by Qiu Xiaolong
“Geng is damned smart. Now he is his own boss.”
“The soup is delicious,” Peiqin said, finishing her rice cake. It was true. In Yunnan, such a meal would have seemed like a banquet. She then wondered whether she was like A Que, a well-known character created by Lu Xun, a character who always succeeds in seeing the bright side, whatever the circumstances. Was it “A Que” of her to have thought that? “I have to go back to my work, Xiangxiang.”
“With all the new accounting work you have, now that we work two shifts instead of one, you still have to manage all by yourself,” Xiangxiang said. “It’s not fair.”
“Nothing is fair. Life is not fair.”
Back in her own office, Peiqin took out the book and magazines again.
This time, Peiqin did not read Death of a Chinese Professor from the beginning. Instead, she tried to focus on some pages she had already marked. This re-reading underscored something she had already vaguely noticed: the quality of the writing was not even. Parts of the book seemed to be written by a naive beginner, while other parts struck her as sophisticated. The book seemed to have been written by two different people. Especially the part about the causes of the Cultural Revolution, which was so full of analytical power. It would be hard to imagine a young, hot-blooded Red Guard possessing such historical insight. But then the next few chapters became bogged down in details about local Red Guard organizations, their conflicts of interests, their struggles for power, as well as personal grievances within them. Some of those details were both trivial and irrelevant.
The quality of a book could vary in different parts, she understood, but surely this extreme variance in Death of a Chinese Professor was abnormal.
She was unable to shake off a feeling that someone other than Yin must have written this book. Peiqin then laughed at herself, shaking her head at her own reflection in a small, slightly cracked mirror on the desk.
When she looked up from the book again, it was almost two o’clock. She rose and paced about in the room. It was all right for her to do so, but the manager had to walk carefully, with his head bent, in this low-ceilinged office. She called to make sure that Hua would not return that day. Then she locked the door before picking up the telephone again to call Chief Inspector Chen.
After polite routine greetings, she asked a question. “What do you think of Yin as a writer, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“I have not read her book yet. In the last few days, I’ve made phone calls to some people who have read it. They seem not to have a very high opinion of it. Of course, they may be biased because of her Red Guard activity.”
“That I can understand. I have read the book several times. One thing keeps puzzling me. Some parts are written so amateurishly, at least so it seems to me, almost like the diary of a high school student. But other parts are really good, like the beginning of the book, which shows historical depth.”
“You have made an insightful observation,” Chen said. “As to the uneven quality of her writing, one critic made a similar point, saying that Yin might have used a ghostwriter. After all, she had never written anything before.”
“But that does not account for the inconsistency.”
“The ghostwriter might have helped to write only part of the book.”
“Perhaps you have found us the motive we are seeking. Maybe somebody demanded money from her to keep her secret-I mean either the ghostwriter or someone who had found out-” Chen paused before contradicting himself “-but no, if it she was being blackmailed, why murder her? I’m confused.”
“It confuses me too.”
“Still, this could be important. At least it may be a lead to a possible motive. Thank you so much, Peiqin. I have been too busy with my translation to help Yu with the case.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’ve simply read the novel. There’s not too much to do in my restaurant anyway.”
“But you’re doing a lot for the investigation.”
That was all she could accomplish for the moment, however. She decided to go home earlier than usual.
There was something else for her to do, she remembered. Something different.
Chapter 12
Since the start of the translation project, Chief Inspector Chen had become accustomed to surprises. This morning’s surprise came with a lanky workman who was supposed to install electric heaters and an air-conditioning unit in Chen’s apartment. The installer was almost as surprised as the chief inspector, for Chen was positive that he had not ordered such appliances.
He remembered having read about electric heaters. Most of the new buildings in the city still had no hot water system. So an electric heater was an option, a very expensive one. He had never thought about getting one for his own apartment. After all, he could always take showers at the bureau. As for an air-conditioner, he had not even dreamed of owning one.
He guessed whose idea this must have been, and picked up the phone.
“I cannot accept anything from you, Mr. Gu. It’s a matter of principle, you know.”
“White Cloud says that it’s too cold in your room. That’s not good for your work. I have several sets left over at the Dynasty Club. So why should they go to waste? “
“No, it’s too much.”
“How about buying them from me?”
“I cannot afford them.”
“I bought a large supply, so they came at a discount. Then there’s depreciation for the three years I’ve had them. How about nine hundred Yuan? And you don’t have to pay me right now. I’ll deduct it from the payment for the translation.”
“You are going out of your way for me, Mr. Gu.”
“No, I am a businessman. These units are lying around, useless, in storage. And to be honest, I think a cadre of your level should have had them long ago. You’re a man of integrity, and I admire you for that.” Gu changed the topic abruptly. “Oh, if I could secure American investment because of the business proposal you are translating, my dream would come true.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You are doing me a great favor, I mean it, Chief Inspector Chen.”
