by Qiu Xiaolong
“Do you mean how much the Big Bucks pay for their service under the ground?”
“If that’s the way you want to put it, what can I say? But the local farmers contracted at the old, pre-inflation rates are aware of what other people are making. So for the amount of money they get, what can you really expect from them?”
“That’s true,” Chen said. “So, let me ask you a question. If I chose to have a renovation project done on my father’s tomb—not like those fancy ones, but something fairly decent, perhaps even with a picture embedded in the stone—and include the so-called eternal maintenance fee, then what kind of a quote can you give me?”
“What a filial son!”
“Don’t say that, Manager Hong. It’s just that I don’t have the time to come here often.”
“For the renovation of the tomb, first you’ll have to settle on a specific design.” Hong produced a larger book, which showed a variety of designs marked with prices and details. “The price depends on the style and material of your choice. There are lot of options too.”
Going through the book, Chen did quick calculations, focusing on those decent yet not too expensive designs. He pointed his finger at a page tentatively.
“If that’s the design of your choice, for a rough estimate—how about sixty thousand yuan? That’s about a fifty percent discount.”
“It’s still too expensive for me,” Chen said, though he didn’t like bargaining. “My father was a Confucian scholar. I could pay to have all his work published for that amount.”
“You will spare no expense for your father, I know.” Hong worked on the calculator again, put some numbers on a piece of paper, and then added them up to a lower figure. “How about that?”
Chen was becoming uncomfortable, bargaining over his father’s tomb as if they were in a fish market. There were several higher-priced cemeteries nearby. This one here had been developed years earlier, so the price was not unreasonable. Still, there was no telling whether they would do a good, conscientious job with the renovation.
So he whisked out a business card with his new official title printed in gold: Director of Shanghai Legal Reform Committee. The cards had been delivered to him last night, and he played it now like a trump card, hoping to further bring down the price. Chen being a filial son or not would make no difference to the manager, but his being an official might. However, Chen immediately felt a touch of superstitious uneasiness. It was possibly an ominous sign that he passed out the brand-new business card for the first time in a cemetery office.
“A most filial son, I have to say,” the manager repeated in a loud voice, holding the card in his hand. Several others in the office turned in their direction. “I’m speechless. Trust me. I’ve seen many a man here over the years, but you’re different. A filial son like you will be blessed by Buddha.”
“You don’t have to say that, Manager Hong. But what if I pay everything up front? Any additional discount?”
“If you pay everything at once, then I can offer you an additional ten percent discount,” Hong said in earnest. “Both on the maintenance and on the renovation of the tomb. Your satisfaction is guaranteed.”
Chen nodded. He wasn’t that well-to-do, but doing this could put his mother’s mind at ease—at least on this matter. After all, he didn’t know how long he would be able to hold on to the position printed on the new business card and be able to keep paying the annual fees like before.
“Great. Then if you are able to take off another ten percent,” Chen said, “may I have copies of the designs to take with me? Back in Shanghai, I’d like to show them to my mother.”
“Of course. When would you want to start the project?”
“I happen to have a week off. So please start as soon as possible.”
“That’s fine. We can get started on it tomorrow or day after tomorrow. Now, about the payment—”
Chen took out his credit card. But there was a credit limit on it, so he could only pay half the amount now.
“Can you charge half the amount to my card now, and I’ll pay the remaining half in a day or two?”
“No problem. For a client like you, no problem at all!” Hong exclaimed, apparently impressed.
Chen signed the credit slip, and after pocketing the receipt, he got up to leave.
Outside, there was no one left at the bus stop. He’d stayed too long at the cemetery office and missed the return bus.
There was no sign of a taxi. The cemetery was too far out of the way. The bus driver had mentioned another bus later in the afternoon, but how long he’d have to wait, he didn’t know. But there was no reason he couldn’t wait, there was nothing pressing back in Shanghai.
And he ought to start economizing, having just paid a large sum. He didn’t have to pay anything more for the return trip to Shanghai on the cemetery bus.
He waited for another half hour without a bus showing up.
“There are no more buses today!” a passing local farmer shouted out to him.
“Are there any other bus stops nearby?”
“Follow this road, turn left at the small creek, and then turn right. In about ten minutes, you might be able to see a bus.”
“Thanks!”
He decided to follow the farmer’s suggestion, though he knew there was no telling how long he’d have to wait at that stop, either.
THREE
CHEN SET OFF ALONG the trail in the direction the farmer suggested. In the countryside, a passing bus would sometimes stop for a possible passenger waving it down, just like the cemetery bus had on the way from Shanghai.
But the weather was beginning to change. A drizzle blew over from beyond the hills. He quickened his step, but in only three or four minutes the trail became slippery and treacherous. Chen was trudging along with increasing difficulty, splashing muddy water around. Unlike the road in the Tang dynasty poem, there was no Apricot Blossom Village in sight. He was probably lost, seeing nothing like the creek the local farmer mentioned.
His clothes were soaked by the sharper and larger raindrops, and he felt like a chicken dropped into an enormous pot of boiling water.
