by Qiu Xiaolong
Turning to Lianping, he saw the rapture on her face as the symphony began, developing swiftly into emotional intensity. She was so enthralled she leaned back, slipped off her shoes, and, dangling her bare feet, subconsciously kept time with the melody.
He, too, was losing himself in trancelike impressions from the transformative performance, in the midst of which some fragmented lines came surging to his mind, carrying him to a transcendental understanding of the music, a vision breaking out in the splendid notes.
During the intermission, they chose to step outside.
In the magnificently lit lobby, Chen bought two cups of white wine. They stood drinking and talking while people were milling around.
“So you can get complimentary tickets?”
“Not for the most sought-after performances, but frequently, yes. In this new concert hall, the ticket prices are so high that there’s no possibility that all concerts will sell out, so why not give a couple of free tickets to a journalist? A mention in Wenhui could be worth much more.”
“You have to write a review of it?”
“A short piece will be enough. One paragraph. Nothing but clichés. All I have to do is say something about the excellent performance, something about the enthusiastic audience. Occasionally all I have to do is change the name and date. It will be nothing like the poem you sent to me.”
“Oh, you’ve received it.”
“Yes, I like it very much. It’ll come out next week,” she said, then pointed at a poster. “Oh, look; a red song concert—also next week.”
“What a comeback,” he said.
Of late, people were being urged to sing revolutionary songs again, particularly those that were popular during the Cultural Revolution, as if singing them could once again make people loyal to the Party.
“It’s like black magic,” she said. “Remember the Boxer Rebellion? Those peasant soldiers chanted, ‘No weapons can hurt us,’ as they rushed toward the bullets. Of course, they bit the dust.”
It was a scathing comment, an echo from a scene in an old movie. For the moment, however, he found himself standing so close to her that the perfume from her body made his mind digress.
“I have a question for you, Chen,” she said. “In classical Chinese poetry, the music comes from subtle tone patterns for each character in a line. With no such tone pattern in free verse, how can you come even close to music?”
“That’s a good question.” It was a question he’d thought about, but he didn’t have a ready answer that could meet the expectation in her gaze. “Modern Chinese is a relatively new language. Its musicality is still experimental. So rhythm may be a better word for it. For instance, the varying length of the lines. It is called free verse, but nothing is really free. None of it is totally with or without rhythm or rhyme.”
She was becoming something of an enigma. At one moment, she seemed so young and fashionable, but in the next moment, sophisticated and perceptive. That didn’t keep him from appreciating her; if anything, it made him appreciate her even more than before.
A ringing bell announced that the second half of the concert would soon start.
“By the way, I almost forgot,” she said, seemingly as an afterthought. “Here.”
She held out a small card, on which was written Melong’s name and phone number.
“Thank you. It’s so thoughtful of you, Lianping. But you gave the number to me back at the restaurant.”
“He changes his number every two or three months. Only those who are really close to him can keep track. I just got it from someone else,” she said, draining the glass.
In the fading light, she took his arm, as if lost in thought.
They made their way back to their seats. Then the second half of the concert began, which they enjoyed all the way to the end. He was aware of her holding her breath, leaning toward him during the fantastic finale.
When the curtain fell, she still seemed enthralled by the music, clapping her hands longer than most people.
They walked out with the rest of the crowd. It felt suddenly noisy out in the open. Yet there was a pleasant breeze to greet them, ruffling a wisp of hair off her forehead.
“Thank you so much. I had a great evening,” he said.
“The pleasure was mine. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
He started looking for a taxi, which he knew might be difficult to find, with all the people still pouring out of the concert hall.
“You didn’t drive?”
“No, I don’t have a car.”
“Surely there is a bureau car you could use.”
“Yes, but not for a concert, and not when I’m in the company of an attractive young journalist.”
“Come on, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “Look at the line of people waiting for a taxi over there. It’ll take you at least half an hour to get one. Let me give you a ride. Wait right here for me.”
She came back around in her car, a silver Volvo. The model had a clever Chinese transliteration—Fuhao, which could also mean “rich and successful.” She opened the door for him. The car was brand new and had a GPS system, which was particularly helpful in still-expanding Pudong.
Her hands on the wheel, she looked confident as she maneuvered the car dexterously in and out of traffic, like a fish in water. The shimmering neon lights outlined and re-outlined the night outside. He enjoyed the play of the lights on her face as she turned toward him, pressed a button. The moon roof pulled back luxuriously. She flashed a starlit smile. He couldn’t help but feel that this city belonged to young, energetic girls like her.
She started to tell him bits and pieces about herself. She was born in Anhui, where her father had a small factory. Like a lot of non-Shanghainese, her father held on to a dream that his daughter, if not he himself, would be able to live and work in the city of Shanghai. To his great gratification, she obtained a job at Wenhui Daily after graduating from Fudan University. In spite of majoring in English, or perhaps because of it, she did well covering the financial news.
