by Qiu Xiaolong
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s health,” she said. But the part about the cell phone was strange, she thought. He could have told Lenich about it. It was an odd thing to say to her first thing in the morning. She looked up at him and he flipped the phone closed emphatically.
“Oh, this is for you,” he said, already changing the subject as he handed the plastic bag to her. “Last night, there were people in my room, and I came over in a hurry. The writing set is from Mr. Gu. The book is from me. You like Chinese poetry, I know.”
“Thank you so much, Chen. Can I take a look? The Chinese way is to open the present later, I know.”
“Now we are in St. Louis, so do as St. Louisians do.”
Shasha’s appearance in the lobby, however, interrupted their conversation. “Oh, you two are down early,” Shasha said in mock surprise.
“Miss Rohn has been doing a great job for us,” he said. “To express our gratitude, I am giving her some small gifts.”
“The writing set is expensive,” Shasha said, picking up the miniature water ladle and turning it over to read the tiny engraving on its back. “Eighteen-karat gold. I have a similar set at home. Four or five thousand yuan.”
“Really!” Chen exclaimed. “A friend gave it to me, and I think it will make a good present for Miss Rohn, a would-be sinologist.”
He didn’t reveal that it was a gift to her from Mr. Gu and Catherine knew why.
“A new book by you?” Shasha went on, picking up the book.
“An advance copy,” he said. “A collection of classic Chinese poetry in translation.”
“You never told me about it, Chen. You must have prepared the present just for her,” Shasha said smiling, turning toward Catherine. “Our poet must have brought the book all the way here for you.”
Catherine smiled without making a response to Shasha. “Thank you, Mr. Chen. I like Chinese poetry. It’s a wonderful present.”
Shasha turned to the inscription page, on which were two lines he had copied in English: Anguish of separation is like spring grass: / the farther you go, the more it grows. The couplet might be from a poem in the collection, but Shasha didn’t read English.
The other Chinese began to show up. It was the time for them to set out for the Arch. Catherine clapped her hands for attention.
“I’ve talked to the city government. Your prolonged stay here may cause you inconveniences, they understand. So they’ll try to do everything possible to make your visit to the city a comfortable one. For one thing, if you would like to call back to China, they have offered to provide you with prepaid international phone cards. As for those of you with cell phones, you may also have prepaid cards. You have a cell phone, Mr. Chen, don’t you?”
“Yes. As the delegation head, I have to take care of a lot of things, but I have just put enough money onto my cell.”
“I have a cell phone too,” Bao said.
She was aware of a surprised murmur among the Chinese, and of a subtle glance from Chen. “Let me put down the number and the mode, so the phone card will work with yours, Mr. Bao,” she said, taking over the phone and jotting the number on a notebook. “Now let’s go to the Arch.”
The hotel had arranged a minivan for them. Most of the Chinese carried cameras in their hands. In spite of the interpreter’s death, they wanted to have a memorable day with the celebrated Arch towering overhead.
Once they arrived at the Arch, the tallest man-made monument in the United States, the Chinese writers started wondering at close range, touching the individual slabs of stainless steel and imagining how all of them had been put together. They began to take pictures, posing with the Arch shimmering in the background.
Visitors usually wanted to go to the top of the Arch and the Chinese proved to be no exception. Catherine went to buy them the tram tickets. There were a lot of people in line for the tram, and their turn wouldn’t come for about forty-five minutes. Looking back, she saw the Chinese were still busy taking pictures. It appeared that Chen was a popular photographer among the group.
So she was left alone. She sat on a bench near the tram entrance. It was ironic. In Shanghai, Chen had played a similar escort role. If there was any difference, it was that he tried to do more than the Chinese authorities had instructed him to. Now things seemed to be coming full circle.
She started thinking about the CIA theory regarding Chen’s secret mission. She failed to see how, what with his delegation responsibilities, and in the midst of his fellow writers, it would be possible. According to the CIA, Chen hadn’t yet made any suspicious moves except for calling on pay phones instead of using the hotel phones. Chen wouldn’t have come all this way to make phone calls.
And Chen apparently had his own suspicions about the homicide case. He agreed with Lenich about probing among the writers, and then there was his hint about Bao’s cell phone earlier this morning.
She opened the book he had given her. A bound galley of Chinese love poetry translated by Chen and Yang, a celebrated scholar persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution. According to Chen’s introduction, most of the work was done by Yang, Chen only added a few poems not included in the original manuscript. She turned to a poem entitled “The Lines Written in Dinghui Temple, Huangzhou,” written by Su Dongpo, a Song dynasty poet she’d liked in her college years. Chen liked Su too, she remembered.
The waning moon hangs on the sparse tung twigs,
the night deep, silent.
An apparition of a solitary wild goose
moves like a hermit.
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.
A footnote by Chen said that it wasn’t necessarily a love poem. Still, she wanted to read it as one-in a way that she wanted to be moved. For the lonely wild goose could be about him, and about her as well.