But Chen remained disturbed for a long while after the phone call, staring at the translation on the desk. It was not just by the noise of the man working in the bathroom, although installing the unit in the bathroom seemed to be very complicated, with some long pipes involved. It might take quite a while for the workman to finish.
In addition to those upstarts in the private business sector, Party officials or cadres also had begun to obtain these modern devices for their apartments. It was not hard for people to notice such widespread corruption, and they pointed angry fingers at the privileged few. Chen himself had complained about this.
But some things might take place in a “gray area,” Chen reflected. An emerging Party cadre like himself had to make connections for his work, connections like Mr. Gu. And with such connections came other things. In China, in the last analysis, connections meant everything. Guanxi.
He checked himself from speculating further along those lines. For the moment, he had no alternative but to concentrate on the New World proposal. Sometimes, we could be most productive under pressure. He dashed through two pages before he allowed himself to take a short break.
The heater had already started working with a light whirring sound. As in the New World, where, whatever the appearance of the exterior, modern luxuries inside would be necessary. His fingers seemed to be moving deftly over the keyboard with a new rhythm. Looking out the window, he saw another apartment complex looming up not too far away. A lonesome tung tree trembled in the chilly wind. He turned back resolutely to the text on the computer screen.
The New World could turn out to be like present-day China, full of contradictions. On the outside, the socialist system under the rule of the Communist Party, but on the inside, capitalist practice in whatever disguise.
Could the combination of the two really work?
Perhaps. No one was in a posi
tion to tell, but it seemed to have been doing fine so far, in spite of the tension between the two. And in spite of a price too-the ever-increasing gap between the poor and the rich.
The rich had already started to be concerned with Shanghai’s existential myth-the Paris of the Orient, the glitter and glory of the thirties-part and parcel of the superstructure to be erected on top of a socialist economic basis, the former justifying the latter, and vice versa, just like one of the Marxist principles Chen had studied in college.
For people like Gu, as well the consumers he anticipated, once the economic basis was established, a brave New World could, and perhaps should, exist. But what about the poor, who in the real world could hardly keep their pots boiling?
He was not meant to be a philosopher or economist, Chen reminded himself. He was nothing but a cop who happened to be translating a business proposal relating to the history of the city.
When the installer finally left, taking the cigarette Chen offered him and placing it behind his ear, Chen found the translation slowing down mysteriously. The new section dwelled on marketing plans in the context of globalization. He had no problem understanding the Chinese text, but he was not so sure about the exact English equivalents. Nor was it just a matter of looking up words in a dictionary, for it involved a number of new concepts, which had hardly existed in the Chinese language previously. Within the socialist state economy, for instance, “marketing” was a non-existent concept. State-run companies simply kept manufacturing in accordance with the state plan. There was no need or room for marketing. For many years, Chinese people cited a proverb: If the wine smells really wonderful, customers will come in spite of the length of the lane. Such an approach was not applicable to today’s business world.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons why-if Gu’s story was true-the first translator had failed.
Chen made himself a cup of tea. The room seemed cozy, almost intimate, with the heater purring next to the bookshelf.
White Cloud was scheduled to come in the afternoon. He looked in his notebook. She might help to find the definitions he needed in a new dictionary, but that would not be enough. As far as he knew, the latest English-Chinese dictionary had been compiled five or six years earlier, when a large number of these concepts had been far from common in China. So he’d better read some articles or books about marketing, not necessarily to get the exact meanings, but to able to convey roughly corresponding ideas in translation.
He skipped the marketing section and moved on to the part about the restaurant business in the New World. That section proved to be both pleasant and absorbing.
Around one, White Cloud arrived. She looked tired, even slightly haggard, with noticeable black circles under her almond-shaped eyes. Perhaps she had studied late the night before, as her day had been filled with her little secretary responsibilities.
She took off her jacket and draped it over the sofa. At once she noticed the change in the temperature of the room. She turned to him with a broad grin.
“Thanks for your suggestion to Gu,” he said.
“You should have had these things long ago. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “Oh, here is a tape of my interview with some of the staff members at the university.”
“You are a great secretary, White Cloud.”
“Little, not great,” she giggled.
He would have liked to listen to the tape at once, but her presence in the room made it difficult to focus on the investigation.
“Can I take a hot shower here?” she asked abruptly.
“Sure. But the installer was just here. I have not yet cleaned up.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said.
Kicking off her shoes, she went into the bathroom with her bag and turned back with a smile before closing the door after her. He wondered whether this was a calculated gesture, inviting intimacy. Listening for the sound of the shower, he tried not to read too much into her status as a little secretary.