“You’re the number-one finance journalist. It says so on your business card, as I remember,” he commented as she took a sip from a water bottle.
“Come on. It simply means that you’re the one trusted by the Party boss, the top journalist in the section. It does come with a bonus of one thousand yuan per month.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“But it also means that to keep it, you have to write every piece with the interest of the Party in mind.” The car took an abrupt turn, and she went on, “Oh, look at the new restaurant on your right. That is the number-one-restaurant choice for lovers, according to the Mass Recommendation Web Forum. It is totally dark inside, like a cocoon. The young people can’t even see the food—instead, they are touching and feeling and groping the whole time.”
She had a way of talking about things, jumping from one topic to another, like a sparrow flitting among the boughs, but she surely knew more than he did about the young, glamorous parts of the city.
“I grow old—”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Oh, it just reminds me of a line.”
“Come on. You’re still the youngest chief inspector in the country,” she said, patting his hand lightly. “I’ve researched it on the Internet.”
When the car slowed down in the jam-packed tunnel to Puxi, he asked her where she lived.
“It’s close to Great World. My father is a businessman, so he was able to make the down payment for me on an apartment there. It’s been a good investment, having quadrupled in value in less than three years.”
“Oh, so it’s close to my mother’s place.”
“Really! Drop by my place next time you visit her. I’ve got the latest coffeemaker.”
The car was already pulling up, however, by his subdivision near Wuxing Road.
She got out of the car at the same time as he did and was now standing opposite him, her clear eyes sparkling under the starry s
ky. It was an intoxicating night with a balmy breeze.
“Thank you so much. I’ve really enjoyed the evening. Not just the music, but also the conversation.” He awkwardly added, “It’s late, and my place is a mess. Perhaps next time—”
“So that’s a rain check,” she said, smiling and sliding back into her car.
He stood watching as her car disappeared into the distance. It was a wasted evening in terms of the investigation, but as he hastened to reassure himself, not entirely so. There was his visit to the Internet café prior to the concert, the mail from Peiqin with the pictures, and then the latest information about Melong. Perhaps some dots were beginning to form into possible lines, though nothing was yet clear …
Alone, in the stillness of the night, he might be able to figure something out.
Lianping reminded him, he realized, of a character from a French book he read long ago—Rameau’s Nephew.
And again, he was getting confused.
SIXTEEN
MELONG WAS SITTING ALONE in his home office, brewing his third cup of Pu’er tea that morning, and restlessly alternating between putting his feet on the desk and then putting them back down on the floor.
He felt like a trapped animal.
The Confucian maxim that one should “pay respects to ghosts and spirits, yet keep yourself at a distance from them” had been working out so far—at least in his dealings with the cops, the netcops, and with Internal Security and the city government as well. But this time, “paying his respects” didn’t appear to be enough. The human-flesh search initiated by the photo of the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty appearing on his Web forum had resulted in an avalanche of questions from the authorities. The initial reaction to the picture wasn’t totally unexpected, but the subsequent developments astonished him. Still, Melong didn’t think he could be blamed for the results.
What he did wasn’t that different from what others in his position had done, and controversy adds to the traffic of a Web forum. What he hadn’t told the netcops was the sense of satisfaction he felt over the downfall of another corrupt official, and in seeing the embarrassment of the “ever-correct-and-glorious” Party authorities.
Still, what he did tell them was true. He had no idea who’d sent the original picture. Using all his expertise, he’d traced the IP address of the sender to a particular computer, but it turned out to be at an Internet café. The netcops must have made the same effort and come up with the same results. So that was the end of it. Or it should have been.
But it wasn’t. The netcops concocted a conspiracy theory that somehow Melong had gained access to Zhou’s computer, got hold of that picture, posted it online, and then invented the story of an anonymous user having sent the picture from an Internet café. They based their scenario on his hacker credentials. After all, they claimed, an ordinary person wouldn’t have been able to read the cigarette brand from a newspaper photo.
They were bent on punishing him, not because they really believed their theory or because they were worried about his occasional computer hacking, but because the Web forum was becoming a chronic headache for the Party authorities. This was an opportunity to shut it down for a seemingly legitimate reason.
For the moment, the netcops might still be looking for evidence, but with or without it, they were going to “harmonize” the Web forum out of business. It was just a matter of time.
A loud coughing from the room in the back reminded him that the Web forum wasn’t the only thing worrying him. He’d never felt so helpless.
He was preparing another cup of strong tea—black enough to dye his gray hair—when the silver-gray cell phone started to ring. Strange. It was a “private phone,” for which he’d just bought a prepaid SIM card only a couple of days ago. Only a few knew the number, which he would change again in a month. He picked up the call.
