A Case of Two Cities

by Qiu Xiaolong

  “As you may or may not know,” Chen went on, “I’m engaged with a special investigation under the Party Discipline Committee.”

  “We know. We’ve talked to several leading comrades here.”

  “Oh, you have?” Chen said, not really surprised. For such an assignment, his background check might have been made by the very committee.

  “They all have a high opinion of your work. Your temporary assignment is only for a couple of weeks, so they think it will not be a problem. By the way, Comrade Zhao Yan has left for Shanghai.”

  “Really. Do you know why?”

  “No, I don’t. Old comrades like Zhao usually go somewhere else in the summer. He will probably contact you too, I think.”

  “I see,” he said, coming to the realization that it would be futile to argue any more. “I’ll call you back, Chairman Wang.”

  Long after the phone conversation was over, he could not brush aside a feeling of uneasiness.

  Could it really be a coincidence?

  As a cop, he didn’t think so. But he didn’t think that Jiang could have orchestrated such a surprising move only one night after their talk. Besides, what was the point? Chief Inspector Chen would be back.

  10

  WHEN HE ARRIVED AT the bureau office, the documents for the writers’ delegation had already been delivered there. Things could be efficient in China when the Beijing government gave the order directly. On top of the stack was a camera-ready copy of his business card for his approval:

  Whoever had designed the card knew better than to list his police position. Chen crossed out the third line. For the coming trip, he was supposed to be a writer, not a politician. The phone number was that of the Writers’ Association, Shanghai Office, which was not unacceptable. He went there from time to time.

  Then he dialed Jiang’s office. Jiang was not there. According to his secretary, Jiang was having an important meeting in Nanhui for the day. He did not have a cell phone, which was hard to believe, but the secretary said he might call in during lunchtime.

  Chen then dialed Sergeant Kuang, who hadn’t made a report to him, but it wasn’t really something officially requested. After all, An’s death wasn’t assigned to the special case squad.

  Presently a large envelope came through the bureau mail. It was from Kuang, containing a transcript of An’s phone calls for the last three days. Sending it instead of bringing it to Chen’s office in person was perhaps Kuang’s way of showing Chen the reluctance of his respect. Chen began reading the transcript at once. Over the last three days, An had made six phone calls. Three to her son’s school. One to her company assistant. Two to someone in the city government about a possible cultural festival. Not a single call was remotely related to Ming, or to Xing.

  Was it possible that something had been deleted from the records? Chen didn’t think so. There was also a short note in the envelope, saying that Kuang had been making a list of the people she had met in the last few days. The list could be a long one. It had obviously not been traced as far back as Chen yet, but it would be, eventually.

  He tried Kuang’s number, but the line was busy. So Chen came back to the delegation file on the desk.

  Nominally, the Writers’ Association was an unofficial organization, but it was largely controlled by the government through its funding. One of the main functions of the association was to provide for a number of “professional writers,” who would be able to concentrate on writing without having to worry about nine-to-five jobs. Each of them would get from the association a gongzi, an amount equivalent to their otherwise regular salary. In the pre-reform years, it had meant a lot to be initiated into the association. It was a high honor, and there were a lot of benefits too. In fact, all the writers chosen for the delegation were members of the association, and all of them were professional writers except Chen. He had chosen not to be one because of the imposed limitations. He would have had to write more “officially”-in tune with the government. The financial aid came with a political tab.

  The mid-nineties brought dramatic changes everywhere, and in the literary scene too, in spite of the government control. For one thing, the book market became increasingly money-oriented. The new royalties system made a small number of writers financially independent, while those whose works could hardly sell in the market, like poets or critics, got nothing but the basic professional-writer pay from the association.

  The delegation contained writers in a variety of genres. On the top of the list was Bao Guodong, a poet whose work was not unfamiliar to Chen, especially what he had produced during the Cultural Revolution. Even after all these years, a few lines came back to his mind easily-

  The fish cannot swim without water.

  The flower cannot blossom without sunlight.

  And to make revolution,

  We cannot go without Mao Zhedong Thought.

  The poem had been made into a popular song broadcast all over the country. After the Cultural Revolution, Bao wrote little, but he remained on the literary scene, as an administrator in the Beijing office of the association. Now Bao also served as the Party Secretary of the delegation.

  The next one was Zhong Taifei, a playwright better known for his life story. As a Rightist, Zhong spent his best years in a faraway labor camp, where his “black” class status excluded any possibility of romance. Then, during the Cultural Revolution, he fell on his hardest time yet, being physically starved as well as sexually starved, literally more dead than alive. But as Lao Zi writes, Luck turns at the lowest point. A widow cook, illiterate, older by more than ten years, took inexplicable pity on him. He survived on the steamed buns she stole for him. As a result of mysteriously misplaced yin and yang, they came to live together. In the eighties, Zhong wrote a play based on his experience in the labor camp. It was a huge hit. His life story got much exposure, along with the picture of “her white hair shining against his red cheeks,” which added to the popularity of his works.

