by Qiu Xiaolong
She looked for reasons for not going out with him, but came up with none. And it would be easier for her to ask to have a part in his investigation over a congenial breakfast. “You keep amazing me, Chief Inspector Chen, a cop, a poet, a translator, and now a gourmet,” she said. “I’ll change.”
It took her a few minutes to shower, to don a white summer dress, and to comb her hair into obedience.
Before they left the room, Chen held out a cellular phone to her. “This is for your convenience.”
“A Motorola!”
“You know what it is called here?” Chen said. “Big Brother. Big Sister if the owner is a woman. The symbols of upstarts in contemporary China.”
“Interesting terms.”
“In Kung Fu literature, this is what the head of a gang would sometimes be called. Rich people are called Mr. Big Bucks nowadays, and Big Brother and Sister carry the same connotation. I have a cell phone myself. It will make it easier for us to contact each other.”
“So we’re a Big Sister and a Big Brother, going out for a walk in Shanghai,” she said with a smile.
Strolling along Nanjing Road, she saw the traffic was completely snarled. People and bikes kept cutting in and out of the smallest spaces imaginable between cars. The drivers had to keep braking all the time.
“Nanjing Road is like an extended shopping center. The city government has imposed restrictions on traffic here.” Chen spoke like a tourist guide again. “It may become a pedestrian mall in the near future.”
It took them no more than five minutes to reach the intersection of Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road. She saw a white Western-style restaurant on the corner. A number of young, people were sipping coffee behind the tall, amber-colored windows.
“Deda Cafe,” Chen said. “The coffee here is excellent, but we are going to a street market behind it.”
She looked up to see a sign at the street entrance, the central market. It marked a narrow street. Shabby, too. In addition to a variety of tiny stores with makeshift counters or tables displaying goods on the sidewalk, there was a cluster of snackbars and booths tucked into the corner.
“Formerly, it was a marketplace for cheap and secondhand goods, like a flea market in the United States.” Chen continued plying her with information. “With so many people coming here, eating places appeared, convenient, inexpensive, but with a special flavor.”
The snackbars, food carts, and small restaurants seemed to fill the air with a palpable energy. Most appeared to be cheap, low-class, in sharp contrast to those near the Peace Hotel. A curbside peddler spread out skewers of diced lamb on a makeshift grill, adding a pinch of spices from time to time. A gaunt herbalist measured out ancient medicinal remedies into a row of earthen pots boiling under a silk banner declaring in bold Chinese characters: medical meal.
This was where she wanted to be, at a clamorous, chaotic corner that told real stories about the city. Fish, squid, and turtles, were all displayed alive in wooden or plastic basins. Eels, quails, and frog legs were frying in the sizzling woks. Most of the bustling restaurants were full of customers.
They found a vacant table in a bar. Chen handed her a dogeared menu. After looking at the strange names of the items listed, she gave up. “You decide. I’ve never heard of any of them.”
So Chen ordered a portion of fried mini-buns with minced pork stuffing, shrimp dumplings with transparent skin, sticks of fermented tofu, rice porridge with a thousand-year-egg, pickled white squash, salted duck, and Guilin bean curd with chopped green scallions. All in small dishes.
“It’s like a banquet,” she said.
“It costs less than a continental breakfast in the hotel,” he said.
The tofu came first, tiny pieces on bamboo sticks like shish kebabs. In spite of a wild, sharp flavor, she started to like it after the first few bites.
“Food has always been an important part of Chinese culture,” Chen mumbled, busily eating. “As Confucius says, To enjoy food and sex is human nature.’”
“Really!” She had never come across that quotation. He could not have made it up, could he? She thought she caught a slight suggestion of humor in his tone.
Soon she became aware of curious glances from other customers—an American woman devouring common food in the company of a Chinese man. A pudgy customer even greeted her as he passed their table with an enormous rice ball in his hand.
“Now I have a couple of questions for you, Chief Inspector Chen. Do you think Wen married Feng, a peasant, because she believed so devoutly in Mao?”
“That’s possible. But for things between a man and a woman, I don’t think politics alone can be an explanation.”
“Did many of the educated youths remain in the countryside?” she said, nibbling at the last piece of tofu.
“After the Cultural Revolution, most of them returned to the city. Detective Yu and his wife were educated youths in Yunnan, and they came back to Shanghai in the early eighties.”
“You have an interesting division of labor, Chief Inspector Chen. Detective Yu is busy working in Fujian, and you stay in Shanghai to enjoy delicious snacks with an American guest.”