“Hi, I’d like to speak to Melong.”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“Chen Dao.”
It was an unfamiliar voice, and an unknown name.
“Chen Dao,” Melong repeated the name, still unable to recall anything about it from his memory.
“Your friend Lianping recommended you to me.”
“Lianping?” He knew her, but it wasn’t like her to recommend him to someone, and he didn’t remember having given her the new phone number. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk with you. How about over a cup of good tea at Tang Flavor on Hengsan Road?”
He had heard that Tang Flavor served excellent tea. It also wasn’t a good idea to meet with a stranger at his home office, which might well be bugged, or over a phone that might be tapped.
“Okay, I’ll meet you there. How about half an hour, depending on the traffic.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Melong arrived at Tang Flavor. Located close to a subway, the teahouse enjoyed a loyal customer base and was particularly popular for the Chinese snacks that were served for free with the tea.
Melong’s private phone rang again. This time it was a text message.
“Welcome. I’m on the third floor. A6.”
He went over to the stairs, where a waitress in a scarlet Tang dress led him to a private room. She held the door for him with an engaging smile.
Upon his entrance, a middle-aged stranger stood up and reached out his hand. He was wearing a white shirt, and there was a dark blue blazer draped over the back of a mahogany chair.
“So you’re Chen Dao?”
“Chen Cao,” he corrected, “of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
Now the name rang a bell. Melong must have heard it wrong over the phone.
“I was afraid to say more on the phone,” Chen said with a wry smile, “since some people might not want to show up after learning I’m a cop. Thank you for coming over at such short notice.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Melong said, then added, “You’re investigating the Zhou case, correct?”
“I’ve heard about you too,” Chen said, without responding to his question. “Lianping suggested that I consult with you. She tells me that you’re a computer genius.”
He was a regular cop, not a netcop involved with overseeing the Internet, so what could Chen possibly want to consult him about? As is stated in the old proverb, people don’t come to a temple without having something specific to pray for.
“So do you know Lianping well?” Melong asked. “She’s an excellent journalist, but I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“We had lunch yesterday.”
“That’s great,” Melong said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“Take one of mine.” Chen produced a pack of Panda. “But first, a disclaimer. An old friend gave them to me. It’s not something I could afford myself.”
“Don’t worry about it, Chief Inspector Chen. Let me be frank with you. You’re not the first cop who has come to me, but you’re the first real one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, all the people who’ve come to me before are ‘netcops’—wang guan. They started showing up long before the scandal of Zhou and the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty. They have been no strangers to me from the day I launched my Web forum.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of these so-called netcops. Let me reassure you that I’m not one of them.”
The waitress came into the room carrying a thick tea menu and a long-billed bronze kettle.
Chen ordered ginseng oolong, and Melong chose Pu’er, the Yunnan tea.
“Enjoy your tea,” the waitress said, bringing out the tea leaves from drawers in the table, putting each into a teapot, then pouring hot water from the kettle into their respective pots. “Snacks, which are on the house, are also listed on the menu.”
“We’ll have tea first,” Chen said. “When we are ready for anything else, we’ll let you know.”
When they were again alone in the room, Chen resumed. “You were talking about your Web
forum, Melong.”
“Yes, for a Web forum like ours to survive, two things are necessary,” Melong said. He was guessing that was the purpose of this meeting with Chen. Chen was supposed to be almost at the top of the city police bureau, so he had to concern himself with the Zhou case and its cyber background. Disgruntled as Melong was with the netcops, there was no point in making another formidable enemy of a regular cop who was inquiring into the Internet scene. “Those two necessary things are the permission of the government and the popularity of the content. There’s no need to say much about the first part. For that, social harmony is the bottom line. On the other hand, if only a few people visit the forum, it won’t last. The number of hits determines the amount of ad revenue. Enough ad revenue is required for a forum to meet its bills.”
“I understand. Now, let’s be a bit more specific, Melong. Why such a big fuss about that picture of 95 Supreme Majesty? Why start one of those searches over that?”
“Let me first say that a human-flesh search isn’t necessarily started by a Web forum. Any photo or article can be posted online, but if no one pays attention, nothing will happen.”
“That’s true.”
“So when I posted the photo, I didn’t know what kind of response it would get.”
Which was exactly what he’d told the netcops. There was no point in talking about his efforts to urge the forum users to respond and react, which then turned into the frenzied crowd-sourced search for incriminating information on Zhou. There was no visible change in Chen’s facial expression, Melong observed. Allegedly, Chen was one of the few cops who still adhered to some principles. That had to be true, or Lianping wouldn’t have given Chen his number.
“Is this kind of human-flesh search ideal?” Melong started up again. “Surely not—at least, not for an ideal society. But in a society like ours, what else can people possibly do? There isn’t a real independent legal system, despite all the talk—”
