A Loyal Character Dancer

by Qiu Xiaolong

  There were no other customers. Nor any service after they seated themselves at a mahogany table. The old woman disappeared behind the screen.

  The tea was excellent. Perhaps because of the tea leaves, perhaps because of the water, or perhaps because of the peaceful atmosphere. The dried tofu, rich in a spicy brown sauce, also tasted good, but the green cake was more palatable, sweet with an unusual flavor she had never tasted before.

  “This is a wonderful dinner for me,” she said, a tiny tea leaf between her lips.

  “For me too,” he said, adding water into her cup. “In the Chinese way of drinking tea, the first cup is not supposed to be the best. Its taste comes out in a natural way in the second or the third cup. That’s why the teahouse gives you the thermos bottle, so you can enjoy the tea at your leisure while you view the garden.”

  “Yes, the view is fantastic.”

  “The Hui Emperor of the Song dynasty liked oddly shaped rocks. He ordered a national rock search-Huashigang-but he was captured by the Jin invaders before the chosen rocks were transported to the capital. Some of them are said to have been left in Suzhou,” Chen said. “Look at this one. It is called Heaven’s Gate.”

  “Really! I don’t see the resemblance.” Its name seemed a misnomer to her. The rock was shaped more like a spring bamboo shoot, angular, and sharp-pointed. It was in no way suggestive of a magnificent gate to the heavens.

  “You have to see it from the right perspective,” he said. “It may resemble a lot of things-a cone swaying in the wind, or an old man fishing in the snow, or a dog barking at the moon, or a deserted woman waiting for her lover’s return. It all depends on your perspective.”

  “Yes, it all depends on your point of view,” she said, failing to see any of those resemblances. She was pleased that he had recovered enough to play the guide again, though at the same time irritated by her enforced return to the role of tourist.

  The sight of the rocks also served as a reminder of reality. Despite all her Chinese studies, a American marshal would never see things exactly the same way as her Chinese partner. That was a sobering realization. “I have some questions for you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

  “Go ahead, Inspector Rohn.”

  “Since you phoned the Suzhou Police Bureau from Liu’s place, why not call in the local cops to do the job? They could have forced Liu to cooperate.”

  “They could, but I did not like that idea. Liu was not holding her against her will,” Chen said. “Besides, I had a number of unanswered questions. So I wanted to talk to them first.”

  “Have you got your answers?”

  “Some,” Chen said, piercing a cube of tofu with a toothpick. “I was also worried about Liu’s possible reaction. He’s such a romantic. According to Bertrand Russell, romantic passion reaches its height when lovers are fighting against the whole world.”

  “You have made a study of it, Chief Inspector Chen. What if you had failed to persuade them?”

  “As a police officer, I would have to make an objective report to the bureau.”

  “Then the bureau would make them cooperate, right?”

  “Yes, so you see, my effort is just pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “Well, you succeeded in convincing them. She’s willing to leave,” she said. “Now for the relationship between Liu and Wen. Can you tell me more about it? It’s still hazy to me. You may have given your word to Liu-promised confidentiality perhaps. Tell me what you can.”

  She was sipping at her tea as he began, but soon she was so absorbed that the tea turned cold in the cup. He included what he considered to be the important details. In addition, he added things from Yu’s interview tapes, which focused more on the miseries Wen had suffered with Feng.

  Catherine had gathered some of the information but now the various pieces were forming a whole. At the end of his account, she gazed into her cup for several minutes. When she raised her head again, the hall appeared to be even more gloomy. She saw why he had been so depressed.

  “One more question, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “About the connection between the Fujian police and the Flying Axes-is that true?”

  “It’s very probable. I had to tell her that,” Chen said evasively. “I might be able to shield her for a week or two, but more than that, I doubt. She has no choice but to go to the United States.”

  “You should have discussed this with me earlier.”

  “It’s not pleasant, you know, for a Chinese cop to admit this.”

  She grasped his hand.

  The moment of silence was broken by the sound of the old woman cracking water melon seeds behind the screen.

  “Let’s go outside,” Chen said.

  They stepped out, carrying their tea and cakes. Walking across the bridge, they entered the pavilion with the yellow glazed tile roof and vermilion posts. The posts were set into a surrounding bench with a flat marble top and lattice railings. They placed the thermos bottle on the ground and sat with the cups and cakes between them. Small birds chirped in the grotto behind them.

  “The Suzhou garden landscape was designed,” he said, “to inspire people to feel poetic.”

  She did not feel so, though she relished the moment. Someday in the future, she knew she would look back on this early evening in Suzhou as special. Leaning sideways against the post, she went through a sudden shift of mood, as if they had undergone another role reversal. Chen was almost his usual self again. And she was becoming sentimental.

  What were Wen and Liu doing at this moment?

  “Soon Liu and Wen are going to part,” she said wistfully.

  “Liu may go to the United States someday-”

  “No, he will never be able to find her.” She shook her head. “That’s the way our program works.”

  “Wen may come back-for a visit-” he cut himself short. “No, that would be too risky for her.”

  “It’s out of the question.”

