by Qiu Xiaolong
“He has a small bar.”
Chen was reminded of Old Hunter’s story about Li’s untouchable brother-in-law. Those upstarts were successful not because of their business acumen, but because of their guanxi.
“Tea or coffee?” Li asked with a smile.
“Coffee.”
“Well, I only have instant.”
Then Chen started by briefing Li about the food poisoning incident in Fujian.
Li responded, “Don’t be too suspicious. Some of our Fujian colleagues may not be too pleased with Detective Yu’s presence. It’s their domain, I can understand that. But it goes way too far to accuse them of being connected with a gang. You don’t have any evidence, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I’m not saying all of them are tied to the triad, but one insider can do a lot of damage.”
“Take a break, Comrade. Both Yu and you are overwrought. There’s no need to imagine yourself fighting in the Bagong Mountains, with every tree and weed an enemy soldier.”
Li referred to a battle during the Jin dynasty, when a panic-stricken general’s imagination turned everything into the enemy chasing him into the mountains. But Chen suspected that it was Li who had lost sight of the enemy. This was no time to take a break. Perceiving a slight change in Li’s attitude toward the investigation, he wondered whether he had done something more than his Party boss had expected.
He shifted his focus to Inspector Rohn’s cooperation, one of Li’s main concerns.
“The Americans are pursuing the investigation in their interests,” Li commented. “It is a matter of course for her to cooperate. As long as they know we are doing our best, we don’t have to worry. That’s all we need to do.”
“That’s all we need to do,” Chen echoed.
“We’ll try to find Wen, certainly, but it may not be easy to accomplish this within the time frame—their time frame. We don’t have to go out of our way for them.”
“I’ve not worked on such a sensitive international case before. Please give me more of your specific instructions, Party Secretary Li.”
“You’ve been doing a great job. The Americans must see that we are trying our best. That’s very important.”
“Thank you,” Chen said, familiar with Li’s way of saying something positive to soften what would follow.
“As an old-timer, I would just like to make a few suggestions. Your visit to Old Ma, for example, may not have been an excellent choice. Ma is a good doctor. No question about it. I still remember your effort to help him.”
“Why not, Party Secretary Li?”
“The Mas have their reasons to complain about our system,” Li said, frowning. “Have you told Inspector Rohn the story of Dr. Zhivago in China?”
“Yes, she asked me about it.”
“You see, the Cultural Revolution was a national disaster. A lot of people suffered. Such a story is nothing new here, but may be sensational to an American.”
“But that happened even before the Cultural Revolution.”
“Well, that’s like what happens in an investigation,” Li said. “You are not doing anything now, but it’s still what you have already done.”
Chen was astonished by Li’s reproof, which was not totally irrelevant.
“Also, I’m concerned by the accident in Zhu’s place. Those old houses with dark, rotten staircases. Fortunately, nothing serious has happened, or the American might really get suspicious.”
“Well—” I really am suspicious, Chen did not say.
“That’s why I want to reemphasize that you must provide a safe and satisfactory stay for Inspector Rohn. Think of something else to do. You have served as an escort for Westerners. A cruise on the river is a must for a tourist. And a visit to the Old City.” Li said, “I’m going to invite her to a Beijing Opera. I’ll let you know as soon as I have made arrangements.”
So Party Secretary Li actually wanted him to stop the investigation, though he did not say so explicitly.
Why? Chen was perplexed. There were so many possible points for him to ponder over. As he had suspected, he’d been given this assignment more for the appearance of carrying out an investigation than to obtain a result. If he was going to do a real job, it would have to be done without the bureau’s knowledge.
He tried to clear his mind on the way home, but he was still exasperated when his apartment building came in sight.
Turning on the light in his apartment, he compared his strikingly plain room with Li’s. No exquisite orchids breathing the owner’s elegant taste. No silk scrolls sporting the calligraphy of renowned scholars. A room is like a woman, incapable of standing comparison, he reflected.
He took out the cassette tape of Yu’s interview in the village. It had been express-mailed to his home. The information provided by Wen’s neighbors was not really new. The apathy shared by them was also understandable, considering what Feng had done during the Cultural Revolution.
To some extent, the chief inspector thought he could understand the isolation Wen had inflicted upon herself. During his first few years in the police bureau, he had also alienated himself from his former friends who had started teaching in colleges or interpreting at the Foreign Ministry. A cop’s career had not been his expectation for himself, nor his friends’. Ironically, that was one of the reasons that he had thrown himself into translating and writing in those days.
Wen must have been a proud woman.