There was still no sign of any vehicles cutting through the rain curtain. At another bend in the trail, he saw something that looked like a shelter. He hurried over in that direction, but as he got close to it, he came to a dead stop. It was actually a large straw-covered chicken shed, abandoned.
Then a white car came speeding down the road past him. Up ahead, it made an abrupt U-turn, its tires screeching on the gravel, and rolled to a stop beside him. It was new Lexus.
Was it possible that he’d been followed all the way here to Suzhou?
The driver rolled down the window, sticking her head out.
“Where are you going?”
An attractive woman in her midtwenties, the driver had an oval face with delicate features. She was wearing a custom-tailored mandarin dress.
“It’s raining cats and dogs.” She spoke with an unmistakable Suzhou dialect.
“I’m looking for a bus stop,” he said, “or a taxi. I’ve missed the cemetery bus.”
“You can never tell when the bus will come. You’re from Shanghai?”
“Yes.”
“Let me give you a ride,” she said, her slender hand lifting the door lock.
“Oh, it’s so kind of you, but—”
It was a luxurious car with a shining beige leather interior. He hesitated, afraid of making a mess with his wet clothes. She leaned over, pushing the door open for him.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s raining hard.”
It was a surprising offer, one he couldn’t afford to turn down. He got in and slumped into the seat beside her.
Her generous offer to a stranger had come out of the blue, but she lost no time demystifying it. “I saw you at the cemetery office. What a filial son! Paying the eternal maintenance fee, all of it, there and then.”
“A filial son?” He then recognized her as one of the VIP customers s
eated on the sofa in the office.
“Well, I happened to overhear part of your conversation with the manager.”
“I haven’t paid a visit to my father’s grave in years. It was the least I could do for him, and for my mother, too. This way, whatever happens, she won’t have to worry about that.”
That was the truth, which he blurted out at the spur of the moment, though its full meaning was beyond her.
“I see,” she said. “So you’re going to the railway station?”
“Yes. If you could just take me to the stop for any bus that goes to the station?”
“Oh, don’t worry about the bus. Let me just take you to the train station.”
“That would be extremely nice of you, but it’s too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all—not for a filial Big Buck,” she said, not trying to conceal her curiosity. “Particularly one who doesn’t have his own car. My name is Qian, by the way.”
“And mine is Cao. However, I’m neither filial, nor rich. I’ve just completed a well-paid job, so I decided to pay the maintenance fee now, while I still have the money.”
“It must have been quite a well-paid job!”
He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but since she’d rescued him from a long walk in the rain, he didn’t think he had a choice. He took a pink napkin she held out to him and wiped his wet face and dripping hair.
“In a month or two, all that money may be gone. In fact, after today’s payment, I might have to start cutting back.”
“What kind of job was it?”
That was a difficult question. There was no point in telling her that he was a government official, which was neither a popular profession nor one that matched the “well-paid job” he’d just invented. And he saw no need to reveal his real identity.
“Well, I’m—sort of a cop—for hire.”
He’d been a cop for so long, it was the first thing that came to mind.
“Oh—a private investigator?”
That was ironic. Old Hunter, Detective Yu’s father, was helping out at a private investigator’s office in Shanghai. For Chen, though, “private investigator” meant something else—an investigator who was independent of the Party’s legal system.
“Well, you could say that.”
“That’s really interesting,” she said., “You’re based in Shanghai, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Now we meet, though not known to each other before.”
“Oh, it sounds like a line from ‘Pipa Song.’”
“I like pipa. And ‘Pipa Song’ too.”
Pipa, a zitherlike musical instrument, had been popular in ancient China and was still commonly used in Suzhou opera. Bai Juyi, a Tang dynasty poet, wrote a celebrated long poem about a forsaken artisan playing pipa, entitled “Pipa Song.” It wasn’t surprising that Qian, a native of Suzhou, liked the instrument. But the line she cited from the poem was a curious choice. The original couplet read:
Two pathetic souls adrift to the ends of world, / now we meet, though not known to each other before.
She was apparently well-to-do, and she had taken him for some sort of Big Buck as well. So why did she choose those two lines?
He began to feel a bit uneasy about her and felt pressured to say something merely for the sake of saying it. He decided to change the topic. “Why were you at the cemetery office today?”
“I was there to pay the annual fee for my grandparents’ grave.” She quickly changed the topic back: “Please tell me more about your business. I’ve only read about private investigators in foreign mystery novels.”
He shouldn’t have said anything about his work. One fib, however well meant, inevitably led to another.
“Like the PIs you read about in those translated novels, I work for my clients. Unlike them, however, the profession isn’t legally licensed in China. It’s still a sort of gray area.”
“So you work like a cop—” she said, with a sudden glint in her eyes, “but for the client, not for the government.”
“That’s a good way to put it. There’s another difference. A Chinese PI has to stay away from anything involving high-ranking officials and politics. It’s just as hopeless as pitting eggs against rocks.”
“That’s so true. And so sad.”