  “It’s difficult to meet, and to part, too. / The east wind languid, the flowers fallen,” he murmured, “Sorry, I’m quoting poetry again.”

  “What’s wrong with that, Chief Inspector Chen?”

  “It’s sentimental.”

  “So you have turned into a hermit crab retreating into a rationalist shell.”

  Instantaneously she knew she had gone too far. Why had she burst out with this? Was it because she was upset with the outcome of the investigation, because neither he nor she could possibly do anything that would really help Wen? Or was it because of a subconscious parallel rising to the surface of her mind? Soon she, too, would be leaving China.

  He made no response.

  She bent over to rub her aching ankle.

  “Finish the last piece,” he said, handing the cake to her.

  “It’s a strange name, Bamboo Leaf Green Cake,” she said, studying the box.

  “Bamboo leaves may have been used in the cake. Bamboo used to be a very important part of traditional Chinese culture. There must be a bamboo grove in a Chinese garden landscape, and a bamboo shoot dish in a Chinese banquet.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “Even Chinese gangsters use the word bamboo in the name of their organizations.”

  “What are you referring to, Inspector Rohn?”

  “Remember the fax I got at the hotel last Sunday? It contained some background information about international triads involved in human smuggling. One of them is called Green Bamboo.”

  “Do you have the fax with you?”

  “No, I left it at the Peace Hotel.

  “But you’re sure?”

  “Yes, I remember the name,” she said.

  She changed her position. Turning toward him, she reclined against the post. He removed the cups. She slipped off her shoes and put her feet on the bench, her knees doubled against her chin, her bare soles resting on the cold marble bench top.

  “Your ankle has not completely recovered,” he said. “The bench top is too cold.”

  And she felt her feet being placed in his
lap, the arch of her sole cradled in his hand, which warmed it before rubbing her ankle.

  “Thank you,” she said, her toes curling against his fingers involuntarily.

  “Let me recite a poem for you, Inspector Rohn. It came in fragments to me during the last few days.”

  “Your own poem?”

  “Not really. More like an imitation of MacNeice’s The Sunlight on the Garden.’ It is a poem about people being grateful for the time they share, even though the moment is fleeting.”

  He started to speak, his hand on her ankle.

  “The sunlight burning gold, / we cannot collect the day / from the ancient garden / into an album of old. / Let’s pick our play, / or time will not pardon.”

  “The sunlight on the garden,” she said.

  “Actually, the central image of the first stanza came to me in Moscow Suburb.

  “Then after I got Liu’s poem about the loyal character dance, especially after we met Wen and Liu, some more lines appeared,” he explained. “When all is told, / we cannot tell / the question from the answer. / Which is to hold / us under a spell, / the dance or the dancer?”

  “The dance and the dancer, I understand,” she said, nodding, “For Liu, it’s Wen that turned the loyal character dance into a miracle.”

  “MacNeice’s poem is about how helpless people are.”

  “Yes, MacNeice is another of your favorite modernist poets.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have done some research on you, Chief Inspector Chen. In a recent interview, you talked about his melancholy because his job did not allow him to write as much as he wanted, but you felt sorry for yourself, for missing your chance as a poet. People say in poetry what is impossible for them to say in life.”

  “I don’t know what to say-”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m going back in a couple of days. Our mission is finished.”

  A mist enveloped the garden.

  “Let me recite the last stanza for you,” he said. “Sad it’s no longer sad, / the heart hardened anew, / not expecting pardon / but grateful and glad / to have been with you, / the sunlight lost on the garden.”

  She thought she knew why he had chosen to recite the poem.

  Not just for Wen and Liu.

  They sat there, quietly, the last rays of the sunlight silhouetting them against the garden, but she experienced, indelibly, a moment of gratitude.

  The evening spread out like the scroll of a traditional Chinese landscape painting: A changing yet unchanging panorama against the horizon, cool and fresh, a light haze softening hills in the distance.

  The same poetic garden, the same creaking Ming dynasty bridge, the same dying Qing dynasty sun.

  Hundreds of years earlier.

  Hundreds of years later.

  It was so tranquil that they were able to hear the bursting bubbles of wrigglers in the green water.

  Chapter 33

  The train arrived at the Fuzhou Station at 11:32 a.m., on time.

  The station was alive with waiting people, some waving their hands, some running alongside the train, and some holding up cardboard placards bearing the passengers’ names. However, there was no one from the Fujian Police Bureau waiting for them on the crowded platform.

  Chen did not say a single word about this. Some acts of negligence on the part of the local police might be understandable, but not in this case. It did not make sense. A premonition gripped him.

  “Let’s wait here,” Catherine suggested. “They may have been delayed.”

  Wen looked on in silence, her expression unchanged, as if their arrival meant nothing to her. Throughout the train ride, she had said little.

  “No, we are too pressed for time,” he said, unwilling to voice his fears. “I’ll rent a car.”

  “Do you have the directions?”

  “Detective Yu made a map for me. The directions are marked on it. Wait here with Wen.”

  When he drove back in a Dazhong van, only the two women were still standing there.

  Opening the door for Wen, he said, “Sit in the front with me, Wen. You may be able to help with the directions.”

