by Qiu Xiaolong
This news came at an untimely juncture. Apart from the new development in the investigation, he was also putting on a final spurt to complete the translation. He had made a promise to Gu. Time mattered for the New World, he knew. For a moment he wished he had not accepted the project which interfered with his responsibilities as a cop, and now as a son.
Still, there was also some benefit to working on the translation. The hospital demanded a deposit before a patient would be admitted. The advance would come in handy now, as it was more than enough to cover the deposit.
Of course, he could have made a couple of phone calls to his “connections.” His mother might have been admitted then without the deposit. He chose not to do so; now at least he had a choice.
This was another aspect of China ’s economic reform that he did not like. What about those who could not pay the deposit and had no connections? There should be a touch of humanity in the management of a hospital.
Everyone looked for the money in the nineties. Xiang Qian Kan, Look to the future, the revolutionary political slogan, was cruelly parodied, as qian could mean money as well as the future. In the market economy, hospitals made no exception. Doctors and nurses were human too. Their own incomes depended upon the hospital’s profit.
While he was still talking with the nurse on the phone, White Cloud came into the room.
“My mother has to be admitted to a hospital for a test as an inpatient,” he said as he put down the receiver.
“Hospitals make a point of doing tests now. The test may not even be necessary, but the hospital will collect a large fee for it. They like to make money,” White Cloud said. “Don’t worry too much, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“That may be true. Thank you,” he replied.
He, too, wondered why this test required that his mother be hospitalized. She had been complaining about her stomach trouble for years. No one had said it was so serious.
“Let me go to the hospital for you this morning to deliver the admission money, to make any necessary arrangements, and to keep your mother company. It’s really up to me-as your little secretary. Call me any time if you have questions. You have my cell phone number.”
What would his mother think? He had never told her anything about having a little secretary who worked for him at home. At this moment, however, he could not afford to hesitate.
“Fine. Tell her that I will come over in the afternoon or in the evening. Thank you so much, White Cloud.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said as she put a brown paper bag into the refrigerator. “Oh, here is roast beef with steamed buns. Last night you did not even have time to finish the steak. You like beef, I guess. For lunch, put them in the microwave.”
Again, he was lucky to have her help.
Then it was Party Secretary Li’s turn to call.
“Detective Yu said that you wanted to talk to me about something. What’s it about, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Oh, yes. Detective Yu discussed the latest development in the investigation with me. So I would like to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Since our last talk, I have been giving a lot of thought to the case. As you have said, we should be aware of the political repercussions of the case. Just as you explained, the higher authorities have every reason to want us to solve the case without any political complications. So in my understanding, it is necessary for us to depoliticize the case.”
Chen went on after a meaningful pause. “Now if we conclude in a hurry-with Wan as the murderer-this might be against the interests of the Party-”
“What do you mean, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“I mean, if Wan proves to be the real murderer beyond any reasonable doubt, we will punish him. No question about it. But there are still holes in his confession, as Detective Yu pointed out, so why not wait for a couple of more days?”
“I’m still confused. Please explain.”
“Once the press conference is held, people will come to know who and what Wan is. He is an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member, who was once very politically red, but now what? Unfortunately, Wan is not alone. Many retired workers are having a hard time. Wan may well be seen as an example of an old worker going downhill, going to ruin. If Wan was capable of committing a murder in his desperation, then so could a lot of other people in a similar position. Wan might be seen as highly symbolic.”
“You have a good point, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Li said after a long pause, “but the city government is putting a lot of pressure on the police bureau.”
“That’s what we have to take into consideration,” Chen said equivocally. “If some of the details were seized upon by a reporter, and published, and twisted-think about it-’the antagonism between an ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member and a dissident writer who denounced the Cultural Revolution.’ Such political associations could be disastrous.”
“Then we have to apply strict information control.”
“I doubt if it will work. Following your suggestion, I went to the shikumen house last week. There’re so many people there, all mixed together, that news and rumors spread as if they had wings. And reporters could go there too. Today, some of the newspapers are no longer what they used to be-they’re not so loyal to the Party authorities any more. To increase their newspaper’s circulation, they need sensational news.”
Li said, after a slight hesitation, “If Detective Yu wants to take a couple of more days for his investigation, I think it should be okay. But it is important for people to know that the government is not involved in Yin’s death. And for them to learn this as soon as possible.”
“I have one question, Party Secretary Li.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“It’s about Internal Security. There’s something that puzzles me. It’s not their case. No one has told us about any involvement on their part. Yet they had searched Yin’s room even before Detective Yu first reached the building. And then they withheld information about Yin’s application for her passport renewal. Why, Party Secretary Li?”
“Well, Yin was a dissident writer. It is understandable that Internal Security would be interested in the case. They are not responsible to us, as we know.”
