by Qiu Xiaolong
to Chairman Mao. Spring
of the Cultural Revolution wafted
through her fingers. Her hair streamed
into the dark eye of the sun.
A leap, her skirt
like a blossom, and the heart
jumped out of her hand, fluttering
like a flushed pheasant. A slip-
I rushed to its rescue, when she
caught it-a finishing touch
to her performance. The people
roared. I froze. She took my hand,
waving, our fingers branching
into each other, as if my blunder
were a much rehearsed act, as if
the curtain fell on the world
in a piece of white paper
to set off the red heart, in which
I was the boy, she, the girl.
‘The best fingers,’
the manager keeps me nodding. It’s she.
No mistake. But what can I say,
I say, of course, the convenient thing
to myself, that things change, as
a Chinese saying goes, as dramatically
as azure seas into mulberry fields,
or that all these years vanish-in a flick of your cigar.
Here she is, changed
and unchanged, her fingers
lathered in the greenish abrasive,
new bamboo shoots long immersed
in icy water, peeling, but
perfecting. She raises her hand, only
once, to wipe the sweat
from her forehead, leaving
a phosphorescent trail. She
does not know me-not even
with the Wenhui Daily’s reporter
name label on my bosom
‘No story,’
the manager says.
‘One of the millions
of educated youths, she has become
“a poor-lower-middle class peasant” herself,
her fingers-tough as a grinder,
but a revolutionary one, polishing up
the spirit of our society, speaking
volumes for our socialism’s superiority.’
So came a central metaphor
for my report.
An emerald snail
crawls along the white wall.
“A sad poem,” she murmured.
“A good poem, but the translation fails to do justice to the original.”
“The language is clear, and the story is poignant. I don’t see anything wrong with the English. It’s very touching indeed.”
“ ‘Touching’ is the very word. I had a hard time finding English equivalents. It is Liu Qing’s poem.”
“Who? Liu Qing?”
“That classmate of Wen’s-her brother Lihua mentioned him-the upstart who sponsored the reunion?”
“Yes. ‘The wheel of fortune turns so quickly.’ Zhu also mentioned him, saying he was a nobody in high school. Why is his poem suddenly so important to us?”
“Well, a poetry anthology was found in Wen’s house. I think I mentioned it to you.”
“It is mentioned in the file. Hold on, the revolutionary grinder, the commune factory, the workers polishing the parts with their fingers, and Lili-”
“Now you see. That’s why I want to discuss the poem with you tonight,” he said. “After parting with you, I called Yu. Liu Qing’s poem is in that anthology, and Yu faxed me a copy of it. The poem was first published five years ago in a magazine called Stars. Liu worked as a reporter for Wenhui Daily then. Like the speaker in the poem, he wrote about a model commune factory in Changle County, Fujian Province. Here is a copy of the newspaper report.” He produced a newspaper out of his briefcase. “Propaganda stuff. I had no time to translate it.
“Few bookstores-except in large cities-sell poetry now. It’s unimaginable that a poor peasant woman would go all the way from her village to buy a poetry collection.”
“Do you believe the poem tells a true story?”
“It’s difficult to say how much is true. The visit to Wen’s factory, as described in the poem, was coincidental. But Liu used the same metaphor in his newspaper story-a revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of the socialist society. It could have been part of the reason he quit his job.”
“Why? Liu did nothing wrong.”
“He should not have written such political baloney, but he did not have the guts to refuse. In addition, he must have felt guilty for having done nothing to help her.”
“I think I see your point now.” She perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. “If the story in the poem is a true one, Liu did not reveal his identity to her at the time, let alone offer help to her. That’s the meaning of the image of the emerald snail crawling at the end. It’s Liu’s guilt, a symbol of Liu’s regret.”
“Yes, a snail carries a burden forever. So the moment I finished translating the poem I hurried over.”
“What do you intend to do now?” she said.
“We must interview Liu. He may not have spoken to Wen then, but later he must have sent her a copy of the anthology, which she kept. And possibly there were other contacts between them, too.”
“Yes, possibly.”
“I’ve talked to people at the Wenhui Daily,” Chen said. “When Liu quit his job about five years ago and started a construction material company in Shanghai, he got several contracts from the Singapore government for the Suzhou New Industry Zone. Now he has two construction material factories and a timber yard in Suzhou, in addition to his company in Shanghai. I called Liu’s home this afternoon. His wife said that he was in Beijing negotiating a deal and would return to Suzhou tomorrow.”
“Are we going to Suzhou?”
“Yes. It’s a long shot. Party Secretary Li will have the train tickets delivered to the hotel tomorrow morning.”
“Party Secretary Li can be so efficient,” she said. “How early do we leave?”
“The train leaves at eight. We arrive in Suzhou about nine thirty. Li suggests that we spend a day or two there.”
He proposed vacationing as camouflage for their investigation. Li had readily approved of the plan.
“So we will be tourists,” she said. “Now, how did it occur to you to connect the poem with our investigation? I’ll make you a cup of coffee if you’ll tell me. Special coffee beans, from Brazil. A treat.”
