A Case of Two Cities

by Qiu Xiaolong

  “Li Bai’s poem reminded me of another poet,” Chen said in his opening speech. “An American poet. I read his poems years ago in Shanghai. Now it’s morning here, and it’s evening in Shanghai. ‘Let us go, you and I, / when the morning and the evening / are joining against the sky.’”

  “A different delegation from a different China,” an American critic commented. “Now we can really talk. Whether from East or West, we are writers.”

  As if in contradiction to the American’s comment, Bao took the floor. It was a speech full of clichés from the Peoples Daily, but thanks to Pearl, the talented American simultaneous interpreter, it sounded quite smooth in English. The audience politely applauded.

  American writers spoke too, one after another. It was the first conference after the interruption of 1989. They had a lot to tell, and a lot to ask too. When Professor Reed began to talk about the significance of their meeting, Chen was hardly able to keep himself focused, though he kept nodding and applauding as before. The jet lag had started kicking in. And there was something else waking up in the back of his mind.

  But the conference went on. Every attendee, Chinese or American, was supposed to talk for five to ten minutes, interesting or boring. Chen felt like lighting a cigarette, but there was no ashtray on the table.

  An unexpected topic came up in the discussion. As most of the Chinese writers introduced themselves as “professional writers,” James Spencer, an American poet, took a great interest in it. “I wish there were an institution here like your Writers’ Association. A sort of government salary for your writing. It’s fantastic. In the States, most of us can’t make a living on writing. That’s why I teach at a university. We all envy you. I would love to go to Beijing and become a professional writer too.”

  The American poet would have to live in China for years, Chen thought, before learning what a “professional writer” was like. Chen chose not to make any comment. Zhong said, however, with a sarcastic note discernable perhaps only in Chinese, “You are most welcome, James.”

  After lunch, the Chinese visited the campus bookstore. Bao frowned, muttering, “I have not seen any of our works here.”

  “It’s not a large bookstore,” Chen said.

  “It’s not just the size of it,” Zhong said, siding with Bao.

  All the other writers took the issue seriously. In China, they were considered the leading authors in their respective genres. So they had taken for granted their popularity in the States, but they found it far from so. The Americans had hardly heard of their works, except a few university professors specializing in modern Chinese literature. And only one touched on Chen’s translation in his speech during the morning session.

  So in the afternoon session, Shasha launched into an unrehearsed topic. Wearing a scarlet sleeveless silk cheongsam, she spoke in an authentic yet graceful way.

  “I am going to address an important issue-the imbalance in the Chinese-American literature exchange. If you ask a college student in Beijing -not necessarily even one majoring in Western literature-he or she will reel off a list of American writers. Not only Mark Twain and Jack London, but a horde of contemporary writers, including some of you sitting here today. We have a dozen magazines devoted to the translation of Western literature. One Chinese critic saw the influence of Oates in my novels, and she’s right. Mr. Chen, our delegation head, has translated Eliot and other American poets. Very popular translations. But what have our American colleagues done about modern Chinese literature? Little, I have to say. Very little.”

  Bao nodded. Little Huang was busy making notes. Peng, too, assumed a serious expression. Zhong took the floor. “There seems to be a political tendency. Those Chinese writers translated here-such as Sun Congwen or Zhang Ailing-are hardly relevant today.”

  Zhong had a point. For more than thirty years after 1949, the history of modern Chinese literature had been written to one overt political criterion. Those not affiliated with the Party or the socialist revolution were either criticized or ostracized. On the other hand, studies of modern Chinese literature in the West turned out to be exactly the opposite. Those writers were chosen in terms of their intrinsic value, and for their antigovernment stance as well.

  Bonnie Grant, a sinologist who had translated Misty poets, commented with a hardcover in her hand, “There are Chinese writers writing in English here, and their books sell well. Perhaps there’s something wrong with the translation of your work.”

  “We are in a commercial market,” James Spencer said, once more trying to make the point. “It’s a matter of selling one’s product. The bookstore can think about nothing but profit.”

