by Qiu Xiaolong
But he, too, was successful as a Party official, though he tried not to see himself as one like Zhou. There was no denying, however, that he enjoyed some of the same “gray privileges” the others did.
One of those gray benefits was a large discount on the hospital bill. His mother’s arm had been broken by a Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution. No compensation had been offered at the time. All these years later, however, she was suddenly classified overnight as “handicapped,” a status that entitled her to more medical benefits, in accordance with a new regulation. Not to mention the fact that she’d been allowed to stay here during her recovery and had been provided with a single room.
Ironically, in order for him to be a filial son, he had to be a loyal Party official, supporting the government that had injured her.
His mother stirred, opening her eyes with a surprised smile at the sight of him sitting by the bed. She looked ashen, shrunken, but she managed to reach out an emaciated hand.
“You didn’t have to come to visit. This hospital is much better than a nursing home.”
“How was lunch today?”
“Good. They served well-cooked soft noodles with sliced pork and green cabbage.”
She gestured at a menu on the table. Unlike other hospitals, there seemed to be quite a variety from which to choose here. It was almost like a small fancy restaurant. Her choice of dish was probably due to her teeth. She’d lost several of them, but she refused to bother with the ordeal of dental treatment at her age.
He got up to mix a cup of green tea and American ginseng essence for her.
“Our relatives and friends all say good things about you,” she said affectionately. “I’ve long given up trying to figure things out in China today. It’s all too much of an enigma for me, but I know that you always try to do the right thing.”
“But I haven’t been taking good care of you. When you get out of the hospital, please come and stay with me. Nowadays it’s quite common for people to hire a live-in aide.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m a contented woman. If I left the world today, I would go with my eyes closed in peace, except for one thing I’m still concerned about. You know what I’m talking about.”
That happened to be one thing about which he had nothing to tell her. Chief Inspector Chen remained single. Confucius said, “There are three most unfilial things in the world, and to go without descendants is the worst.”
“White Cloud came by the other day,” she went on. “A really nice girl.”
“I haven’t seen her for a while.”
He was to blame, he admitted to himself, for the distance between White Cloud and himself. The shadow of her dancing in the private karaoke room seemed to always accompany her, or perhaps it was nothing more than the shadow swirling in his mind.
The water flows along, the cloud drifts away, and the spring is gone. / It’s a different world.
He tried to straighten up the things on her nightstand here, as if the effort could somehow make him feel less lousy. He was interrupted by a noise at the door.
“Hello, Chief Inspector Chen. Nurse Liang Xia told me that you were here today. You should have told me you were coming.”
Chen looked up to see Dr. Hou striding into the room, beaming from ear to ear. Hou Zidong, the head of the hospital, was wearing a white smock over a black suit with a red tie.
“Dr. Hou, I want to thank you for everything you’ve been doing for my mother. You’re a busy man, I understand, so I didn’t call you.”
“Auntie has been doing well. No need to worry. We’ll make sure that it’s just like home here.”
“Dr. Hou has done a fantastic job, as I have told you many times,” she said, looking at Chen with a light of pride flashing in her eyes.
Chen understood. It was all because of a “case” Chen had helped with in the late eighties. The “suspect” in question was none other than Hou, a young doctor newly assigned to a neighborhood hospital. While in college, Hou had been involved in a so-called foreign liaison case. According to an inside control file, Hou had visited an American medical expert staying at the Jinjiang Hotel and had signed his name in the hotel register book several times. The American was alleged to have connections to the CIA. So Hou was put on a blacklist without knowing it. After Hou’s graduation, there was an international medical conference in New York, and the head of the Chinese delegation picked Hou as a qualified candidate—someone with several English papers published in the field, whose presence could help to “contribute to China’s image.” But for Hou to join the delegation, it was necessary to investigate his involvement with the American. Chen was assigned to listen to the recordings of the phone conversations between Hou and the alleged American spy. As it turned out, they talked about nothing but their common interests in the medical field. In one phone call, Hou did urge the American to be more careful, but judging from the context, he was referring to the American’s drinking problem. It was ridiculous to put Hou on a blacklist because of that, Chen concluded. He transcribed and translated the taped conversations carefully, submitted a detailed analysis to the higher authoritities, and proposed that Hou’s name be cleared.
No longer a suspect, Hou was allowed a spot in the delegation, his speech was well received at the conference, and his luck since then had been incredible. It wasn’t long before he was transferred to East China Hospital, one of the most prestigious in the city, where eventually he became the head of the hospital. About a year ago, Hou had learned of Chen’s help from a high-ranking cadre who stayed at the hospital. The next day Hou came to the bureau, declaring Chen was the “guiren” in his life—the life-changing helper who had come out of nowhere.
“I knew somebody helped, but I didn’t know it was you, Chief Inspector Chen. Ever since then, I’ve always tried to be a conscientious doctor. Do you know why? I wanted to be as conscientious as my guiren. There are so many problems in society today, but there are still a few good Party cadres like you. Now, if there is ever anything I can do for you, just say the word. As in the old saying, for the favor of a drop of water, one has to dig out a fountain in return.”
