Shanghai Redemption

by Qiu Xiaolong

  Liang’s company was located on West Nanjing Road. According to the company profile, there wasn’t a factory or workshop at that location. In the Shanghai dialect, such a company was sometimes called a briefcase company, meaning all of its assets could be put into a briefcase.

  But to his surprise, when he got there, the company had a large, luxuriously decorated office in a tall building next to Henglong Center, another new landmark in Shanghai. The office was partitioned into a large number of cubicles, but there were only five or six people there. The phones, however, were ringing constantly. The office manager, a man named Jun, received Yu with an ill-concealed mixture of indifference and impatience.

  “Your people have already been here. What more can I possibly tell you? We’re more anxious than anybody to learn what’s happened to Liang. His wife, Wei, is worried sick.”

  “You’ve heard nothing new?”

  “Nothing. But in the meantime, we have to keep the business going, and it’s been very difficult. So please find him as soon as possible. He’s not shuangguied, is he?”

  Shuanggui—“double gui” or “twin designations”—was something beyond the legal system. A corrupt Party official might be detained for inter-Party interrogation at a specific place (the first gui), for a specific time (the second gui), before going through any legal procedure. It was done to protect the interests of the Party. This way, whatever details the corrupt official might spill wouldn’t come out in the media. If a Party official wasn’t shuangguied, then it might mean he wasn’t in serious trouble.

  Yu ignored Jun’s question and instead asked, “How long have you worked here, Manager Jun?”

  “More than three years.”

  “So you would be able to answer the questions being raised on the Internet about your company’s incredibly lucrative deals from the government?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person, Comrade Detective Yu. I work under his wife, and I’m only responsible for PR. The boss didn’t share any confidential details about the company’s business transactions.” Jun went on after a pause, “You know we supply parts for the new high-speed trains, don’t you? For a country with such a huge population, the importance of the high-speed rail can’t be exaggerated. In less than ten years, we’ve already surpassed the rail systems of America and the more advanced European countries. The safety, as well as the quality, of our products is not just critically important, it’s a political priority.”

  Jun’s answer sounded like glib propaganda, an echo from an article in the People’s Daily.

  “But your company only supplies chairs and tables for the new trains.”

  “Nonetheless, they are integral part of those trains. The designs were studied and restudied, and our products meet all the quality requirements. Everything has to be the best, a point that has been made again and again, and everything we did was legitimate. You can’t pay attention to irresponsible hearsay on the Internet,” Jun said, raising his voice. “If you have any more questions, you have go through our representatives, the Kaitai law firm. Our bid to supply parts for the high-speed rail project was arranged through them.”

  Jun handed him a business card.

  “Their offices are nearby, in Commerce City. It’s just a block away, on Nanjing Road.”

  Yu took the card, surprised at the hostility in Jun’s voice. So far it was still a missing person case, but given all the evidence posted about the company’s practices on the Internet, there was no reason for a PR manager to be this uncooperative.

  There was also something strange in the way Jun had referred him the law firm. It was as if he thought he was playing a trump card.

  * * *

  Afterward, Yu made his way to Kaitai LLC in the Shanghai Commerce City, one of the top office buildings in the city. To his amazement, the law firm occupied nearly half a floor, and an impressive sign outside the suite indicated that it had branch offices in Beijing and Hong Kong.

  A partner in the law firm named Dai received Yu in an office that overlooked West Nanjing Road. Dai was seated at a large mahogany desk, with a laptop next to a desktop computer, and what looked like a tablet as well. On the white wall behind him, there was an impressive array of pictures of Party officials and business tycoons. Some of the people in the pictures were foreigners, including a president of a European country. Yu recognized only a few of them.

  Dai turned out to be far more polite than Jun, but also far more guarded.

  “The city government people came to us about Liang and his business transactions. We were told not to discuss the sensitive details with anybody else. Besides, Liang is neither charged nor shuangguied. He’s simply disappeared. We’re not obliged to say anything.” Dai added with a smile, “Of course, if you have some general questions, I’ll try my best to help.”

  “I understand. In last several years, Liang landed a number of enormously lucrative deals with the government, but his company didn’t have any special expertise or experience, compared to other companies—”

  “That’s something I can’t discuss,” Dai said, cutting Yu off. “It was due to the reputation of the company, I suppose. Liang has always delivered on time and met the required specifications.”

  “Also because of his connections, I would say.”

  “Yes, his connections,” Dai said, leaning back in his chair. “For a successful businessman today, that’s not really surprising.”

  “Liang’s company was selected, from all the competing companies, as the designated supplier for the high-speed train, and your law firm prepared all the documents for the bidding process. According to one post on the Internet, however, the company created a special memory drive for which they charged the Railway Ministry more than ten thousand yuan. It was discovered to be nothing more than an ordinary flash drive wrapped in a plastic shell—a flash drive that sells for only twenty yuan in any supermarket.”

  “That decision was made by the Railway Ministry in Beijing. I’m not a technology professional, so I can’t tell you anything about it,” Dai said. “We helped them submit their bid, and all the necessary specifications were included and verified. Everything was legitimately done.”