Then she put down the book, frowning, as she took out her ringing cell phone. She recognized the number.
“He’s a conscientious head,” she briefed David Marvin, the CIA officer assigned to work with her, “busy with his delegation responsibilities. I don’t see how he could have the time or energy for another mission, whatever it might be.”
“We’ve just learned that he wasn’t with the delegation for two afternoons in L.A. One afternoon he spent with an old friend of his, and on the other he claimed he wasn’t well, staying at the hotel instead of going to Disneyland with the delegation. Besides, he seems to have spent some time on the computers at a number of college libraries.”
“What did he do there?”
“Mostly Internet searches on Xing and some companies possibly related to him.”
“When I was in China, I tried to get onto American Web sites, but most of them were blocked. So he may be trying to get information about Xing while here.” She added after a pause, “Still, he didn’t come all the way here for computer research, did he?”
“Well, I wanted to keep you posted. If you have anything, let me know.”
“I will. Bye.”
It was time for the Chinese to move over to the tram station so she led them to the line there. Underneath the towering Arch was a museum called Westward Expansion. They only had three or four minutes before their turn, but Zhong and Shasha moved over and started taking pictures again. Chen smiled at her apologetically, holding the camera.
When their turn came they had to go on two tram cars. Shasha, Bao, Peng, and Zhong sat in the first one, Catherine and Chen, the second. They were not alone, though. There was also an old American couple sitting in the same car, who probably couldn’t speak or understand Chinese. However, both Chen and Catherine felt they had better talk in a guarded way as the tram started to climb, in jumps and jerks.
“Thank you for your idea about the cell phone card. It was brilliant.”
“You think there’s
something wrong about his cell phone?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s too expensive for him. And he doesn’t know many people here,” he said, before changing the subject. “I’ve got faxes about Little Huang from China. There was nothing in his background. Nothing that justifies it. Such a young interpreter.”
She knew what he was driving at. In a case of premeditated murder, there had to be a motive, but Chen didn’t see one. Huang wasn’t a plausible target for Detective Lenich’s theory.
They were in the dark, as the tram bumped up through an almost vertically rising tunnel, with nothing but the somber concrete walls surrounding them.
“Your delegation appointment was made at the last minute. So you may not know everything.” Anything was possible with Chen: that was one thing her boss had said to her.
“I have thought about it, and the others might be possible but not Little Huang.”
Before they could discuss it any further, the tram jerked to a stop. They stepped out with the old couple. The top level of the Arch was like a long, narrow corridor crammed with people looking out of small square windows along both sides. They had a great view of downtown and of the murky, ship-studded Missouri River. She’d lost sight of the other Chinese, who must have moved on ahead. She stood beside Chen, whispering in his ear.
“We know what case you were investigating in Shanghai.”
“How?”
“Xing applied for political asylum here. It’s been widely reported in the American newspapers. It’s a quandary for our government so we’ve paid close attention to the development of the case in China.”
“I’m not here because of Xing,” he said.
“But it doesn’t take a chief inspector to lead a writers’ delegation.” She had a sense of déjà vu. In another city, she had voiced similar questions. It didn‘t take a chief inspector to act as a tour guide. But it was more than that-there was their reversal of roles for the part of tour guide.
“Things in China are complicated. Honestly, I don’t know why I was chosen to head the delegation. What I was investigating in Shanghai might not have been pleasant to some people, I think. That’s a possible reason why they sent me out.”
“Sent you out? What do you mean?”
“As a delegation head, I had to stay away from the investigation.”
“But that’s only a matter of two or three weeks. What’s the point-”
Then the Chinese writers discovered them and came over excitedly.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Zhong said.
“The tram ride is not for the claustrophobic,” Shasha said with a giggle.
Afterward, in the midst of the Chinese, Catherine had hardly any time alone with Chen.
***
That evening, they went to a dinner held at a magnificent Chinese restaurant on Olive Street. A banquet of yajin-to relieve the shock. A representative of the city government also attended. There were speeches of formalities from both sides. In spite of all the condolences, people did not lose their appetite. It was a long and good meal and they didn’t get back to the hotel until after ten.
Back in her hotel room, Catherine wondered whether Chen would phone her again. He didn’t. Others kept calling in, however, including her mother. She decided not to mention Chen to her mother, who would perhaps ask questions for hours.
She then tried to do some research on Xing on the laptop, which had been delivered to the room. It was a long and fruitless search. She was tired and sleepy. Absentmindedly, she keyed in the name of Chen Cao in Chinese. There were a number of articles about his police work. Quite a few about his writing too. She found a recent poem of his entitled “35 Birthday Night.”
2:30 A.M. A dog barks
against the moon-bleached night.
Is the dog barking into my dream
or am I dreaming of the dog?
There was a siren against the night sky. She rubbed her eyes. She was awake, alone, reading a poem in the hotel room.