“It is my responsibility as a chief inspector to welcome you on the occasion of your first trip to China, and of the first instance of anti-illegal-immigration cooperation between our two countries. Party Secretary Li made a special point of it. ‘Make Inspector Rohn’s stay in Shanghai a safe and satisfactory one’ are my orders.”
“Thank you,” she said. His self-mockery was apparent now, which made their talk easier. “So when I go back home, I’m supposed to talk about the friendship between our two countries, and the politics in your newspapers.”
“That is up to you, Inspector Rohn. It’s the Chinese tradition to show hospitality to a guest from a faraway country.”
“In addition to entertaining me, what else are you going to do?”
“I’ve made a list of Wen’s possible contacts here. Qian Jun, my temporary assistant, is arranging for me to interview them this afternoon or tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I will keep exchanging information with you.”
“So I am to sit in the hotel all day, waiting for phone calls, like a switchboard operator?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. It’s your first trip to China. Do some sightseeing. The Bund, Nanjing Road. I’ll serve as your full-time tour escort over the weekend.”
“I would rather join you in your work, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“You mean take part in the interviews?”
“Yes.” She looked him in the eye.
“I don’t see any reason why not, except that most people speak the Shanghai dialect here.”
His answer was a diplomatic one, she thought, but nonetheless an excuse.
“I had no problem talking with my fellow travelers in the airplane. They all spoke Mandarin to me. Can’t we ask our interviewees to do the same? And you can help me out, if need be.”
“I can try, but do you think people will talk freely in front of an American officer?”
“They will be more earnest,” she said, “if they believe we mean business—an American officer plus a Chinese one.”
“You have a point, Inspector Rohn. I’ll consult Party Secretary Li.”
“Is it part of your political culture never to give a straightforward reply?”
“No. I’ll give you a straightforward answer, but I need to get his permission. Surely some procedures have to be followed, even in the U.S. Marshals Service.”
“Granted, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “So what do you want me to do now, while I await his permission?”
“If Wen’s disappearance was caused by the phone call from her husband, you’d better check for possible leaks in your department.”
“I’ll talk with my supervisor,” she said, aware of the direction he was trying to lead her in, which she had anticipated.
“I’ve asked the hotel to set up a fax machine in your room. If there’s anything else you nee
d, do let me know.”
“I appreciate your help. Now just one more question,” she said on the spur of the moment. “Last night, looking out at the Bund, I thought of a classical Chinese poem. I studied an English version several years ago. About a poet’s regret at being unable to share a transcendant scene with his friend. I cannot remember the exact lines. By any chance, do you know the poem?”
“Um—” He eyed her in surprise. “I think it is a poem by Liu Yong, a Song dynasty poet. The second stanza reads like this. Where shall I find myself / Tonight, waking from a hangover—/ The riverbank lined with weeping willows, / The moon sinking, the dawn rising on a breeze, / Year after year, I will be far, / Far away from you. / All the beautiful scenes are unfolding, / But to no avail: / Oh, to whom can I speak / Of this ever enchanting landscape?”
“That’s it.” She was amazed at his sudden metamorphosis. His face lit up when he recited those lines.
The CIA information was credible. He was a chief inspector and a poet too—at least he was familiar with both Eliot and Liu Yong. That intrigued her.
Chen said, “Liu’s one of my favorites during the pre-Eliot period.”
“What makes Eliot so special for you?”
“He cannot decide whether to declare himself to his love. At least not in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
“Then Eliot should have learned from Liu.”
“And I’d better go to Party Secretary Li now,” he said, smiling as he arose.
On the corner of Sichuan Road they had to stand in the street as the sidewalk was filled by illegally parked bikes. They shook hands, ready to part, when she suddenly became aware of a motorcyclist dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, his face covered with a black helmet, on a powerful cycle heading straight at her at high speed. The rumbling monster would have crashed right onto her but for Chen’s reaction. Still holding her hand, he yanked her onto the pavement and spun himself around to shield her. At the same time, his right leg kicked out backward, pivoting like in a Kung Fu movie. Missing Chen by a hair’s breadth, the motorcycle dodged, swayed, but did not fall. With its tires screeching, it kicked up a cloud of dust and sped onto Nanjing Road.
The whole thing was over in a few seconds. The motorcycle disappeared in traffic. Several passersby gaped at them and moved on.
“I am so sorry, Inspector Rohn,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Those reckless motorcyclists are dangerous.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. They walked on.
* * * *
Chapter 7
O
n his way to Party Secretary Li’s office, Chen checked the bureau fax folder. There were several for him from the Fujian Police Bureau—additional information about the Flying Axes. He was pleased to find a cellular phone number for Detective Yu on the cover sheet as had been promised by Superintendent Hong the previous night. He also found a page with a picture of a shabby house, beneath which ran a line in Yu’s handwriting, “Wen’s House in Changle Village.”