The tape rolled slowly on to the interview with Miao, the owner of the only private phone in the village, about how the village folks paid her for their calls to people overseas. When people called home from abroad, they also used her phone. Miao explained, “When someone calls from overseas, there may be a long wait before his family comes to the phone. As international calls can be very expensive, some of them make a point of calling at a scheduled time. For Feng, it was always Tuesday evening, around eight o’clock. But for the first two or three weeks, he called more frequently. Once Wen was not at home, and another time she did not want to come to pick up the phone. They did not get along so well, you know. With such a husband, I do not blame her. A fresh flower stuck in a heap of ox dung. It’s surprising that he calls every week. I don’t think he has made much money. He has been there for only a few months...”
He pushed the stop button, rewound the tape, listened to it again, stopped it, made a note, and pushed the play button again.
“Anyway, before eight o’clock on Tuesday, Wen would come to wait by the phone. The last call was an exception. It came on a Friday. I remember. Feng said that it was urgent. So I had to run to get her. I do not know anything about the contents of their talk. I thought she looked upset afterwards. That’s about all I can tell you, Detective Yu.”
As the tape came to an end, Chief Inspector Chen lit a cigarette, trying to do some thinking.
Normally, for the first couple of days, there were a number of directions to pursue in search of a missing person, but once they were covered, and no clue discovered, the search came to a dead end. Still, some details were worth exploring. For one thing, why would Wen have refused to answer an expensive international call? Even if their relationship was terrible, wouldn’t she still want to join her husband in America?
He slipped off his shoes, lay down on the sofa, picked up a copy of Wenhui Daily. There was a column discussing doctors and nurses taking “red envelopes” or petty graft from patients. Maybe that was another reason why Mr. Ma enjoyed such good business. Visits to a state-run hospitals were covered by insurance, but the amount in the “red envelopes” could be staggering. Some called it a form of corruption; others attributed it to unreasonable distribution of wealth in the society. He put aside the newspaper, intending only to rest his eyes for a few minutes. He dozed off in spite of himself.
The insistent clanging of the phone intruded into his fading dream. It was Old Hunter.
“Sorry to call you so late,” Old Hunter said.
“No, I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said. “
I was with Inspector Rohn in the hotel. So please go on with your report, in detail.”
“First, about the victim’s pajamas. Some part I have told you already. No label in the pajamas, but there is a fine design woven into the material, shaped like a V connected with an elliptical circle. I spoke with Tang Kaiyuan, a fashion designer. According to Tang, the design stands for Valentino, an international brand. Very expensive. There’s no store selling it in Shanghai. So the victim must have been a rich man. Possibly from another province. Maybe from Hong Kong.”
“It may be a fake, a knockoff,” Chen commented.
“I thought about that, too. Tang said that it’s not likely. He has never seen fake Valentino pajamas here. Knockoffs come in large quantities. No one will try to make just one or two pieces. A month ago, there was a raid on a warehouse and more than three hundred thousand cheap Polo logo T-shirts were found. If they had been put on the market, the real, high-priced Polo brand shirts would have been unsaleable.”
“Tang has a good point.”
“I also had a discussion with Dr. Xia. That’s why I did not have time to call you. The good doctor’s willing to go out of his way for you. Remember the unidentified drug he found in the body of the ax-murder corpse? When we discussed the fact the victim had had sex shortly before he was killed, the doctor got an idea that the mysterious drug might be a sort of aphrodisiac, and he took out a thick reference volume there and then. Sure enough, he found a drug with similar molecular structure. At the time when the book was published, this drug was available only in Southeast Asia. It can be very expensive.”
“The victim must have been able to afford expensive luxuries, with such a brand of pajamas, and such a drug, but he doesn’t sound like one of those new capitalists to me.”
“I agree,” Old Hunter said. “I will do further research tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Uncle Yu. Not a single word about your discovery to the people in the bureau.”
“I understand, Chief Inspector Chen.”
It was almost twelve as Chen put down the phone. All in all, the day had not ended too badly, though his dream had been broken into by the phone call.
Of that dream, only one fragmented scene remained in his mind. He was walking to an ancient bridge over a Qing dynasty moat, alone, crunching over a blanket of golden leaves, somewhere in the Forbidden City. A poem by Zhang Bi, a Tang dynasty poet, came to mind.
The dream comes lingering back to the old place:
The winding verandah, the circling balustrade.
There is nothing like the moon, still shining on the petals
Fallen in the spring court, for the lonely visitor.
Chief Inspector Chen made himself another cup of black coffee, trying to cleanse his palate and his mind of the dream. This was not a night for recollecting poems. He had to think.
* * * *
Chapter 12
T
he phone began ringing before her alarm went off. Rubbing her eyes, Catherine snatched up the receiver. It was her boss’s voice on the line, clear, familiar, though thousands of miles away. “Sorry to wake you, Catherine.”
“It’s okay.”
“How are things?”
“Lousy,” she said. “The Fujian police have made no progress. Here in Shanghai, we’ve not gotten any leads by interviewing Wen’s possible contacts.”