24
FURTHER CHANGES TO THE delegation activity schedule appeared inevitable. The long-planned visit to Mark Twain’s home was canceled. Zhong raised the safety issue regarding the caves, where people could easily get lost, and Bao, who had passionately proposed the visit in Los Angeles, became the one against it in St. Louis. Chen wasn’t so keen on going to Hannibal, either.
Catherine was busy making new arrangements for the delegation, and Detective Lenich wasn’t coming by until later this morning. But Chen had a visitor in his room after breakfast. It was Shasha. She’d come to thank him. While in Los Angeles, he had interpreted for her when she spoke to an American agent. The agent had phoned, saying that a large publisher was interested in her books.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are a good boss. And a good friend too.”
“I have done nothing. It’s your book, Shasha.”
“I wish I could do something for you too, Chen. You seem to have so much on your mind.”
“The investigation of Little Huang’s death is going nowhere, and we are stuck here in St. Louis. As the delegation head, I can’t help but be concerned.”
“It’s not your fault. You were dragged into the delegation. I don’t think anybody could have done better in your position.”
“Now that we are on the subject, Shasha, I have a question for you. Chairman Wang called me just two days before the trip. I knew little about the conference, or about the delegation. Now the Americans believe that except for you and I, everyone else in the delegation could be a suspect.
“Why?”
“From five to six-fifteen that afternoon, I was reading in a café down in the mall, and a bookseller there confirmed my alibi. You called from your room to my room around five-forty, and the front desk also remembered you picking up my room key shortly afterward. In other words, you and I alone have solid alibis.”
“You are a cop, Chen,” she said sharply, “I don’t think I am in a position to discuss this with you.”
“No, I don’t suspect anyone in our delegation. But to discuss the case with Detective Lenich, I need to know more about them.”
“Well,” she said slowly, looking at him in the face, “I would like to ask you a question first.”
“Go ahead, Shasha.”
“You already knew Catherine, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we met in Shanghai,” he said, surprised by her observation, but determined to say no more than necessary.
“The way she looks at you, I knew,” she said. “You may take me as a busybody, but to tell the truth, your friend Ling wanted me to keep an eye on you. Now don’t get her wrong. Whatever problems there may have been between you two, she’s concerned about you.”
“Yes, you move in the same circle, I should have known, but let’s not talk about her for the moment-”
“Let me finish. She told me she had her reasons to be concerned about you-about you, not because of your relationship, you know what I mean, though she didn’t go into any details with me.”
“I see,” he said somberly. Ling could have called him directly, although the details of her concerns wouldn’t have been pleasant or positive to him as a cop, especially in the midst of an investigation on the number-one corruption case in China, he supposed. “Thank you, Shasha.”
“That’s why I have been concerned too. Ling is a good friend of mine. Not every high cadre’s child really wants to be an HCC-not me, not Ling. Now, what do you want to know?”
“How were the people selected for the delegation? For instance, Peng doesn’t write anymore, and he hardly speaks at the conference. Considering what he suffered during all the political movements, some compensation is understandable-”
“Who didn’t suffer those years?” Shasha said with a cynical smile. “But his daughter has married an HCCC
“HCCC?”
“High Cadre’s Children Cadre. In other words, those HCC themselves have become high cadres. Peng’s son-in-law has been rising fast-already a member of t
he Central Party Committee. So he put in a word for Peng with the Writers’ Association. ‘The old man has suffered enough. We have to think of a symbolic compensation for him. It’s also good for China ’s image. Perhaps you may arrange a visit abroad for him.’ “
“So he was chosen because of his son-in-law,” he said, “not because of his work.”
“And Bao was chosen for symbolic considerations too, though different ones. He complained to everybody-as a representative of the working-class writers left out in the cold in the nineties. As for me, nobody put in a word for me. The people at the Writers’ Association know more about my connections than about my writings. Now Zhong might have come into the delegation on his own merits, but his mistress in Beijing, a well-connected writer, must have made phone calls for him too.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” he said, but now he knew why Zhong kept calling back to Beijing. “Still, I’m not qualified to be the delegation head. Why would they choose me?”
“You keep saying that you aren’t qualified. But who really is? Don’t be so hard on yourself. In China today, with everything turned upside down, make the best of the situation for yourself-as long as it isn’t at the cost of others. What else can you do?”
“Thank you for telling me all this, Shasha.”
“One more thing,” she said rising. “Because of Ling’s request, I have been observing things happening around you. All of a sudden, Bao has a cell phone. One evening, I overheard him talking on the cell phone, mentioning your name.”
***
Shortly before lunchtime, Catherine proposed her new plan for the day: an evening of opera at the Fox Theater, and before that, shopping at Asian grocery stores on nearby Grand Avenue. Chen made a different suggestion. A visit to Eliot’s old home in the Central West End. No one else seemed to be interested, though.
“T. S. Eliot is the guiren for you,” Zhong said with a smile.