  “But if everything was legitimate, why did he flee?”

  “That’s a question for the police, not us. As far as I can see, Liang simply panicked. The storm of accusations on the Internet was terrifying. It was like a lynch mob. His privacy was invaded, his personal life put out on display, and all his company’s secrets paraded before the public. Nobody could possibly withstand the pressure.”

  It was clear that this conversation was going nowhere. Sighing inaudibly, Yu wondered whether Chen could have done any better.

  “But there is one thing I can tell you. The company uses a well-known American accounting firm to audit its books. If you’re interested, talk to the accounting firm directly.”

  Dai sat up in his leather swivel chair, his fingers touching a framed picture on the desk. It was a photo of a strikingly attractive woman.

  “Our law firm has come a long way,” Dai said. “You might have seen pictures of our special advisor Kai in the newspapers. She no longer works in the office, but she founded it single-handedly.”

  EIGHTEEN

  IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Chen decided to pay a visit to Suzhou Opera Club.

  His hotel room felt oppressive; he couldn’t sit there any longer. And ever since his second phone call to Qian, he’d had an ominous feeling.

  Qian might not be at the club, but maybe someone there could tell him something about her. At the very least, it could be an interesting visit, something he could talk about with Old Hunter. Chen’s knowledge of Suzhou opera had mostly come from his conversations with Old Hunter, but it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to toss out a couple of terms and names, pretending to be someone genuinely interested in opera.

  The club was in a traditional two-story building, and a small sign on the front door indicated the club was on the second floor. The first floor had bee
n converted into a shoe store, which had a large sign declaring “Suicidal Sale! Bankruptcy!” But the sign looked faded. It could have been posted there for weeks, possibly months.

  Visitors to the club had to cut through an extremely narrow corridor leading to a precarious staircase in the back. On the second floor, the door was open, covered only by a bamboo bead curtain flapping slightly in an unexpected breeze. Chen noticed a bell on the doorframe, so, instead of barging in, he pressed the bell.

  “Come on in. The door is open.”

  A woman got up, walked over, and nodded her welcome. She was in her late thirties or early forties, looking haggard and noticeably thin in her oversized dark gray mandarin dress, like yesterday’s chrysanthemum.

  The club’s space was quite large. It looked like it had been converted from the original living room and two wings with the partition walls removed. There were a couple of tables and chairs by the windows, instruments were leaning against the wall, and an oblong opera table stood toward the upper end. That was probably the centerpiece, and singers would perform sitting at the table.

  There was also a small bouquet of jasmine flowers on the table.

  Four or five kids were gathered in the center of the room, some playing pipa, some plugging sanxian, seemingly oblivious of his intrusion. He wondered whether there was a class going on at the moment.

  “I’m staying at the Southern Garden Hotel. It’s so close, and I’m interested in Suzhou opera.” He decided not to ask about Qian straight off. “Do I have to pay a fee?”

  “No, you don’t. This is not an opera house, and we don’t sell tickets. But if you want to buy a cup of tea, or a buy a CD, you are most welcome.”

  “A cup of tea first,” he said, choosing a fairly expensive one, Hairy Point, for thirty yuan. “I’ve never been to a Suzhou opera club before.”

  “It’s not like the club in your hotel, Southern Heavenly World, that much I can tell you. And I’m glad you’re interested in opera. By the way, my name is Nan.”

  “No, I’m not interested in that kind of nightclub. And my name is Qiang,” Chen said, thinking of Qian again.

  “Look around and enjoy yourself,” she said, pouring out a cup of tea for him. “If you have any questions, just ask. The kids will start singing soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  He seated himself on a mahogany chair by the windows. On the tea table, there was something like a menu, from which a visitor could choose songs or episodes, each with a price listed next to it. It wasn’t expensive at all. The mere fact that there was such a club at such a desirable location seemed nothing short of a miracle.

  “I have a question for you, Nan. How do you manage to keep this club open?”

  “Well, Suzhou opera enjoys a long tradition in this city. I grew up in a family of opera fans, listening to it all the time from my earliest memories on. When my parents passed away, they left these rooms to me. Alone, I didn’t need all that space, so I’ve converted it for the club after the opera theaters were all torn down in recent years. Like me, some other people were sad to see the local opera go into decline like that, so they help in whatever way possible. But it’s been really tough to keep the club going.”

  “I imagine it’s not easy, maintaining this oasis in the midst of our materialistic society.”

  “Usually, the members of the club meet to sing two or three times a week, and nonmembers come to listen and enjoy, buying a cup of tea or a CD as a sort of donation,” Nan said wistfully. “Suzhou opera is losing its audience, especially among young people. So we keep the place open for the kids to come by after school, and the instruments are left out so that the children can play them.”

  “That’s something really worth doing,” Chen said, nodding. People came here to the club because of their passion for the traditional art, despite all the entertainment available on TV and the Internet. “Not everyone knows how to appreciate a slow pace. Describing Suzhou opera, a friend always used the well-known example of the one that features a young girl walking downstairs, lost in an internal monologue; it can take as many as eighteen episodes for her to reach the last step.”