  Then was Shasha, a “beauty author” before the invention of the term. Born of a high-ranking cadre family, she chose for herself an unconventional path, first as a dancer, and then as a novelist. There were notorious stories, however, attributing her literary success to her unconventional life in the circle of high connections. One of the stories claimed that half of the politburo could have met in her “scented bedroom of red sweat.” Those tales might not have been reliable, but it was undeniable that her literary achievement was not “pure and simple.”

  And then was Peng Quan. Peng had written celebrated essays before 1949, but in the years afterward, as a “historical counterrevolutionary,” he had produced nothing. Unlike Zhong, Peng kept silent even after his rehabilitation. Having survived thirty years of self-reforming and self-criticizing, he might have been totally brainwashed. Nothing left of the talented essayist of forty years earlier. Why Peng was chosen for the delegation, Chen had no clue.

  Finally, there was Huang Jialiang, a young interpreter for the delegation and a recent graduate from the Beijing Foreign Language University, where Chen had studied in the early eighties.

  But Chen didn’t want to spend too much time looking through all the information. There was no rush on it. He was going to be with those people for two weeks. Instead, he moved on to the activities of the delegation. Except for some formal speeches, he realized that he would not have much to do. So he might as well follow the time-honored doctrine of Taoism: Doing nothing does everything. The established writers should know better than to cause trouble, and contrary to Chairman Wang’s suggestion, he didn’t see any point in supervising them every step of the way. There was only one official responsibility specified in the document: he was going to organize daily political studies for the delegation, but that too would merely be a matter of formality.

  He made a phone call to the Shanghai Library, requesting some books. He didn’t have much time to prepare for the conference, but he would try to read those books during the flight. Then, as he was going to call Detecti
ve Yu, unexpected phone calls came into his office.

  Zhu Wei, the Wenhui Daily reporter, wanted Chen to purchase for him the latest edition of a GMAT reference book in the United States. Zhu must be a well-connected reporter to have learned about his new appointment so fast. The second phone call was from Xi Ran, the Secretary of the Writers’ Association, Shanghai Office, asking Chen to carry copies of Shanghai Literature to the conference. To his surprise, the third was from his mother. Party Secretary Li had already informed her of the delegation assignment, assuring her that the bureau would provide any help she needed during his absence. She wanted Chen to buy some genuine American ginseng for her friends. Then she switched the topic.

  “Perhaps you’ll see your American friend there.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have the time,” he said, aware of what was running across her mind. “She may not know about my visit. There are rules about the government delegation activities and I am the delegation head.”

  One of the regulations stated that members were not supposed to meet their relatives or friends without official approval. Especially politically sensitive contacts, let alone the “American friend” mentioned by his mother. Though he had thought about the possibility even before her call came in.

  By the time he was ready to leave his office, having gotten several more congratulations calls, he was beginning to have second thoughts- anticipatory ones-about the visit. It was an enviable opportunity, all the more so in the name of a government delegation, and the calls proved that. For Chen, it was also an opportunity to polish up his English. Not to mention the fact that it would add to his status as a writer. Last but not least, the appointment as the head of a government delegation was a political boost.

  All was well except the timing. As he walked out of the bureau, Chen called Jiang again with his cell phone. Jiang was not back at his office, or at home. His secretary apologized profusely. It was possible that Jiang had been trying to avoid him. Perhaps Jiang already knew about his trip. Since Chen had only one day left in the city, Jiang might gain a break for two weeks by not taking his phone call. Of course, Chen could turn over the pictures. But what happened then would be totally out of his control, especially since he would be visiting abroad. The pictures were the only trump card he had, and there was no point throwing it away like that. He knew that, and Jiang did too.

  But Chen didn’t think that he had to worry too much. As long as he had those pictures, he didn’t believe Jiang could get away. It was only a matter of two weeks.

  So he went to the Shanghai Library and got his books. He then decided to pay a visit to Gu at his KTV office. He should inform Gu of the trip, and more importantly, of An’s death. He didn’t want anything to happen to his businessman friend.

  But Gu appeared to have already heard about it and was not eager to talk on the subject. “I am a law-abiding businessman, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve not done anything out of the way, have I?”

  “Of course you haven’t.”

  “People should have known better than to stir up a sleeping snake.” Gu changed the topic, producing a bulging envelope and a small package. “For your trip. Now, I’m not offering you anything, Chen. I’m asking a favor of you.”

  “How can that possibly be?”

  “Shoot pictures for me in the United States of those ultra-modern or unique shopping malls. It would be really useful for my New World project, you know. Film may be expensive and I can’t let you put down your money for me. For a delegation member, the foreign currency allowance is only a hundred dollars.”

  So once more it was Gu “asking a favor of him,” rather than the other way around. The shrewd businessman seemed to have all kinds of pretexts up his sleeve. It was true, however, that in accordance to the government regulation, Chen had only one hundred dollars as his personal allowance. China Bank did not allow people to exchange foreign currency without official permission, and Chen didn’t want to go to the black market for that.