Qian came over with a broad smile on his face and a large envelope in his hand. “I have had the information about Wen circulated, Chief Inspector Chen. Also, I’ve had a talk with Dr. Xia about the Bund Park case. The formal autopsy report will takes some time, but here is an informal summary.”
“Good job, Qian,” Chen said, going to his own small, Spartan office cubicle. The summary had been typed. Qian was proficient in Twinbridge, a Chinese software, but perhaps not as familiar with medical terms.
The Body in Bund Park
1) The time of death: Around one o’clock on the night of April eighth.
2) The cause of death: Head injury with fractures of the skull. Extensive damage to the lining of the brain. Bleeding from multiple wounds, eighteen of them. He could have received the fatal head blow before some of the wounds were inflicted. A general absence of bruises on his arms and legs shows he had not struggled before his death.
3) The body: The victim was in his mid-forties. Six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds. He was strongly built with well-defined arm and leg muscles. His hands were well manicured. Good teeth, except for three gold ones. There was an old scar on his face.
4) He had had sexual intercourse shortly before death. There were still traces of semen and vaginal fluid on his sex organ. There was a deep cut two inches above his penis.
5) Needle tracks on his arms indicate he was a possible I.V. drug user. In addition, there were traces of some unknown drug in his body.
6) His silk pajamas are of excellent quality. There’s no label; it had been removed, but its material seemed to be imported, with a V design woven into the material.
It was a clear report, which further pointed to the possibility of triad involvement, especially the evidence of the unknown drug in the body.
Something else caught his attention. If the victim had been murdered at home, having just had sex, there should have been two bodies in the park—his and his wife’s. But if he had been with somebody else, and his sex partner—whoever that might have been—left immediately after the act, it suggested that the murder might have taken place in a hotel.
Chen made himself a cup of tea and dialed Qian’s extension. “Send out a detailed description of the victim together with a picture, to hotels as well as neighborhood committees.”
That was about all Qian could do at this stage.
However, Chief Inspector Chen wanted to do more. And to use somebody else for the job. There was no accounting for his mistrust of Qian. Perhaps it was merely a whim, a personal prejudice.
His cell phone started ringing. The LCD displayed Inspector Rohn’s number. He pushed the button. “Is everything okay with you, Inspector Rohn?”
“I’m fine, thanks to your excellent kung fu this morning.”
“Don’t mention it. What’s up?”
“The content of the phone conversation has been translated.”
“What did Feng say?”
“It’s a short conversation. According to our translator, Feng’s message was: Some people have got wind of it. Run for your life. Contact me when you’re at a safe place.”
“What did he mean?”
“Wen asked the same question. Feng just repeated the message,” she said. “Now Feng tells my boss that he had gotten a warning on a slip of paper inserted in his grocery bag before he phoned his wife.”
“What did it say?”
“Don’t forget your pregnant wife in China.”
“Your supervisor must look into it. If Feng’s so well hidden, how did they get to him?”
“That’s what he is investigating.”
“Those secret societies are powerful,” he added, “even in the United States.”
“True,” she agreed. “What about our investigation here?”
“I’m on my way to Party Secretary Li’s office. I’ll call you soon.”
Chief Inspector Chen was not sure what Party Secretary Li’s response would be. But he knew that interviewing potential contacts of Wen’s would be monotonous. The company of an American partner would at least provide an opportunity for him to practice his English.
“How’s everything, Chief Inspector Chen?” Li said, rising from his chair.
“Searching for this woman is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“You are doing your best.” Li poured a cup of jasmine tea for him. “How is Inspector Rohn getting along in Shanghai?”
“Fine. And she’s quite cooperative too.”
“You are the right person to handle her, Chief Inspector Chen. Any leads so far?”
“Detective Yu has found one. Wen got a phone call from Feng on April fifth and went into hiding because of the call.”
“That’s very important. In fact, that’s great. I will pass the information to the leading comrades in Beijing today.” Li did not attempt to conceal the excitement in his voice. “You have done an excellent job.”
“How?” Chen was surprised. “I’ve not done anythin
g yet.”
“It’s the Americans’ carelessness that has caused Wen’s disappearance. They should not have permitted anyone to get close enough to Feng to threaten him. They should not have allowed Feng to make that call,” Li said, rubbing his hands. “The Americans’ responsibility. That’s it.”
“Well, as for responsibility, I’ve not yet discussed it with Inspector Rohn. She said the U. S. Marshals would investigate.”
“Yes, that’s the way to go. The gang must have found out about Feng’s witness status and whereabouts through some leak on the American side.”