The car swerved and pulled onto the main road. Almost instantly, the traffic became heavier, and the car was caught in a traffic jam. They slowed down to a dead stop. Chen looked out the windshield. A long line of unmoving vehicles stretched as far as he could see.
“I can’t even see the end of the line,” she said apologetically.
“I’m so, so sorry. You wouldn’t even be on this road if it weren’t for me.”
“No, it’s like this everywhere right now. It’s just after lunchtime, and, particularly around Qingming, there are a lot of people like you, who are hurrying back to the railway station.”
“Yes, the traditional lunch in Suzhou. A lot of Shanghainese like to do that after finishing their duty at the cemetery. Well, I’m in no rush. There are a number of trains to Shanghai leaving in the late afternoon and evening. I can take any one of them.”
“Then how about having lunch here?” she said, casting a glance at a side road. “I know a couple of good local restaurants, not too far away. The traffic might be better when we’re done.”
It was another surprising invitation from this young woman, but this one made sense. It was no fun being trapped in unmoving traffic. And there was nothing urgent waiting for him back in Shanghai.
Chen again looked out the window. It was still raining, though not as heavily as earlier. Off to the side of the road, he saw a black dog loitering under a pear tree, uninterested in the line of vehicles standing stock-still. It was reaching out a paw in tentative exploration of a pool of rain water, where white petals fell in occasional flurries.
“Good idea. But I insist that it be my treat. You are giving me a lift in the rain, and now you’re taking me to a Suzhou restaurant. That’s two favors, and the least I can do is to pay for lunch.”
“You’re such a gentleman. I agree to your terms. Do you have a favorite place in mind?”
“It’s your city, but in Shanghai, the best-known Suzhou-style noodle place is called Changlang Pavilion. It would be fantastic to eat at the original here.”
“The original Changlang Pavilion? I’ve been to that restaurant in Shanghai, but curiously enough, I don’t know of one here in Suzhou. But there’s a Changlang Pavilion garden in Suzhou, so perhaps there’s someplace nearby named after the garden. Let’s go there and ask the locals. Someone there will be able to help us.”
“Only if it doesn’t take up too much of your time.”
“I don’t have any other plans—not at the moment, anyway. If we can’t find the restaurant we’re looking for, I’ll take you to another one. It’s not as well known, but it’s quite good.”
She maneuvered onto the side road, then onto another even narrower side road. An experienced driver, familiar with the back roads of Suzhou, she cut through a maze of secluded streets lined with old, dilapidated houses. They encountered very little traffic along the way, and it was less than ten minutes before they were in sight of the Changlang Pavilion garden.
They asked several locals about restaurants in the vicinity, but all shook their heads. They circled the area one more time, searching for a noodle restaurant, but without any success.
“Okay, let’s just go to another one,” Chen said. “Any one you recommend.”
They drove over to a quaint street lined with ancient-looking boutiques and eateries. Qian pulled up in front of a tiny restaurant decorated in the unmistakable Suzhou style.
They picked a table with a view of a pleasant lotus leaf–covered pond.
“An ancient pond,” she said gazing at it with a wistful smile, “as old as the city of Suzhou, still reflecting the Song dynasty cloud and the Tang dynasty moon.”
“What?” Chen asked. He was surprise
d at her comment, even though he himself was inclined to speak in quotations.
“Oh, that was just something from Suzhou opera.”
Her wistful smile reminded him of the plum blossom folding into a paper fan as tall weeds swayed, as if to an inaudible tune. It was a fleeting memory, a touch of déjà vu. He shook himself out of the strange reverie and began to study the menu.
“In Suzhou,” she said, “you really can’t go far wrong with noodles.”
Chen settled on the special of the day—crispy fried green onions and shredded pork. Qian ordered plain noodles with peeled shrimp fried with Dragon Well tea leaves, in across-the-bridge style.
“The local live shrimp are very fresh—caught just this morning,” the waiter recommended. “Every one of them is still jumping in the kitchen.”
They decided to split a special platter of river shrimp in saltwater, along with a couple of cold side dishes and a pot of fresh jasmine tea.
“I know a good restaurant near the Southern Garden Hotel,” she said, pouring a cup of tea for him. “On Ten Perfections Street.”
“Southern Garden?” The hotel name sounded familiar. He wondered whether he’d stayed there.
“The restaurant is also near a club that I’ve been to quite a few times. The owner is an eccentric man. A native of Suzhou, he made a fortune in real estate, and then he quit to run the restaurant. Loyal to his childhood memory of Suzhou noodles, he tries to maintain the standards of those old days. It’s open only for breakfast and lunch, so it’s closed now. You should try it next time you’re here.”
“It sounds wonderful. Thank you for telling me about it.”
Their noodles came along with the extra dish of shrimp, which was placed on the table between them. Chen’s choice proved to be not disappointing. The crisped fried green onion and shredded pork on top of the noodles was delicious, though perhaps not as exquisite as it had been in his childhood memories.
“So you’re living in Shanghai,” she said, once the meal was under way. “I have a proposal for you.”
“A proposal?”
“You said that you’re a cop for hire. I’d like to hire you for something.”