  “Whatever you say, Gu. I’ll shoot pictures and keep the receipts for you. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Gu said. “Oh, please ask about your American friend. What’s her name? She’s beautiful.”

  “Catherine Rohn, but I’m not sure I’ll see her.”

  “Here’s a small present from me in case you do.” Gu took out a brocade-covered case containing a Chinese brush pen, ink stone, ink stick, and a lion-headed seal chop with a tiny bowl of red seal ink. “She has a passion for Chinese culture, I remember.”

  “It’s very considerate of you, Gu,” Chen said. Indeed, Gu could be a man full of surprises, and full of resources too. “Now, there’s another favor I have to ask of you.”

  “Anything you say, Chen.’”

  “For the next two weeks, my mother will be all alone. She is in poor health, as you know.”

  “Yes, you’re right. What about sending White Cloud over? Last time she helped in the hospital. A clever, capable girl.”

  Not too long ago, with his mother in the hospital and himself busy with a translation project for Gu, White Cloud had been assigned to him as a free “little secretary.” The old woman had thought highly of her, though he had refrained from telling his mother what a “little secretary” meant in today’s society.

  “She’s very nice, but I don’t think my mother likes the idea of having anyone stay in her room. I’ve suggested a temporary maid for her, and she won’t listen.” He added emphatically, “Several robbery cases have occurred in her neighborhood recently.”

  “Got it,” Gu responded promptly. “Nothing will happen to her. I give you my word. I know some people both in the black and white ways.”

  The black way referred to triad organizations, in contrast to the white way of the government. If it was a matter of a rough neighborhood, Gu’s connection with the black way should be more than enough, and that was probably why Gu gave his word so promptly.

  “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Gu.”

  “Don’t say that, Chen, if you take me as a friend. With the long, long road, you know a horse.”

  What else could Chen say, as a cop, to an entrepreneur with his triad connection?

  Afterward, Chen thought it would indeed be helpful to have some extra dollars. Not that he would have a lot to purchase abroad, but there was no telling what he might have to do there.

  As for the reunion with his “beautiful American friend,” he was not sure about it. Since their joint investigation in Shanghai, they had hardly kept up a correspondence, except some holiday cards. The contents on the cards could have had been examined by others. Of late, even those cards had become fewer and fewer. But he should have prepared some present for her, like Gu. He recalled her interest in Chinese literature. Then he had an idea. Something really special, he thought.

  It was the first time that he felt any sort of eagerness at the thought of the trip.

  Water flows in the rippling

  of her eyes. Mountains rise

  in the knitting of her brows.

  So where is a traveler going to visit?

  The enchanting landscape of her eyes and brows.

  Whose poem it was, he forgot, whistling in the breeze. Possibly a Tang dynasty poet. Chen thought that he, too, might be able to produce a couple of lines during the trip.

  11

  IN THE MIDST OF his delegation preparations, Chen also managed to find out which hotel Comrade Zhao was staying in. The Western Suburb Hotel.

  The day after he had learned about Zhao’s arrival in Shanghai, he had not yet received Zhao’s call. The chief inspector waited until the early afternoon before he dialed the hotel. The operator refused to confirm that Zhao was staying there, much less put him through. It was little wonder with that particular hotel. So Chen decided to go there. The old man would not be too displeased with his unscheduled visit. While he did not think Zhao would make any change regarding his delegation appointment, he might be able to find out something behind the sudden decision.
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  The Western Suburb Hotel, located not far from Hongqiao Airport, was a high-class hotel not yet open to the public. The hotel consisted of a group of villas with woods and lakes enclosed in high surrounding walls. In its facilities, the hotel was perhaps on a par with those new, five-star American hotels in Shanghai, but it remained for the exclusive use of senior Party leaders during their visits here. In the last few years, when there were no important guests staying there, it would occasionally open its restaurant to outside business. The hotel itself remained enveloped in mystery.

  At the hotel entrance, Chen showed his identification to an armed sentry. A chief inspector’s rank meant nothing here. He had to wait for the “leading comrade” to signal approval. Comrade Zhao must have said something to the sentry, who saluted Chen on a suddenly respectful note, saying, “Yes, please come in, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. Comrade Zhao is waiting for you. He stays in Building B, close to the end of the complex.”

  It was an independent, two-storied, white colonial building shaded in green foliage. A young maid in her pink uniform opened the door for Chen. “Comrade Zhao is in the living room.”

  Chen saw a long mahogany desk in the center of a spacious living room, which was furnished in a traditional Chinese way, with long silk scrolls of painting and calligraphy hung on the walls. The desk was covered with white xuan papers, ink stone, ink stick, and books. There was a curl of smoke rising from a small tiger-shaped bronze incense burner on a mahogany corner table.

  “Welcome, Chief Inspector Chen,” Zhao said, coming out from behind a mahogany bookshelf, carrying a large book in his hand.