“You’re learning the Chinese way fast. To exchange favors. The very essence of guanxi. But it’s late. We are leaving early tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry. We can nap on the train.” She took a coffee grinder with a small bag of coffee beans from the closet, and looked for an outlet. “I know you like strong coffee.”
“Did you bring this coffee from America?”
“No, I bought it in the hotel. They provide every convenience. Look at the grinder. Krups.”
“Things are expensive in the hotel.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret of mine,” she said “We have a traveling allowance, the amount of which depends on the location. For Shanghai, I get ninety dollars a day. I do not consider myself extravagant if I use half a day’s allowance to entertain my host.”
She found an outlet behind the sofa. The cord was not long enough. She put the grinder on the carpet, plugged it in, and poured the beans into the grinder. Kneeling, she ground the coffee, revealing her shapely legs and feet.
Soon, the room was full of a pleasant fragrance. She poured a cup for him, put a small spoon for sugar, and milk, on the coffee table, and produced a piece of cake out of the refrigerator.
“What about yourself?” he said.
“I don’t drink coffee in the evening. I’ll have a glass of wine.”
She poured white wine for herself. Instead of sitting beside him on the couch, she returned to her position on the carpet.
Sipping at his coffee, he wondered if he should have declined, her offer. It was late. They were alone in her room. But the events of the day had been too much for him
. He needed to talk. Not just as a police officer, but as a man-with a woman whose company he enjoyed.
He had conducted a thorough search of her hotel room. There had been no secret audio or video or taping equipment hidden. They should be safe. He was not so sure about this, however, after the day’s events, after Party Secretary Li’s information about Internal Security.
“The best coffee I’ve ever had,” he said.
She raised her glass. “To our success.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, clinking his mug against her glass. “About the poem. Oriole’s wet footprints disappearing along the street reminded me of a Song dynasty poem.”
“A Song dynasty poem?”
“It’s about the transience of one’s existence in this world- like the footprints left by a crane in the snow, visible only for one moment. Looking at her footprints, I tried to work out some lines. Then I thought of Wen. Among the people in her life, there is also a poet, Liu Qing.”
“It might be an important lead,” she said.
“At the moment we haven’t any others.”
“A fresh pot of coffee?”
“I’d rather have a glass of wine,” he said.
“Yes. You should not drink too much coffee in the evening.”
The fax machine in the room abruptly started emitting a long roll of paper, four or five pages. She took a look at the slightly tacky scroll without tearing it out of the machine.
“Just background information about the smuggling of immigrants. Ed Spencer did some research for me.”
“Oh, I learned something from Detective Yu,” he said. “The Flying Axes have requested assistance from other triads. One of them may be active in Shanghai.”
“No wonder,” she said simply.
That might account for the accidents here, perhaps even the raid on the market, but there was still a lot left unanswered.
She took a long drink, emptying her glass. His still remained half full. As she bent to pour herself more wine, he thought he glimpsed the swell of her breasts through the opening of her robe.
“We’re leaving early. It is such a long way for you to go back home-”
“Yes, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning.” He got to his feet.
Instead of moving to the door, he took a couple of steps toward the window. The night breeze was sweet. The reflection of the neon signs lining the Bund rippled on the river. The scene seemed to lie before them like the world in a dream.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, coming to his side at the window.
A short spell of silence ensued. Neither said anything. It was enough for him to feel her closeness, looking out to the Bund.
And then he caught sight of the park and the darkling riverfront-swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight / where ignorant armies clash by night-a scene experienced by another poet, at another time, in another place, with someone standing by him.
The thought of the unsolved case of the park victim sobered him.
He had not talked to Gu, or to Old Hunter that day.
“I really have to go,” he said.
Chapter 26
The train arrived on time. At nine thirty it pulled into Suzhou.
In a side street a few blocks from the railway station, Inspector Rohn took a fancy to a small hotel. With its latticed windows, vermilion-painted verandah, and a pair of stone lions guarding the gate, it gave the appearance of antiquity.
“I do not want to stay in a Hilton here,” she said.
Chen agreed. He did not want to notify the Suzhou Police Bureau of their arrival. For a stay of a couple of days, one place was as good as another. And a hotel tucked away in the old section of the city would be a less likely destination for them, should anyone try to trace them. He had exchanged tickets for Hangzhou provided by Party Secretary Li at the station without telling anyone that they were headed for Suzhou.
The hotel was originally a large Shiku-style house, whose facade was covered with old-fashioned designs. A short line of flat colored stones were laid across the minuscule front yard as a walkway. The manager hemmed and hawed, showing no eagerness for their company, and finally admitted, shamefacedly, that the hotel was not meant for foreigners.
“Why?” Catherine asked.
“In accordance with the city tourism regulations, only hotels with three stars can accommodate foreigners.”
“Don’t worry.” Chen produced his I.D. “It’s a special situation.”
Still, there was only one “high-class room” available, which was assigned to Catherine. Chen had to stay in an ordinary room.