He began playing the tape. Its contents were not exactly interviews, more like a collection of various people’s observations. It was little wonder, since she had neither the authority nor the training of a cop. In fact, it was surprising that the interviewees had talked to her.
The first interview was of a senior professor at the college where Yin had taught: “She was an opportunist. Why do I say so? First, she saw an opportunity by becoming a Red Guard! And all of us turned into the targets of her ruthless revolutionary criticism. When her luck at being a rebel changed, she saw her opportunity in being with Yang. He was a brilliant scholar. Like a gold mine undiscovered. Like buying valuable stocks at the bottom. Sooner or later the Cultural Revolution would end, she must have foreseen that. Only she carried the romantic drama too far-at his expense. Still, she did not really lose, did she? The book, the fame, the money, what-not!”
The next one was of a retired lecturer named Zhuang who had worked with Yang for several years and met with Yin a few times: “He was just too bookish. Even in those years, he remained so idealistic, still reading and writing, something like Doctor Zhivago, I think. As for her, she was already a plain spinster, with problems in her political dossier. That was her last chance, and of course she scrambled to take it.”
The third was of a middle-aged researcher whose last name was Pang, who had read Yin’s novel, but had had little personal contact with her: “As a writer, she was not so talented. If the book attracted a lot of attention, it is more because of its autobiographical nature. Now that’s another shame. No big deal if the book was merely about herself. No, she was nobody without him. So the appeal really came from him…”
In these interviews, White Cloud did not pose questions. As she was not a cop, it was clever of her not to try to sound like one. But in the interview with Pang, she did ask “So you don’t believe she fell in love with him at the time; but didn’t she, too, take a great risk by having an affair?”
“I’m not saying that she did not care for him at all-she did, in her way,” Pang answered. “But I would say that, as far as she was concerned, there must have been other considerations involved.”
Generally, Chen reflected, that might be true-must be true.
It was difficult to draw a clear-cut line anywhere, yet not so difficult for others to make comments.
When he heard the slow turning of the bathroom doorknob, he had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he was startled. He pressed the off button on his computer. He did not know how long she had been in the bathroom. There was not even a real bathtub, only a tiny space partitioned out in concrete with a shower head above, but she must have taken her time there. That was not surprising. A hot shower was still a luxury for most Shanghainese. He looked up to see her walking, barefoot, over to his desk. She was wearing his gray terry robe, which she might have noticed in the apartment at any time. The robe parted as she bent to look over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of her breasts, her face flushed with the heat, her hair glistening with the beads of water, and he thought of several lines by Li Bai, a well-known Tang dynasty poet. They were from a poem that Yang had included in his manuscript:
The clouds eager to make
your dancing costume, the peony,
to imitate your beauty, the spring breeze
touching the rail, the petal glistening with dew…
But he remembered having quoted them the first time White Cloud and he had met, when they danced together in that private karaoke room, she wearing a dudou, an ancient Chinese halter-like garment that had suddenly become popular, his hand touching her bare back. That might not be an appropriate scene to remind her of, so he did not recite these lines aloud now.
Li Bai, something akin to the Tang palace poet, had gotten into political trouble because of the poem. According to later critics, the imperial concubine was not pleased with the idea of being appreciated by a poet on behalf of the emperor. But the same later critics were laudatory of the poetry. The lesson seemed to be that a p
oet should never become involved in politics.
“What are you thinking?” she said as she stood behind him, drying her hair with a towel.
“It’s not easy for people to forget what happened during the Cultural Revolution,” he said. His gaze fell upon her slender ankle. No tattoo there, her red-painted toenails like fresh petals. Could he have imagined that tattoo the other day? “Nor is it easy for people not to judge from their own perspectives.”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“People cannot wipe out the impression of Red Guards that they formed during the Cultural Revolution.”
“Yes, I, too, was surprised that most of them seemed to be so biased against her, even some who hardly had any personal contact with her.”
“Well, there is a Chinese proverb, When three people start talking about seeing a tiger on the street, everybody else in the city believes it.” He added abruptly, “One of your interviewees, Mr. Zhuang, mentioned Doctor Zhivago. Do you have his phone number?”
“Yes. Is it important?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’ll look into it.”
“Here it is,” she said, handing him a small piece of paper.
“Now I have something else for you to do, White Cloud, but you looked a bit tired today.”
“I slept late. That’s nothing. The hot shower has helped.”
He explained to her the problem he was having with the marketing section of the business proposal.
“Oh, I happen to have read an introductory book on marketing. A very good introduction, concise yet comprehensive. I may have given it to a friend, but I can find it in the library.”
“Your major is Chinese, right?”
“The government still assigns jobs to college students, but there are no good jobs for Chinese majors,” she said. “No joint venture company will hire someone capable only of reading classical poems.”
“The water flows, flowers fall, and the spring fades. / It’s a changed world.”