“You know the trial date. The INS has been driving us crazy.”
“Is it possible to postpone the trial?”
“Not a popular idea, I’m afraid.”
“Politics. Here, too. Is there any information about the gang that threatened Feng?”
“Feng has not heard from them again. We have taken your suggestion and are keeping him in the same place. If the gang has Wen, they will send another more explicit message to him.”
“The Chinese believe that the triad is looking for her but may not have her yet.”
“What’s your opinion of the Chinese?”
“The Shanghai Police Bureau or Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Well, both,” Spencer said.
“The bureau has made a point of treating me as a distinguished guest. Party Secretary Li Guohua, the bureau’s top official, is going to meet me today or tomorrow. A courtesy, I guess. As for Chief Inspector Chen, I would say he works conscientiously.”
“I’m glad to hear they treat you well, and your Chinese partner is a decent guy. Now about Chen, the CIA would like you to gather some information on him.”
“They want me to spy on him?”
“That is too strong a word, Catherine. Just pass on the information you happen to have about him. What people is he associated with? What cases does he handle? What books does he read and write? That kind of thing. The CIA has its own sources, but you are someone they can trust.”
She agreed but she did not like it.
Then the phone rang again. It was Chen.
“How are you this morning, Inspector Rohn?”
“Much better.”
“Your ankle?”
“The paste has worked. No problem today,” she said, rubbing her ankle, which still felt slightly tender.
“You scared me yesterday.” There was relief in his voice. “Are you up for another interview today?”
“Sure. When?”
“I have a meeting this morning. What about this afternoon?”
“Then I’ll do a little research in the Shanghai Library in the morning.”
“About Chinese secret societies?”
“Right.” In addition, she was going to collect some information about Chen. Not merely for the CIA.
“The library is also on Nanjing Road. A taxi will take you there in less than five minutes.”
“I’ll walk if it is so close.”
“That’s up to you. I’ll meet you at twelve in a restaurant opposite the library, across the street. The Verdant Willow Village. That’s the name of the restaurant.”
“See you then.”
After a quick shower, she left the hotel. She strolled along Nanjing Road, an extended shopping center, not only lined with shops on both sides, but also with rows of peddlers in front of the shops. She crisscrossed the street several times, lured by the interesting window displays. She had not done any shopping since her arrival.
At the intersection of Zhejiang Road, she had to resist the temptation to enter a vermilion restaurant with engraved pillars sustaining a yellow-glazed tile roof—an imitation of the ancient Chinese architectural style. A waitress dressed in the Qing dynasty costume bowed enticingly to the people passing by. Instead, Catherine bought a piece of sticky rice cake from one of curbside peddlers, nibbling it like the Shanghai girls walking in front of her. It was rather fashionable to talk about the Chinese people as natural capitalists, born wheelers and dealers, and to explain the economic boom in that way, but she believed it was their collective energy released after so many years of state economic control, being given the opportunity to do something for themselves for the first time, that had led to the transformation she saw around her.
And she encountered no more curious glances than she would have in St. Louis. Nor did she meet with any accident except shoulder-bumping and elbow-pushing as she squeezed past a crowded department store. She had been disturbed by the accidents in the last two days, but perhaps she had been clumsy from jet lag. She was well rested that morning. Soon she came in view of the library. She gave small change to beggars on the steps as she would have done in St. Louis.
As she entered the Shanghai Library, an English-speaking librarian came over to help. She had two subjects, the Flying Axes and Chen. To her surprise, Catherine found practically nothing on triads in their literature. Perhaps writing about those criminal activities was forbidden in contemporary China.
She found several magazines containing Chen’s poems and translations. And a few translations of mysteries under Chen’s name, too. Some of them she had read in English. What fascinated her was the stereotyped “translator preface”
for each of the books. It consisted of an introduction giving the author’s background, a brief analysis of the story, and an invariable conclusion using political clichés—due to the author’s ideological background, the decadent values of the Western capitalist society cannot but be reflected in the text, and Chinese readers should be alert against such influence...
Absurd, and hypocritical too, but such hypocrisy might have accounted for his rapid rise.
The librarian stepped into the reading room with a new magazine. “Here is a recent interview with Chen Cao.”
There was a color picture of him in a black suit with a conservative tie, looking like an academic. In the interview, using T. S. Eliot as an example, Chen claimed that poetry should be written without the pressure of having to be a poet. He mentioned Louis MacNeice, who had to earn a living at another job. Chen acknowledged their influence on his poetry and mentioned the title of a poem suffused with melancholy. She found “The Sunlight on the Garden,” read it, and made copies. The CIA’s purpose was political, but Chen’s essay might throw more light on her Chinese partner as a human being. Eliot and MacNeice, Chen used their stories to justify his own career. She returned the material to the librarian.