The manager kept apologizing as he led them upstairs to Chen’s room first. It had space only for a single hard-board bed. There was nothing else in it. Outside, along the corridor, the manager showed them a couple of public bathrooms: one for men, one for women. Chen would have to make his phone calls from the front desk in the lobby downstairs. Catherine’s room was equipped with air-conditioning, telephone, and an adjoining bathroom. There was also a desk with a chair, but both were so small that they looked like they had come from an elementary school. The room was carpeted though.
After the manager excused himself amid profuse apologies, they seated themselves, Chen on the only chair, and Catherine on the bed.
“Sorry about my choice, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said, “but you can use this phone.”
Chen dialed Liu’s home.
A woman answered the phone, speaking with a distinct Shanghai accent. “Liu’s still in Beijing. He will be back tomorrow. The airplane arrives at eight thirty in the morning. Would you like to leave a message?”
“I’ll call back tomorrow.”
Catherine had unpacked. “So what are we going to do?”
“As that Chinese proverb says, we will enjoy ourselves in this earthly paradise. There are many gardens here. Suzhou is known for its garden architecture-pavilions, ponds, grottoes, bridges, all laid out to create a leisurely and comfortable ambiance, which reflected the taste of the scholarly and official class during the Qing and Ming dynasties.” Chen produced a Suzhou map. “The gardens are very poetic, with meandering bridges, moss-covered trails, gurgling brooks, fantastic-shaped rocks, ancient messages hanging from the eaves of the vermilion pavilions, all contributing to an organic whole.”
“I can no longer wait, Chief Inspector Chen. Choose a destination for me. You’re the designated guide.”
“We’ll visit the gardens, but can you first give your humble guide half a day’s leave?”
“Of course. Why?”
“My father’s grave is in Gaofeng County. It’s not far away, about one hour by bus. I have not visited it for the last few years. So I would like to go there this morning. It’s just after the Qingming festival.”
“Qingming festival?”
“The Qingming festival comes on April fifth, a day traditionally reserved for worshipping at ancestral graves,” he explained. “There are a couple of gardens near here. The well-known Yi Garden is within walking distance. You could visit it this morning. I’ll return before noon. Then we can have a Suzhou-style lunch at the Xuanmiao Temple Bazaar. I’ll be at your service for the whole afternoon.”
“You should go there. Don’t worry about me.” She then added, “Why is your father’s grave in Suzhou-I’m just curious.”
“Shanghai’s overcrowded. So cemeteries were developed in Suzhou. Some old people believe in Feng Shui-they want a gravesite with a view of mountains and rivers. My father chose the site himself. Then we moved his casket here. I’ve visited it only two or three times.”
“We’ll go to the temple in the afternoon, but I don’t want to walk by myself in the morning. Such a beautiful city,” she said with an impish glint in her blue eyes. “To whom shall I speak / of this ever enchanting landscape?”
“Oh, you still remember Liu Yong’s lines!” Chen refrained from explaining that the Song dynasty poet had composed those lines to his lover.
“So, can I go with y
ou?”
“You mean to the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“No, I cannot ask you to do that. It is too much of a favor to ask of you.”
“Is it against the Chinese custom for me to go there?”
“No, not necessarily,” Chen said, deciding not to tell her that one took only his wife or fiancée to a parent’s grave.
“Then let’s go there. I’ll just be a moment.” She went to wash and change.
While waiting, he dialed Yu, but got only Yu’s voice mail. He left a message and his cell phone number.
She emerged, wearing a white shirt, light gray blazer, and a slim matching skirt. Her hair was pinned back.
He suggested they take a taxi to the cemetery. She wanted to take the bus. “I would like to spend a day like an ordinary Chinese person.”
He did not think she could really succeed. Nor did he like the idea of having her bumped about in an overcrowded bus. Luckily, a few blocks from the hotel, they saw a bus with a sign saying cemetery express. The fare was twice as much, but they got on without any trouble. The bus was not so much packed with passengers, as with what they carried-wicker baskets of cooked dishes, plastic bags of instant food, bamboo briefcases probably laden with paper “ghost” money, and half-broken cardboard boxes bound around with strings and ropes to keep their contents from spilling out. They squeezed into the seat just behind the driver, which afforded them the small space underneath the driver’s seat in which to stretch their legs. She handed the driver a pack of cigarettes-a souvenir of her status as a “distinguished guest” at the Peace Hotel. The driver grinned back at them.
Despite the open windows, the air in the bus was stuffy, and the seat’s imitation leather covering felt hot. There was a mixed smell of sweating human bodies, salted fish, meat soaked in wine, and every other offering imaginable. Nevertheless, Catherine appeared to be in high spirits, chatting with a middle-aged woman across the aisle, examining other passengers’ offerings with great interest. Above the cacophony of voices, a song was broadcast via invisible speakers. The singer, popular in Hong Kong, warbled in a high-pitched voice. Chen recognized the lyrics: a ci poem written by Su Dongpo. It was an elegy for Su’s wife, but it could be read in a more general way. Why had the cemetery bus driver chosen that particular ci for the trip? The market economy worked everywhere. Poetry, too, had become a product.
