which meant a long wait before he could get what he ordered.
The librarian was a nice woman, moving about briskly in her high heels, but a stickler for library rules. All she could give him at one time were the issues of one particular magazine for a year. For anything more, he had to write out a new order slip and to wait for another half an hour.
He sat in the lobby, feeling idle on a supposedly busy day. Every time the librarian came out of the elevator with a bundle of books on a small cart, he would stand up expectantly. But they were other peoples’ books. Waiting there, he felt disturbed, distantly . . .
How long ago it was—the fragments of the time still book-marked—another summer, another library, another sense of waiting with expectations, different expectations, and the pigeons’ whistles fading in the high, clear Beijing sky. ... He closed his eyes, trying not to conjure up the past.
Chief Inspector Chen had to pull himself back to the work of the present.
At eleven thirty, he concluded that he had accomplished little for a morning; he packed up all his notes and went out for lunch. The Shanghai Library was located on the corner of Nanjing Road and Huangpi Road. There were a number of fancy restaurants in the neighborhood. He walked to the north gate of the People’s Park, where there was a young vendor selling hot dogs and sandwiches from a cart on the sidewalk sporting a Budweiser umbrella, an imported coffee maker, and a radio playing loud rock-and-roll music. The chicken sandwich he bought was not cheap. He washed it down with a paper cup of reheated, lukewarm coffee, not at all like what he had enjoyed with Wang at the River Cafe.
When he returned to the library, he phoned Wang at Wenhui. He could hear a couple of phones ringing at the same time in the background as he chatted a little about her heavy responsibility on Sunday as a Wenhui reporter before he switched topics.
“Wang, I have to ask a favor of you.”
“People never go to
a Buddhist temple without asking for help.”
“They do not grab Buddha’s legs unless in desperation,” he said, knowing she enjoyed his repartee. A cliché for a cliché.
“Grab or pull Buddha’s legs?” She giggled.