  “Yes, that’s from the Pearl Pagoda. You can see why times are really hard for Suzhou opera, with its narratives unfolding so slowly in a society that moves so fast,” she said with a wan smile. “In the evening, we’ll have an informal performance of short pieces. It’s free, and anybody may come. Of course, you may want to buy another cup of tea. We won’t refuse any donations from people who love Suzhou opera.”

  A girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, stepped over to the opera table, carrying a pipa taller than herself. After bowing to an invisible audience, she started singing.

  To Chen’s surprise, it was an eleventh-century ci poem written by Su Shi, titled “Lines Written in Dinghui Temple, Huangzhou”:

  The waning moon hangs on the sparse tung twigs, / the night deep, silent. / An apparition of a solitary wild goose / glides in the dark. // Startled, it turns back, / its sorrow unknown to others. / Trying each of the chilly boughs, / it chooses not to perch. / Freezing, the maple leaves fall / over the Wu River.

  He heaved a sigh. He thought that was one of the songs included on Qian’s CD. What was going through her mind while she practiced those lines?

  Chen applauded as the girl finished singing. Fifteen years ago, Qian might have been just like her.

  He turned to Nan. “What a beautiful piece! I think I’ve also heard it on one of the club’s CDs, sang by someone named Qian. Do you happen to know her?”

  “Qian—” Nan said, looking up in surprise. “Why?”

  “I met her a short while ago, and she said she sometimes comes to the club.”

  “You should have come—” Nan murmured, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She died last night.”

  “What!” The news hit like a personal blow.

  “Someone broke into her apartment, killed her, and took all her valuables.”

  He had suspected something had gone terribly wrong when he had tried to call her from the phone booth and a strange man answered. He was shocked speechless for a minute or two.

  A robbery gone wrong? He ruled it out instinctively—it was just too convenient. And the robbery-murder theory certainly didn’t explain the man waiting in her apartment, answering her cell phone. But he wasn’t in any position to contact the Suzhou police bureau about it.

  “You look pale,” Nan said. “It’s a shock to all of us. Were you close?”

  “I didn’t know her well, but she helped me,” he murmured. “Please tell me more about what happened.”

  “No one here knows any details yet. Yesterday afternoon, she came here to the club and paid her monthly membership fee, as always. After she left, some visitors came to the club. They bought her CD, and one of them even bought a copy of her poster, which cost two hundred yuan. After they left, I called her. She was pleased, saying that the money the visitors spent would be her donation to the club.”

  “I don’t understand how thieves could have broken into her apartment,” Chen said. “Her apartment is close to the Temple Market, near the center of the city.”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that early this morning, while I was still asleep, the cops came to my place. They found me because my number was in her phone’s call log as the last person that contacted her yesterday. The cops asked me a bunch of questions before telling me that she’d been murdered.”

  “That must have been awful for you.”

  “We’re having a memorial performance for her tonight. We’re performing all the Tang and Song poems that she set to Suzhou opera tunes. It’s our way to remember her. You should come.”

  Nan then walked over to a pipa leaning against the wall.

  “That’s hers.”

  He followed her, reached out to the instrument, and noticed that one of the strings was broken. In ancient China, a broken string was a sinister omen. Touching it, he
imagined her playing pipa here, one string, one peg, each reminiscent of the lost years of her youth.

  “I’m so sorry I can’t come to the performance tonight,” he said. He thought it was likely that some plainclothes policeman would also be at the evening performance. “I have an important business meeting tonight. But I would like to buy a CD of hers and order a short piece called ‘Zijuan Lamenting at Night’ for tonight’s memorial performance. I’ll pay the fee for the song in accordance to the menu.”

  Zijuan was a maid to Daiyu, the heroine of Dream of the Red Chamber. After Daiyu’s death, Zijuan laments the heroine’s tragic fate on the night when Baoyu, the hero, marries another girl.

  “That is a very thoughtful choice. It’s the song I’m planning to sing for her tonight. Don’t worry about the fee.”

  “No, I want to pay for it,” he insisted. “I only met her twice, and I know so little about her. Can I also ask a favor of you? Can you start recording tonight’s performance as soon as people begin to arrive? I’d like you to record the evening all the way to the end. Not just what the performers sing, but what they say too. Don’t bother burning it to a CD. A cassette tape will do. Here is a thousand yuan. Will that be enough?”

  “You’re generous, sir. It’s far more than enough.”

  “I’ll come back and pick up the tape in a day or two.”

  “Whenever it’s convenient. I’m here most of the time, and if I have to step out, I’ll leave a note about the tape.”

  He supposed that was about all Nan could tell him about Qian. He stood up, holding the CD, which also bore the address and contact information of the club, and said his good-byes.

  He almost stumbled walking down the stairs. The narrow corridor led him to an overwhelming question.

  Did she die because of him?

  He might be jumping to conclusions, but if it had been just a random home invasion robbery, why was there a man at her home answering her phone? At the time Chen called, the man must have known that Qian was dead, but he pretended that he would give her his message.