by Xiaolong Qiu
‘No, I have to head back home right now – a car is waiting for me there for the vacation.’
‘Then don’t worry about it, Director Chen,’ she said, turning back to him again on the doorstep. ‘Remember to put a bandage on your hand the moment you get back home, and then enjoy your vacation in the mountains. I’ll keep WeChatting you about things here in the office.’
A leaf was seen swirling down like a yellow-winged butterfly over her slim shoulder. The scene reminded him of an image in Xuanji’s poem. He was filled with an ominous feeling.
DAY SIX
Chen rubbed his eyes, unbelievably, in the morning light streaming into the spacious hotel room. It was almost ten, but considering the late hour he had arrived at the Cloud Sea Hotel at the mid-mountain range the previous night, and the fact he was officially ‘on vacation’, sleeping in later than usual seemed to be more than justifiable.
He made himself a cup of tea. Still disoriented, he moved out to the balcony, taking a slow sip at the tender green tea named Monkey Prize, and looking out toward the breath-taking scene of the verdant mountains mantled in the white clouds.
It seemed as if he had been transported in a dream to the Yellow Mountains, the collective name for a range of more than seventy peaks in the south of Anhui Province. A celebrated resort for tourists for more than a thousand years, and an everlasting inspiration for poets and painters, the attractions of the mountains appeared to be manifold – pines, clouds, rocks and peaks, each with its peculiar charms and legends. With newly built highways, it was an easy drive here from Shanghai, about four hours, so the mountains appeared to be overwhelmed with tourists moving and hiking around those fabulous peaks.
For an all-inclusive vacation, just like so many other things, it had been pushed on to Chen, who had to take it at the shortest notice. But why the sudden vacation for him? It was a question he had raised with a couple of people above him.
The reason officially given was, invariably, that Director Chen would benefit from a vacation in the mountains, with the fresh air and pleasant scenes and excellent service there, logically serving as a much-needed part of his convalescent leave. It was difficult for an ordinary tourist to book a hotel in the mid-mountain area because of the government regulation about the limited number of hotels built there. Much more so for a luxurious hotel suite connected to the celebrated mountain spring. But for a ‘distinguished guest’ like Chen, it was all understandable.
In reality, however, it was nothing but the hasty removal of a potential trouble-maker – at least temporarily – from the situation developing fast in the city of Shanghai. With the case given back to Internal Security, damage control had turned into the top priority for the Party authorities.
And the vacation could also move him further out of sight, and further out of mind – and then into oblivion. There were so many things happening in China today, no one seemed to have a long memory about anything or anybody. Like the Judge Jiao scandal, the topic had already disappeared from the Internet. Eventually, nobody would be concerned about the disappearance of the ex-inspector or the ex-director.
That’s why things had been happening to him in such a speedy sequence.
After his parting with Jin, he had returned home to find a uniformed chauffeur waiting for him there with a white Lexus. He was practically thrust into the luxurious car, which immediately set out, driving all the way from Shanghai to the Yellow Mountains in Anhui Province. All he’d managed to do was to make a phone call to his mother, assuring her that he was fine, then to Old Hunter, promising that they would have tea again after the vacation, and he’d sent a message to Jin through WeChat, typing it out in the bureau car as it was curving up the mountain path, precariously, to a five-star hotel named Cloud Sea which loomed against the dark night in the mid-mountain range.
Now for his first morning in the mountains, the scene which was unfolding out before him appeared to be unbelievably enchanting.
He was no stranger to some of the incredible perks of a ‘prominent Party official’, but such a vacation still turned out to be beyond his expectations. With the hotel halfway up in the mountains, it had a distinct advantage over those scattered in the base area, providing easy access to the peaks around and a panoramic view of the encircling hills as well.
And he was beginning to feel like a distinguished guest, with his glance sweeping around to a rock plateau about the size of a basketball court in front of the hotel. Standing on the rock, the tourists were said to be able to enjoy the miraculous experience of touching the waves of white clouds with their fingers, feeling at once lost and at one with the elements at the altitude.