  “Not just in the bookstore,” Bao cut in. “I cannot find my book even in the university library. I have asked Pearl to do a search for me during the lunch break. You have a Chinese department here, haven’t you? That’s a matter of cultural hegemony.”

  The conference atmosphere became tense. Bao might have been used to those political phrases, but the Americans were not. The discussion appeared to be going out of control. Chen had been aware of an anti-American undercurrent among his group but he wasn’t prepared for this sudden shift.

  Fortunately, the time for the cocktail party came. Their argument stopped as abruptly as it had started. Amidst the toasts, once again the writers were shaking hands and expressing their best wishes. Shasha plucked from her hair a fresh white jasmine petal and put it into a cup of tea, to the delighted surprise of Americans who surrounded her.

  14

  THE TROUBLES WERE NOT confined to the conference hall.

  Afterward, in the evening “political study” in his room, Chen listened patiently as his delegation vented their frustrations.

  “No thermos bottle in the hotel room,” Bao started the angry chorus on a small note. “I cannot even have a cup of hot tea.”

  “Nonsmoking area,” Zhong joined in. “Is this a free country? Nothing but hypocrisy. The Americans dump their cigarettes in China. They rip us off in a big way. Now we are not allowed to smoke the cigarettes bought with American dollars.”

  “It’s not just us. Everyone in the hotel has to obey the rule,” Chen said, though he felt constrained too.

  “It’s like the Opium War,” Zhong went on. “They knew opium was a drug, but they dumped it on China on the grounds of free trade.”

  “I talked to an American student today,” Little Huang said. “They believe that Hong Kong belongs to Britain, and that we do not even have the right to take it back. They know nothing about the Opium War. There is nothing in their textbooks.”

  “You know what?” Shasha said. She had changed her clothes again, and now in her pajamas, barefoot, she appeared at home. “ Pearl told me that Pizza Hut is a cheap fast-food restaurant here. In Beijing, it is a high-end place. A pizza costs more than an ordinary Chinese worker’s daily income. That is capitalism.”

  In the end, the Chinese writers were aggravated by the Americans’ ignorance of their works. They had checked again in the late afternoon. Not a single translation of their works was available either in the bookstore or in the library.

  “We are guests here,” Chen said. “They have done a good job arranging this conference.”

  “We did a far better job in China,” Bao cut in again. He had attended an earlier conference held in Beijing, before 1989. He talked with an unquestionable air of authority. “The best hotel in Beijing. Their delegation head got the presidential suite.”

  Peng was the only one in the group that spoke little, sitting in a corner. Chen failed to recall what Peng had said in the meeting.

  Still, it was a lively political study, not so political as Chen had dreaded. Afterward, they talked about other things, without leaving his room immediately and not all at once. Shasha was the last one to stand up, just as Bao stepped out, but instead of leaving, she turned around again.

  “Oh, I need to discuss with you the issue I raised in the afternoon.”

  “Yes, you made a good point today.”<
br />
  He had no idea why she didn’t discuss it earlier, with others in the room. In fact, they had already touched on it, though not with serious concentration. It might not be a good idea for him to stay alone with her, so late in a hotel room. She was said to believe in her irresistible charm to men. But it wasn’t a good idea for him to show his misgivings, either. He’d better not make any of them feel uncomfortable in his presence.

  “Indeed, your writing is graceful as your dancing, Shasha,” he started on a casual note. “In my college years in Beijing, I saw your performance, in the Red Pagoda Theater.”

  “Really! You should have told me earlier.”

  “I was a poor student then, sitting at the end of the theater, worshipping the moonlike beauty rising on the stage.”

  “Come on, Chen. You don’t have to say that to me. No one can dance forever. Beauty fades quickly, like a flower. So I moved from stage to page.”

  It was clever of her. Now she had her words dancing in fairy tales. She was a best-seller whose books were being made into TV series.

  “But you have not come to Beijing so often-to your girlfriend Ling,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.