“But if it was such a politically sensitive case, they should have shared information with us.”
“If they had found something of substance, I believe they would have informed you,” Li said. “Have you discovered anything that might interest Internal Security?”
“No,” Chen said. Of course, he would have denied it even if he had found something. “That’s why I asked you the question.”
“The ministry in Beijing has called us, too. Minister Huang has a high opinion of you, you know. Since you have given a lot of thought to the case, what about your taking it over?”
“No, Party Secretary Li. My mother is in the hospital. I’ve just gotten a phone call about it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anything the bureau can do for you? You are still on your vacation. If necessary, you can take a few more days. Or we can send someone to the hospital to help. Have you any particular request?”
“No, not at the moment. But thank you very much. And I will assist Detective Yu in whatever way I possibly can. I give you my word, Party Secretary Li.”
For a while after this conversation, Chen found it hard to concentrate on the translation, but he finally managed. Not too long afterward, however, White Cloud called. Everything at the hospital had been taken care of, and his mother was not in any real danger. The doctor explained that they wanted to admit her to the hospital for the test because of her age. That seemed reassuring. So Chen went on revising the translation.
Before lunch time, he dialed Yu’s home number, but it was Peiqin who answered the phone. It was just as well; he had questions for her too. After their last talk, he had obtained a copy of Death of a Chinese Professor, and tried to read as much as possible in
the little time available. Peiqin had been right: the novel was uneven, with striking contrasts in style and content, so much so that it was difficult not to notice them.
“I think you are right,” he said. “Yin may have plagiarized. Her source was probably not newspapers or bestsellers. Some parts of the novel are of high literary quality.”
Peiqin said, “Some parts are far better written than others. But I cannot see the connection between her novel and the murder.”
“Neither can I. If somebody-either the writer of the work she copied, or a reader-had discovered this, he could have contacted her or the media. In a similar case, I remember, the plaintiff sued for monetary compensation. But nothing could have been gained from killing her,” Chen said. “Have you discovered anything else, Peiqin?”
“Nothing new,” she said, “except for one small point. As Yu must have told you, I have read a number of translations-I was a bookworm in my high school years. In a close reading, books translated into Chinese often read quite differently from those originally written in Chinese. Linguistically, I mean.”
“That’s a very interesting point. Can you try to be a bit more specific, Peiqin?”
“There are certain ways of putting a phrase or a sentence in one language that are changed in another. Sometimes even a word can be different. For instance, Chinese writers seldom if ever use the pronoun ‘it,’ and experienced translators like Yang are aware of this. But not so with third- or fourth-rate translators. Exotic expressions keep popping up in their texts. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with the meaning, but Chinese sentences should not read that way.”
“You are right. Some paragraphs do not read smoothly; that’s my impression too. But I have not done as close a reading as you.”
“There’s another example. Ten years ago, the word ‘privacy’ hardly existed in Chinese. If used at all, it was with a negative connotation-indecent or evil, incapable of being open and above-board. But in Death of a Chinese Professor, Yin used the word in a positive sense, like some fashionable young people use it today.”
“Your English is really good, Peiqin!” he said. “Even today, some people would still use the word cautiously, because of its lingering negative connotation.”
“No, don’t laugh at me, Chief Inspector Chen. I have to help Qinqin with his English homework, and he asked me how to translate ‘privacy’ into Chinese just a couple of weeks ago.”
“You are perceptive, Peiqin. I have done translations, but I have paid little attention to such linguistic complexities.”
“Oh, forgive me. This is really like an apprentice giving a lesson to Master Ban. I know you have done a lot of translations. But some paragraphs in the Death of a Chinese Professor read like a literal translation.”
“So you are suggesting that Yin might have plagiarized an English text and translated it herself?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
It was possible. A number of books about the Cultural Revolution had been written in English. As a college English teacher, Yin could have read some of them. But, then, Death of a Chinese Professor had subsequently been translated into English too. Yin would surely have considered the possibility of discovery.
Perhaps Peiqin was like him, too focused on what she could do to help in the investigation. The only help she could provide was through her reading; as a result, she was susceptible to exaggerating some possibilities. Still, she did all this for her husband, who had been left to deal with a difficult case all by himself.
Then Chen spoke on the spur of the moment. “Yu told me about your family breakfast at Old Half Place this morning. That’s great. He deserves a break.”
“Yes, he does. He’s been under a lot of pressure of late. Due to a lot of things.”
“I understand. Detective Yu and I are in the same boat. I depend on him, and of course I will do whatever I can for him. He is a great cop. I consider myself fortunate to be his partner.”
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so, Chief Inspector Chen.”