Further beyond, he could see over across the plateau the famous pine tree on the cliff, commonly called ‘blossoming-brush-in-dream’, with a number of stories about it. One version he remembered concerned Jiang Lang, a Yuan dynasty poet who, after a prolonged period of writer’s block, visited the mountains and dreamed of his brush pen bursting into blossom at night. Waking up, Jiang dashed off a brilliant essay before he walked out – to his astonishment – to the very sight of a pine tree standing out on the cliff exactly like the one in his dream.
Could that be a sign for Chen to start writing at the end of his cop career? Maybe one’s memory could select its contents subconsciously, and that’s how he happened to be remembering that particular version.
Yet he felt like anything but a writer on vacation for the moment. Stepping back into the room, he took out his cellphone again.
As Jin had promised, there were several WeChat messages from Shanghai:
‘This morning, Director Ma of the City Government Office came down to our office the moment I got in. He spoke highly of your contribution to the successful conclusion of the Min case. “Now it’s over, Director Chen doesn’t have to worry about it. Not about anything in Shanghai. Not at all. Tell him to just enjoy himself in the mountains.” He also wants me to keep him informed of anything you may do or say during your vacation.’
It was Saturday, but perhaps no surprise that both Jin and Ma were in the office on the eventful day. No surprise, either, that Director Ma wanted her to keep him informed of any possible move made by the ex-inspector, but Chen wondered whether she would ever choose to do so, after her having worked together with him in the last few days.
A white cloud was drifting on, seemingly careless, over a distant peak, which was called the Lotus Flower Peak, as described in the hotel brochure. He failed to see any remote resemblance in the angular shape of the peak.
Then he scrolled down to the next WeChat message in his phone.
‘Kong, the editor-in-chief of Wenhui Daily, called into the office. According to him, with news of your help in the investigation of the Min case being spread online, the serialization of your Judge Dee novella will turn into a huge success. He’s anxious to start tomorrow, perhaps with your selection of Xuanji’s poems – along with something you may want to say, like a prologue to the Tang dynasty murder story. And that’s what Kong said to me in his own words. “Make hay while the sun shines. It is a Judge Dee story told by a legendary Chinese inspector in today’s China, with far more historical accuracy and literary value, far more than the one penned by Van Gulik.”’
Kong’s suggestion was no surprise, either. A seasoned Party official/editor, he was aware of the political mire Chen might have landed himself in. But for the moment, it was politically correct for the newspaper to carry such a serialization. Besides, everything was possible in China; no one could tell whether Chen would stage a comeback. Last but not the least, the Judge Dee novella could be a plus for the newspaper with the relentless hits it had suffered from the new media.
The next message was a short one.
‘I forgot to mention that Kong offered to pay the advance to you right now. Alternatively, he could have it sent directly to your mother’s nursing home. He said you had talked to him about it.’
He might have mentioned it in passing to Kong, though perhaps mor
e as a pretext. It was also true, however, that he was having a hard time continuing to pay the nursing home fee. So he was left with no choice but to start writing. Anyway, it might well be something worth doing, alone in the mountains. Then he read the next message.
‘Someone nicknamed Old Hunter also called, saying you gave him my cell number. The message from him is cryptic. “The client is satisfied with the prospect of her being released soon. Apparently a truce between the high above. Zhangzhang is thrilled with the twenty percent bonus, promising not to say a single word about it to anyone. He also pledges he will keep his word to you.”’
What could that mean? The unexpected conclusion of Zheng’s pleading guilty in the private kitchen murder might have led to a compromise between the two rival factions in the Forbidden City. A temporary truce, so to speak. With the news of Zheng being caught as the murderer coming out in the official media as well, any further pressure for Min to ‘talk’ could backfire. Hence the prospect of her release soon. And the extra twenty percent from the mysterious client Sima as the bonus in return for their having done the job, and then for their not talking about it to anybody. As for the role Chen had played in it, no one could really tell, but the conclusion was enough to convince Sima that Chen had delivered.
As for Min, she would not get away unscathed, what with enough spicy, salacious material about her private life leaked and heaped online, and with irreparable damage done to the myth of the Republican Lady. What was worse, the knowledge about her being on a governmental black list would have scared away future customers to her private kitchen dinner.