  It was probably no secret to the circle Shasha moved in, the story of him and his HCC girlfriend. Still, no one had brought up the subject to his face before. He wondered why she wanted to discuss that with him.

  “I’m very busy in my work,” he said.

  “You don’t have to explain to me, Chen. What’s going on between a man and woman, others will never understand. Whatever people may say, you cannot live in their expectation or explanation.”

  “Yes, you put it well, Shasha.”

  So they kept chitchatting. Shasha did not turn out to be a siren as in the stories about her. She struck Chen as an understanding and titillating talker, though occasionally intimate in an unexpected way. When she rose to leave, it was ten-thirty. They had not really touched upon the issue she had mentioned. Why had she chosen to stay on behind? he wondered. Perhaps she knew jet lag would keep her from being able to fall asleep. Perhaps as an acknowledgment of their common friend in Beijing. Perhaps she was just like that, flirtatiousness being second nature to her. Perhaps, with her extraordinary connections, she had a mission unknown to him-the mission of watching over him. It was not much of a possibility, but he could not rule it out.

  As a result, Chen had no time to make a phone call back to Detective Yu in Shanghai. It didn’t seem a good idea to call from the hotel room. The bill probably wouldn’t be covered by the Americans, and the delegation had only a small budget. Nor was he sure if the room was bugged. His cop background must have been no secret here. Perhaps he should try to use a pay phone. He copied some numbers on a scrap of paper.

  As he was about to walk out of his room, there came a light tap on the door. Not again, he thought as he steadied himself in resignation and opened the door. To his surprise, it was Dai Huang, an old poet from Shanghai, standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry to approach you like this,” Dai said shamefacedly.

  “Oh, come on in, Mr. Dai. I didn’t know you were here.”

  Chen had met Dai in the Shanghai Writers’ Association. Dai had studied abroad in the thirties, served as a bank manager on his return, and written modernist poems in the pre-1949 era. In spite of his strenuous efforts to reform himself in the socialist revolution, Dai lapsed into silence in the late fifties, and it was not until the mid-eighties that his work was reprinted. He was not a writer chosen for the conference.

  “The Greyhound had an accident on the way, so I have just arrived here,” Dai said, wiping his feet on the doormat.

  As it turned out, Dai happened to be visiting a relative in San Francisco. He heard of the conference and hurried over by bus. He had intended to stay with a friend in L.A., but his friend had just left for a business meeting. It was late, and Dai could not afford to stay in a hotel nearby. He contacted Bao, who suggested he touch Chen, on the ground that his room was the largest.

  Chen thought that he had to help. He liked Dai’s poems. But for the political considerations, Dai would have been chosen as a delegation member-and stayed in the hotel. With a king-sized bed in his room, Chen didn’t think it would be a problem.

  In spite of the late hour, neither wanted to go to bed immediately. Chen used the coffeepot to make hot water. Dai carried Dragon Well tea with him. The water was not too hot, but the tea tasted good.

  “Isn’t life full of ironies?” Dai started. “In the fifties, I gave up my properties to the government, including an inherited house in the States. In an effort to make myself a member of the proletariat, but what then?”

  Chen had heard the story before. The brainwashing campaign was effective in those years, and Dai had wholeheartedly believed the communist propaganda. During the Cultural Revolution, however, his self-reforming effort was condemned as abortive camouflage to buy himself a Party membership.

  “Think about it. The interest from selling the house could have covered my hotel expense here for a month,” Dai said, not trying to conceal the bitterness in his voice. “I am staying with my niece in San Francisco, room and board. A nice girl, she gives me a hundred dollars as monthly pocket money here. I don’t have the old face to ask any more of her.”

  What could Chen say? His own father, a neo-Confucian scholar, had donated to his college a collection of rare books, which were later exhibited as criminal evidence against him and were burned at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Dai. The university will take care of your problem tomorrow morning,” Chen said. “It’s an honor for me to share this room with you. I read your poems as early as in middle school. Now you go to bed first, Mr. Dai. I’ll look through the schedule.”