Afterward, he regretted having made such patronizing statements, which might have sounded like the empty compliments Party Secretary Li usually paid. It was perhaps little wonder that he was in line to become Party Secretary Chen. What had he really meant, he wondered. And what would Peiqin think?
He brewed himself another pot of coffee before he resumed reading his own translation.
He put the roast beef and steamed buns into the microwave. It was a clever combination. The roast beef was prepared in a Western way, for in traditional Chinese cuisine there was only soy-sauce-stewed beef. The mixing of the opposites, like yin and yang-he stopped himself with the first bite. The digital timer on the microwave read 3:00 in green lights and there was a sharp beep. There was some strange correspondence between this sound and his new thought.
Was it possible that those parts Yin had plagiarized came from an unpublished manuscript, and the original author was in no position to complain?
He had not really considered this possibility because he was aware that Yin had been a nobody until the publication of Death of a Chinese Professor. No one would have given her a manuscript to read-except Yang. But the missing English manuscript that Zhuang had mentioned might have been Yang’s version of a Chinese Doctor Zhivago.
Of course, Yin would never have told anyone if Yang had left the manuscript to her, for it would have brought her no end of trouble. If the Party authorities had gotten wind of it, they would have demanded the manuscript. They would never have left anything potentially damaging to the glorious image of socialist China in such hands. Especially a manuscript written in English, meant for the market abroad. It might also have exposed her to unpleasantness if word got out about the money she might receive in the event of its publication. That, he could understand from personal experience. So far he had hardly talked to anybody about his current translation project-except to Yu. But even to Yu he had not mentioned the exact amount he was being paid. What would others have thought?
Yang could not have sued-or murdered-Yin, of course.
But who else could have known about the existence of such a manuscript? Yin had long since cut off all ties with her relatives. As for her friends and colleagues, Yin must have been too much of a dissident to ever trust anyone with something like that.
What about someone on Yang’s side? He had started the book prior to the Cultural Revolution. In the early sixties, perhaps. Though he would not have talked to people about it, it was possible that one of his relatives might have visited him and stumbled upon his writing, the way Zhuang had discovered it in the dorm.
The other possibility, of course, was Internal Security. They might have somehow learned of the existence of the manuscript, and decided to take matters into their own hands. It was possible-especially if Yin had started contacting people abroad. That would fit with their decision to withhold information about her passport renewal application. That was also why they would have searched her room before Yu’s arrival: Yu was not supposed to look in that direction. Even Party Secretary Li’s emphasis that it was not a political case fit this hypothesis.
He suddenly realized that he had almost finished the roast beef and steamed buns without having tasted them. The beef, warmed in the microwave, still juicy and tender, put between the two sides of a bun, like a Chinese sandwich, was really not bad.
White Cloud was good-not just because of this culinary invention that combined oriental and occidental cuisine.
Before he discussed these ideas with Yu, however, Chen decided to take some action on his own.
First he got in touch with Comrade Ding, an officer in charge of tapping the phones of people designated for “inside control.” Chen could have done so earlier, but with Party Secretary Li and Internal Security prowling in the background, he did not want to cause any alarm. Also, Ding was one of his connections it would be better not to use too frequently.
Ding turned out to be more cooperative than he had expected. In about f
orty-five minutes, Ding called back. Yin’s telephone line in the college had been tapped for some time. According to the records, there had been nothing unusual in her conversations over the last few months, but that did not prove anything. Yin would not have made any important phone calls from the office she shared with her colleagues. As for the public phone booth in Treasure Garden Lane, she almost never used it. She could have been either so lonely, or so cautious, that she made no phone calls or else made them away from the lane. Chen was more inclined toward the latter idea. There was no controlling pay phones.
Ding promised that he would check all the records with respect to Yin for the last several years. It would take time. Chen understood.
Then he made another call to the Shanghai Archives Bureau, asking for a detailed list of Yang’s relatives.
Chapter 20
There was not a lot that Detective Yu could possibly do. Party Secretary Li had agreed that Yu might continue his investigation a little longer, but Li also emphasized that the investigation could not drag on forever.
However unreliable his confession might be, Wan had come forward of his own free will. There was always a possibility that Wan had committed the murder on the spur of the moment. Whether or not he had a specific deadline, Yu would have no more than a few more days. He doubted this additional time would make any real difference. If nothing happened soon, the case would conclude with Wan being charged with murder.
Yu did not know which way to turn now.
He discussed the investigation with Peiqin over breakfast. It was a much simpler one, with rice reboiled in water plus fermented tofu and a thousand-year egg. Peiqin, too, was disappointed; after having put in hours reading and doing research, all her efforts seemed to have come to nothing.
“According to the proverb, Miraculous discoveries are often made without effort,” she said, slicing a tender thousand-year egg immersed in soy sauce. “But it takes time and luck.”