Dr. Hou kept his word. When Chen’s mother was sick, Hou took it upon himself to handle everything. It was impossible for ordinary people to get into the prestigious East China Hospital, but Hou made an exception for her and arranged a special room, in spite of the fact that she had suffered only a minor stroke. He insisted that she stay for her convalescence as well.
“You’ve really gone out of your way for her, Dr. Hou.”
“For me, it’s as effortless as a wave of my hand. Auntie may stay here as long as she likes. She doesn’t owe the hospital any money. To be frank, we need cash-rich patients like her in our hospital. Lu, one of your buddies, insisted on depositing a large sum against the account of his auntie.”
“Overseas Chinese Lu is impossible,” Chen said with a wry smile, glancing at the presents on the nightstand again. Lu might not be the only one.
Dr. Hou’s cell phone rang. He looked at it without answering it.
“I’ve got another meeting. I have to go. But don’t worry, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll come by regularly.”
Chen’s mother sat up and watched the doctor walk out of the room, then turned to her son.
“You go back to your work too. People don’t speak so highly of the police, but my son is conscientious, I know. That comforts me more than anything else. Good things do not go unrewarded. It’s karma.”
Chen nodded.
“Oh, before I forget, there is a gift card from another of your buddies. Mr. Gu. You know how to deal with it, I think.”
He picked up the gift card and frowned at the amount. Twenty thousand yuan.
The money meant nothing to Gu, who was a business tycoon. He’d helped Chen in an earlier investigation, and Chen had also proved helpful to Gu. Gu had since claimed to be a friend of the chief inspector, and he, too, called Chen’s mother his “auntie.”
The expensive gift c
ard would have been acceptable for a real auntie, but as it was, it was just another way for Gu to grease the connection. Still, it was considerate of Gu. What made it difficult for Chen was that the gift card came not to him but to his mother. It wouldn’t be that easy for him to return it.
“I’ll take care of it, Mother,” Chen said, putting the card in his pocket.
His cell phone rang. It was Detective Yu. Chen excused himself and stepped out into the hall.
Yu called to fill Chen in on the meeting that had just finished in the bureau. Among other things, Party Secretary Li had been surprisingly adamant in refusing to acknowledge that Detective Wei’s death happened while he was on duty. Wei was killed during the investigation, but no one knew what he was doing there at that particular intersection, at that particular moment. Li claimed that Wei might have been there for himself, checking out some evening courses at a night school around the corner.
To Chen, the change in Li’s attitude was not too surprising. Initially, Li must have been shocked and saddened, like everybody else in the bureau. Wei was a veteran cop, having worked hard in the bureau for years. But the prospect of pursuing his death as a possible murder case could further complicate the Zhou situation. In the final analysis, any more speculation concerning the Zhou case wasn’t seen as in the Party’s interest.
“His wife is sick and jobless at home, and his son is still in middle school,” Yu concluded on a somber note.
Chen got his point. If Wei had died in an accident, there wouldn’t be any bureau compensation for his family.
Walking back into the room with the phone in his hand, Chen felt even more guilty. Had he attended the meeting, at least he could have tried to speak up for Wei, though he wondered whether that would have made any difference. Probably nothing would, unless it was proved that Wei was doing his duty, investigating around the corner near Wenhui Office Building, when he was killed.
But what was Wei doing there?
“I have to leave, Mother,” he said. “Something has come up at the bureau. I’ll come back soon.”
THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, CHEN went to Pingliang Road in the Yangpu District.
According to the address he had, the Weis lived on an old lane. In the early sixties, a number of “worker apartments” were built there, which were undoubtedly an improvement over the pre-1949 slums, but each apartment unit had then been partitioned and partitioned again, resulting in an entire family inhabiting one room of the original three-bedroom design, and all of the families sharing the kitchen and toilet.
It wasn’t a surprise that the lane showed all the wear and tear of the past decades, even more so now that the apartment buildings were in sharp contrast to the skyscrapers that surrounded them. As he stepped into the lane, Chen felt a weird sense of disorientation. He was walking under a network of bamboo poles stretched across the lane, filled with damp laundry, like an impressionist expanse obliterating the sky overhead. The lane was rendered even narrower by the bewildering jumble of stuff stacked along both sides—a locked bike with a large bamboo basket, another covered with a large plastic sheet, a broken coal stove, a ramshackle tool-and-junk shed, and all sorts of residential add-ons, legal or illegal, seeming almost to have sprouted magically from the original houses.
It was like another city in another time, and the people seemed baffled at his intrusion: an old man squatting sideways with his bare back stuck against the wall, looking up at him; another straddling a wooden stool with one foot outstretched, inadvertently blocking the lane; and several more farther down the lane, one holding a large bowl of rice, another stretched out on a tumbledown bamboo recliner, and still another vigorously scaling a beltfish in a moss-covered common sink. Chen had never been to the lane before, yet some of the details struck him as eerily intimate, virtually inviting, as if someone close to him was waiting for him in the depths of the lane.