  After Chen glanced through the schedule, he took out his notebook, scribbling down several lines. It was out of the question to call Yu with Dai in the room.

  Finally, he went to bed. Lying uncomfortably on one side, staring at the ceiling, he knew he would not be able to fall asleep anytime soon. The old man, exhausted by the long hours on the bus, started to snore. Chen soon got up and moved over to the sofa. Sitting with his legs resting on a chair, he tried to think over the day’s events.

  But his mind was tired, unable to focus. English seemed to be jarring against his Chinese subconscious. Then he thought of Xing again-who was also in Los Angeles. But Chen was not a cop here and he had no idea how to proceed. In a way, he didn’t even know what he really was, with the old poet snoring in the bed. He thought of a poem written by Su Dongpo, a well-known Song dynasty poet, in his exile. Chen particularly liked the ending of it.

  Long, long I lament

  there is not a self for me to claim

  oh, when can I forget

  all the cares of the world?

  The night deep, the wind still, no ripples on the river.

  The poem was about Su being shut out at midnight because his houseboy slept too soundly, snoring like thunder. He could only stand outside, listening to the sound of the river, while he thought about the loss of his self in the midst of all his worries. Chief Inspector Chen was in quite a different situation. He was in his own hotel room, with his career in a steady rise, though the snoring that came to him in the depth of the night was perhaps as loud.

  After a while, he rose again and took two sleeping pills. He started jotting down notes for a speech on the second day. When he finished with the notes, however, the pills still hadn’t started working.

  His mind wandered further away-to An. The memories of her black braid flapping in their reading-group days, of her politically correct image radiating on TV, and of her naked body lying spread-eagled in her apartment. A nocturnal confusion of juxtaposed images. And then their meal in the restaurant on the Bund. He had a feeling he had missed something in his earlier reconstruction of that evening. Once more he tried to recall what they had said, minute by minute, in the Lovers’ Nest. As he had experienced before, the eff
ort only wore him out without yielding any clue.

  It was almost three-thirty, the window revealing the first gray light, when sleepiness finally began to overtake him. Perhaps Dai would get up soon. Still, Chen tried to set the alarm clock. The instruction was in English and took him several minutes to figure out. He was mechanically clumsy. Then something rang in his memory.

  It was not what she said, but what she did in Golden Island.

  That evening, he had had a problem with his cell phone. He must have accidentally touched a button, and he had had no clue how to put it back to the normal ringing. She had taken it from his hand and restored the ringing in no time. He was amazed, her slender fingers touching his, but he did not ask her how she did it.

  “It’s easy,” she said.

  Not easy for the chief inspector, who now realized the importance of the incident. She must have had a cell phone too. Or she could not have fixed the problem so easily. He had to find her cell phone record.

  15

  THE SECOND DAY IN Los Angeles was like the first day, busy with meeting, visiting, dining, and discussing. And now it was the third day, which would probably turn out to be just like the day before, Chen thought, waking up early in the hotel room.

  In the midst of all the delegation activities, Chen managed to do a few things on his own.

  With an international phone card, he had called Detective Yu, his hardworking assistant in Shanghai, who had hardly anything new to tell him. The weather remains cloudy, with little change in the air. If An had been murdered in connection with the anticorruption investigation, it might have been planned at a high level. So getting information would be difficult for a low-level cop like Detective Yu, let alone one without access to the investigation. The people Yu watched showed no unusual signs. Jiang was back in office, and in the newspaper too, the day after Chen had left, delivering a speech on the urgency of making the land development process transparent to the public. Sergeant Kuang kept plodding away at the An case without giving away any details. Yu had to find his own way of exploring the case. Separately, a short poem by Chen appeared in the Shanghai Morning with a note about his new status as the delegation leader. After Yu’s report, made mainly in the weather terminology, Chen told Yu what he had thought of during the night Dai was snoring in his room. The chief inspector found it hard to explain in their agreed-upon jargon, but he believed that he had managed to convey his meaning.