But Chen did not feel exactly sorry for her. Like in an ancient Chinese fable, not one egg would have remained unbroken with the whole nest overturned. Much worse could have happened to her.
He made himself another cup of tea, in spite of the queasiness in his stomach. He turned to look up across the plateau again, and beyond the famous pine he thought he recognized the Heaven Gate Peak in the cloudy distance.
Master Liu regrets that Mount Peng is too far away,
And I, thousands of times farther from the mountains.
These lines from Li Shangyin, a contemporary of Judge Dee’s, contained a nostalgic reference to an ancient Chinese legend. Master Liu, a young man in the Han dynasty, ventured to Mount Peng, where he had a wonderful time with a beautiful woman. Upon returning to his home village, however, he found it already changed beyond recognition – with hundreds of years passed – and he failed to find his way back to the mountains. The Tang couplet was often read as a regret over an irrecoverable loss. It was said that Li Shangyin’s best poems were composed, paradoxically, at the lowest point of his life.
Perhaps Chen too was at one of the lowest points of his life, except that not a single line came to him. So many things had happened in just one day. He was kept too busy even to think about it.
Gazing at the celebrated peak, he was struck by the desolation of its rising so abruptly from the valleys. Wondering at its formation since time immemorial, he thought of another ancient Chinese proverb: ‘One day in the mountains, a thousand years in the world of red dust.’ Then why worry so much in the fleeing time?
Shaking his head, he caught himself resorting to clichés again, so pathetically, as it was criticized in the well-known essay ‘Politics and the English Language’ by George Orwell.
With the battle fought as best he could, there was nothing else left for him to do. No point brooding too much, he concluded. It was his last case. In fact, it already was not his case.
In spite of the two cups of strong tea, he found himself feeling drowsier than before, but it was still too early for him to take a nap.
In a tourist resort, do as a tourist would do, he told himself another paraphrased cliché.
He decided to take a walk out in the mountains. He was supposed to be on vacation here, with a vacationist role to play for the benefit of those watching out for him in the dark.
So he walked out like a tourist.
It does not rain but it pours.
After Director Ma’s visit to the office, Jin got two more unexpected phone calls. Both fairly early in the morning.
One from someone nicknamed Old Hunter, at least so he introduced himself. The other from Kong, the Party boss and editor-in-chief of Wenhui Daily. Neither seemed to carry any urgent message, but she did not want to take anything for granted, not on a day like this.
She typed a couple of messages to Chen about these, and sent them out.
Then suddenly a spurt of seemingly routine phone calls and messages swarmed into the office, most of them directly or indirectly related to the latest developments in the Min case, and she tried her best to answer them.
Afterwards, she checked several websites, where speculations and theories had begun popping up about the conclusion of the Min case, though not in any detail yet.
About ten, Detective Xiong came striding into her office, carrying a small bamboo basket of fruit in his hand.
Xiong had not been on too friendly terms with Chen, as she had witnessed just the day before. It was understandable. The Min case had been first assigned to the homicide squad headed by Xiong. Even after being taken over by Internal Security, Detective Xiong was still the one supposed to cooperate on behalf of the Shanghai Police Bureau.
Detective Xiong started by expressing his gratefulness to Chen and Jin.
‘You two are just like the legendary team of Chief Inspector Chen and Detective Yu. You surely made a difference to the conclusion of the investigation.’
It sounded quite flattering to her, though a bit embarrassing too, when Xiong added, nodding emphatically, ‘Indeed an inseparable team.’
What was he really driving at? But Detective Xiong was moving on, ready to brief her about what had happened since.
It turned out to be a long, comprehensive briefing, with lots of details not known to her before, and lots of explanations and discussions not expected from him.
Obviously, Detective Xiong did not have to go out of his way to make such a detailed account – not to her. And for that matter, not to Chen either.
Did Xiong believe that he owed it to Chen? But for the latter, the conclusion would not have been conceivable. And as an ex-inspector, Chen would have surely liked to know as much as possible, even though he had categorically declared the distance he wanted to keep from the investigation.
Supposing it was awkward for the detective to approach the ex-inspector directly, it then seemed a reasonable move for Detective Xiong to come to her in the office while Chen stayed far away in the mountains.