He stopped and knocked on a peeling door, which had to have been repainted quite a few times, at least once in red. It wasn’t a visit he was looking forward to, but he had no choice.
An emaciated woman with swollen eyes and silver-streaked hair opened the door. Behind her was a small room furnished with old, worn-out basic necessities and a new black frame containing a photo of Wei in his police uniform. The woman recognized Chen and seemed flustered.
“Oh, Chief—Party Secretary Chen.”
“Please just call me Chen, Mrs. Wei.”
“Call me Guizhen, then.”
She stepped out of the doorway and invited Chen in.
She had a hard time finding a chair for Chen in the tightly packed room. Judging from the two beds squeezed into the less than fifteen square meters of space, Chen assumed one of the beds was for their son in middle school. Wei hadn’t been able to buy a larger apartment for his family, and now it would be totally out of the question.
Chen knew that Guizhen used to do piecework sewing for a neighborhood production group at minimum pay but that the group went bankrupt several years ago. Since then, the family had been dependent on Wei’s income alone. With his sudden death, they would have to apply for the minimum city resident allowance, which, if eventually approved, would be pathetically small.
Chen thought about the possibility of bureau compensation again. But regulations were regulations, and if Wei died in a traffic accident on his own time, then the only money available would be what his colleagues around the bureau chipped in for him.
“You might not know this, Guizhen, but I joined the police force about the same time as Wei did—though he was older, having come back from Jiangxi Province as an educated youth. I still remember that in our first year at the bureau, we were both assigned to traffic. He was transferred to homicide after that, and he’s done a great job all these years.” Chen paused briefly, then resumed. “Before he died, Wei was engaged in an important investigation, to which I was serving as a consultant. Since it was really a case for the homicide squad, we didn’t meet every day, and not on the day of his accident. Consequently, I don’t know exactly what he was doing that afternoon, nor why he was at that particular intersection.”
“He left early that morning without telling me what he was planning to do. As a rule, he didn’t talk to me about police matters.”
“Did he say or do anything unusual that you can think of?”
“Er—he was dressed rather formally that morning. He’s not the type of man who was particular about his clothes. But occasionally, he would choose to dress more formally because of his work.”
Occasionally, Chen would do the same. And if Wei was going to the hotel surreptitiously, that would have made sense.
“About the location of the accident, did he say anything to you? Like, if there was something he wanted to do there, or somebody he wanted to visit in that particular neighborhood?”
“Not that I can recall. Not at all.”
“Did he call during the day?”
“No. I called him toward evening, but I didn’t get him. He could work late, though, even stay overnight at the bureau. But the next morning I still hadn’t heard from him. I was worried, so I called the bureau.”
“In the bureau, some of his colleagues are suggesting that he might have been planning to take an evening class. There’s a night school in the area.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” she said, wiping her eyes. with the back of her hand. “He worked hard all those years but was still a detective of the second rank because he didn’t have a college degree. We were both ‘educated youths’ with our best years wasted during the Cultural Revolution, and sometimes he grumbled about it. But what could he do? Already in his fifties, he didn’t have the time or energy for night school. Besides, our son is in middle school, and we couldn’t afford the expense of another student.”
That made sense but left unanswered the question of why Wei had been where he was.
“Let me ask a different question, Guizhen. Did he bring his lunch with him that day?”
>
“No, not that day. He frequently brought his lunch but only on the days that he knew he’d be at his desk in the bureau.”
So it was possible that Wei could have gone to the intersection for lunch, given those inexpensive food stalls on that corner. But that was a stretch. It was difficult to imagine that, after leaving the hotel, Wei would have climbed the overpass across the street just to get lunch.
In the short spell of silence that followed, Guizhen stood up to pour him a cup of tea.
“I’m sorry, but the water isn’t that hot, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said in apology.
For a poverty-stricken couple, so many things are sad.
“The thermos bottle no longer really works,” she said desolately. There was only one old-fashioned, bamboo-shelled hot-water thermos, which stood on the table like an inverted exclamation mark. There was no refrigerator or appliances like that visible in the small room.
He couldn’t help remembering the home of another widow he’d recently visited. Mrs. Zhou was heartbroken, too, but at least her family would be well taken care of. Some of the money embezzled by Zhou might eventually be recovered, but some would never be found.
“The reason I’m asking these questions, Guizhen, is because I’m trying to look into the possibility of compensation. If we could establish that he died on duty, I’d be able to have him acknowledged as a martyr with the due arrangement for his family.”
“I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough, Chief Inspector Chen. You’re sending a cart of charcoal over in the winter. Let me tell you something about Wei. You just mentioned that he entered the force at about the same time as you.”
“Yes, that’s what I remember.”
“Sometimes I couldn’t help nagging at him. He was nothing compared to you, even though it wasn’t exactly his fault. Like most people of his generation, he remained at a low level.”
