Hold Your Breath, China

by Qiu Xiaolong

  in memories, is already confused.

  ‘Our most honorable patron, you have done something so extraordinary for the deceased today. Don’t be so sad any more,’ the head monk Yuanjue stepped over and said to him, still counting the beads in his hand. ‘You appear to be drenched in sweat, Chief Inspector Chen.’

  With the monks’ chanting finally reaching a climax, they were moving out for the final part of the service – to burn the nether world money in the courtyard of the temple.

  It was there that Bian pulled at Chen’s hand and inserted into it a white envelope. The envelope bore a handwriting unrecognizable to him.

  With people’s attention fixed on the dancing fire of the gold and silver ingots in the bronze burner, Chen retreated into a corner in the courtyard and took the letter out.

  The letter presented nothing but a stanza from a poem quoted in Shanshan’s last letter to him in Wuxi, along with the last paragraph from that letter.

  A cloud in the sky, inadvertent, I cast

  a shadow in the waves of your heart.

  Don’t be so amazed,

  nor be so dazed –

  Just for an instant it may last.

  We meet on the night-covered sea;

  You have your destination, and I, mine,

  If you remember, that’s fine,

  But better forget the shine

  Enkindled between you and me.

  Because of the light produced in our meeting, however transitory, over the night-covered lake, can you forgive me for this upset and stay friends?

  So she had known all along.

  Perhaps as early as that afternoon at the Oriental Club in the New World, and that’s why she had brought up his favorite Confucian maxim.

  With the letter still in his hand, another text message came in to Chen, with a ding reminiscent of the knock made with the head monk’s fish-shaped wooden instrument. It was from Ouyang, the editor of Shanghai Literature.

  ‘Qiang’s body was discovered this morning. Killed by a violent blow to the back of his head.’

  Pocketing the letter in a hurry, Inspector Chen checked Zhao’s schedule sent to him the previous day. The senior Party leader was leaving Shanghai the next day. Chen would try to arrange a last-minute meeting with him.

  He had to meet with Zhao in person, to talk him into letting the inspector take care of the investigation into Qiang’s death in Shanghai, instead of going to the Party school seminar in Suzhou.

  They did not have to talk about the documentary or Shanshan’s activities. Sometimes some things were better left unsaid. Zhao had sent him a short text message of thanks along with his itinerary. That was about all of it.

  But because of it, Zhao might grant his request to investigate the death of Qiang, which could be interpreted as a result of the inspector’s doing the job for Zhao.

  Earlier, Chen had hinted about the possibility of his being shadowed in the midst of his carrying out the investigation. It would not be too far-fetched to portray Qiang as a collateral casualty. At least it appeared as a convincing scenario to himself.

  With the power struggle going on at the top, it might appear convincing to Zhao, too.

  The inspector had no idea what he could do for Qiang, but he would try in whatever way possible.

  ‘Knowing it’s impossible for you to do the thing, you still have to try as long as it’s the right thing for you to do.’ He had quoted the Confucian maxim recently, though he failed to recall when.

  ‘What’s up?’ Yu said, moving over.

  Chen knew he must have looked terrible, with the cellphone grasped tight in his trembling hand.

  Others were also coming over to Chen, looking at him with concern in their eyes. After all, the enigmatic inspector might not have told them everything.

  ‘The service is finished here,’ Peiqin said tentatively.

  The fire out in the burner, the gold and silver ingots in ashes, the monks were filing back to the hall.

  ‘I’ve got to leave now,’ Chen said, ‘for another case, possibly related.’