Still, why all the details and explanations?
The case was already concluded, and she was not an assistant to a chief inspector, unless …
Unless Detective Xiong, too, had his reservations about the ‘conclusion’, the way he had just described it to her.
If so, was it possible that he wanted Chen to probe deeper into it, without saying it in so many words?
After Detective Xiong left, she started pacing about in the office. Presently, her glance fell on a big envelope sent to Chen earlier that morning. It was marked ‘extremely urgent’. A number of mails to Chen often appeared so marked, and as a rule, she had them forwarded to Chen by the in-city express carrier – delivered the same day. For today, however, Chen was too far away in the Yellow Mountains.
She also noted that the mail came from the Central Party Discipline Committee of CPC in Beijing.
Moving back to the computer, she started checking the schedule of the long-distance bus to the Yellow Mountains. There was one leaving at half past eleven near the west end of the People’s Square, with the bus stop just about a five-minute walk away. It took four hours or so to reach the foot of the Yellow Mountains, she double-checked.
She had no idea as to what could be so urgent in the envelope from Beijing. But as the office secretary, she thought she was justified in making an effort to deliver it as fast as possible, particularly at the critical
juncture.
At least it appeared justifiable to herself.
Not exactly like a tourist, Chen reflected, as he absentmindedly stepped out of the hotel.
The hotel manager had recommended a personally guided program for a distinguished guest like Chen, but he wanted to walk just by himself.
The mountain trail was steep, slippery, even treacherous, winding between clumps of larches and ferns, and he had to move very cautiously, at times almost stepping in and out of the gathering clouds. He soon realized he was inappropriately dressed for this activity. In the windless heat, he began sweating profusely, his steps slowing, and his shirt clinging to his body in discomfort.
He tried to rationalize his weariness – because of the physical effect of the changed altitude, or because of his changed attitude toward what had been happening around him, or because of the fact that he was no longer young?
There was no point laboring up and down the mountain trails, climbing from one peak to another – he was quite ready to give up. No mood for it. Nor the energy.
Like a tourist done with hiking, he turned onto a relatively even road for a change, strolling along with more leisured steps, and thought about how to start the first chapter of the Judge Dee novella in a more suspenseful fashion. He had to start writing while in the mountains.
Sometimes, he thought more clearly while walking at an unhurried pace, but in spite of his efforts, his thoughts remained in confusion. It took him just two or three minutes to learn that this was a shopping street, which provided too many distractions. He could not concentrate there.
The street was lined with an impressive array of boutique stores of mountain products, some of them quite antique-like. It saddened him to think of Huang again. He still held himself responsible – to some extent – for the death of the old man.
He had barely moved down a short block, however, when he failed to resist the temptation of a rustic-looking grocery store with a red-painted door and a thatch-decorated roof. He stepped in and browsed among the local products, such as dried bamboo shoots in bundles, pickled fish, Jinhua ham, and some others he could not describe or name. Like a tourist, he chose a bunch of dried bamboo shoots as well as a tiny glass jar of hot fermented tofu, a special Anhui product which he knew his mother liked. Then from a small local gift shop with a bamboo-bead curtain at the door, he purchased a bamboo owl for Old Hunter, a possible companion for his birds at home. At a dainty store with its glass counter displaying an impressive array of ink sticks made of the fabulous local pine smoke, he succumbed again. On the white store wall, he noted a wooden plaque allegedly left behind by a Qing dynasty emperor, praising the premium quality of the locally made sticks. He was particularly impressed with a large ink stick embossed with a golden dragon. Despite the rediscovered ‘emperor complex’ in today’s China, the dragon was no longer used as a decoration exclusively for the emperors. He picked up several glass-and-brocade boxes of ink sticks shaped into turtles, tigers and dragons, with the fronts inscribed with gold characters. All of them were supposedly inspirational for men of letters, though he doubted whether he would ever use the ink stick for writing. He was not Judge Dee, / nor meant to be … But perhaps one small box of ink sticks could be a souvenir for Jin, a sort of decoration for her desk in the office. He then wondered whether he would ever go to work with her there.