  “I’ll try.” Wen spoke to him for the first time. “Sorry for this trouble.”

  Catherine tried to comfort her from the backseat. “This is not your fault.”

  Consulting Wen and the map, Chen was able to find the right road. “Now the map is serving a purpose Detective Yu did not expect.”

  “I’ve only spoken to Detective Yu on the phone.” Catherine said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “He must be on his way back to Shanghai already. You will meet him there. Both Yu and his wife Peiqin are wonderful people. She is also a marvelous cook.”

  “She must be some cook to earn a compliment from a gourmet like you.”

  “We may go to his home for a genuine Chinese meal,” he said. “My place is too messy.”

  “I will look forward to it.”

  They chose not to talk about work with Wen sitting in the car, clasping her hands over her belly.

  It was a long drive. He stopped only once at a village market, where he bought a bag of lichee.

  “Good nutrition. Now you have this fruit in big cities, too. It’s shipped by air,” he said, “but still it’s not as good as in the countryside.”

  “It tastes wonderful,” Catherine said, nibbling at a transparent white lichee.

  “Freshness makes all the difference,” he said, peeling one for himself.

  Before they finished half of the lichee in the paper bag, Changle Village came into view. For the first time he noticed a change in Wen. She rubbed her eyes, as if dust had blown into them.

  Inside the village, the road became a lane, wide enough only for a light tractor. “Do you have a lot to pack, Wen?”

  “No, not a lot.”

  “Then let’s park here.”

  So they got out of the car. Wen led the way.

  It was nearly one o’clock. Most of the villagers were at home having lunch. Several white geese sauntered about near a rain water puddle, stretching out their necks at the strangers. A woman carrying a basket of deep green shepherd’s purse recognized Wen, but she scurried away at the sight of the strangers walking behind her.

  Wen’s house was located in a cul de sac, next to a dilapidated, abandoned barn. Chen’s first impression was that the house was a good size. There was a front yard as well as a back one on a steep slope over a creek overgrown with nameless bushes. But its cracked walls, unpainted door, and boarded-up windows made it an eyesore.

  They entered the front room. What impressed Chen there was a large, discolored portrait of Chairman Mao hung on the wall above a decrepit wooden table. Flanking the portrait were two strips of dog-eared red paper slogans declaring, despite the change of times: “Listen to Chairman Mao!” “Follow the Communist Party.”

  There was a spider resting contentedly, like another mole, on Mao’s chin.

  The expression flashing across Wen’s face was unreadable. Instead of beginning to pack, she stood staring at the portrait of Mao, her lips trembling, as if murmuring a pledge to him- like a loyal Red Guard.

  Several packages with Chinese or English labels were stored in a bucket under the table. Wen picked up a tiny package and put it in her purse.

  “Are those for the precision parts, Wen?” he asked.

  “It’s the abrasive. I want to take one with me as a reminder of my life here. As a souvenir.”

  “A souvenir,” Chen echoed. The emerald snail climbing up the wall in Liu’s poem. He, too, picked up a package whose label bore a heavy cross over a schematic drawing of fire. There was something odd in the way Wen offered her explanation. What was there here she would like to be reminded of? But he decided not to touch on the topic of her life in the village. He did not want to reopen her wounds.

  The living room led into a dining room, from which Wen headed into another through a bamboo-bead curtain
hung in the doorway. Catherine followed her. Chen saw Wen taking out some child’s clothes. There was nothing he could do to help there. So he crossed to a walled back courtyard. Originally, the back door must have opened out onto the slope, but it had been boarded up.

  He walked around to the front courtyard. The rattan chair by the door was broken, dust-covered. It seemed to be telling a tale of its owner’s indifference. He also saw empty bottles in bamboo baskets, mostly beer bottles, providing a footnote to the general desolation.

  Outside, an old dog jumped up from a patch of shade in the village lane and shambled away silently. A puff of wind blew the weeping willow tree into a question mark. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the door frame, waiting.

  There was a train leaving for Shanghai late in the evening. He decided not to contact the local police, not just because of their failure to appear at the railway station. He could not shake off the ominous feeling he’d had since Wen had demanded they undertake this trip.

  He felt worn out. He had hardly slept in the train. The hard sleeper had presented an unforeseen problem during the night. Of the three bunks, the bottom one went to Wen. It was out of the question for a pregnant woman to climb the ladder. The upper bunks across the aisle were left for Catherine and him. It was important to keep a watch on Wen. “Sometimes a cooked duck can fly away.” So he lay on his side most of the night, watching. Every time Wen stepped away from her berth, he had to climb down, following her as inconspicuously as possible. He had to resist the temptation to glance at Catherine across the aisle. She, too, lay on her side most of the time, wearing only the black slip they had bought at the Huating Market. The soft light played across the sensuous curves of her body, the skimpy blanket hardly covering her shoulders and legs. She was in no position to look at the bunk directly beneath her. So more often than not, she faced in his direction. It did not help when the lights were turned out at midnight. He felt her nearness in the darkness, turning and tossing, amid the train’s irregular whistles in the night…