by Qiu Xiaolong
By the time he had almost finished, however, Little Zhou come over to him with a bowl of sweet and sour pork rice. “You’re not eating much,” Little Zhou said.
“I’ve stuffed myself,” Chen said, “dining with the Americans.”
“Oh, those banquets,” Little Zhou laughed. “But you do not look too well today.”
“No, just a little headache.”
“Well, go to a public bath and immerse yourself in hot water for as long as you can. When you are sweating all over, wrap yourself in a thick blanket, drink a large cup of ginger tea, and you’ll be a brave new man in no time.”
“Yes, that may help, especially a cup of herbal tea.”
Then Little Zhou said in a whisper, leaning over as if to clean the table, “Yesterday afternoon I drove Party Secretary Li to a meeting. He got a phone call in the car.”
“Yes?”
“Not too many people have Li’s cellular phone number. So I was curious about it. And I heard your name mentioned a couple of times.”
“Really!”
“I was driving along the Number One Overpass. The traffic was crazy there, so I did not catch all of their conversation. Li said something like-I think-’Yes, you’re right. Comrade Chief Inspector Chen has been doing a great job, he’s a wonderful, loyal young cadre.’ Something to that effect.”
“You must be kidding, Little Zhou!”
“No, I’m not. That’s what I heard. Whoever made that phone call, it must be somebody in a high position. Li’s tone sounded so respectful.”
“What about the second time my name was mentioned?”
“I was even more alert, but I did not understand the context of their conversation. It was in connection with some young woman in Guangzhou, I guess. Anyway, it’s not your problem, but hers. Again Li seemed to be putting in a word for you, or agreeing with whatever was said to him.”
“Anything else about that woman?”
“Well, she seems to be in some kind of trouble-in custody or something-for illegal business practices.”
“I see. Thank you so much, Little Zhou, but you should not have gone out of your way for me.”
“Don’t mention it, Comrade Chief Inspector.” Little Zhou added earnestly, “I’m your man, and have been so ever since my first day in the bureau. Not because you’re somebody, but because you’re doing the right thing. Your buddy, and my buddy too, Overseas Chinese Lu swore that he would smash my car if I did not help you. You know how crazy he can be. I’ll contact you if I have some more information. You just take care of yourself.”
“Yes, I will. I appreciate your concern.” He added in a raised voice, “In fact, I’m going to a herbal drug store during the lunch break.”
Instead, after leaving the bureau, he turned into a side street, then a small lane, where there was a kiosk for a public phone station, like the one at Qinghe Lane. Looking back, he made sure that he was not being followed before he stepped into the kiosk. A disabled phone service man nodded at him, coughing with his palm against his mouth, as Chen dialed Overseas Chinese Lu’s number.
“You have ruined me, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Lu said.
“How?”
“The fried eel noodles there are so good, the soup creamy, thick, with a handful of chopped ham and green onion, but so expensive,” Lu said. “Twelve Yuan a bowl. Still, I go there every morning.”
“Oh, you mean the Four Seas Restaurant.” Chen sighed in relief. “Well, I’m not worried about it. Nowadays, with your pocket full of money, you can afford to enjoy yourself there like a true Overseas Chinese millionaire.”
“It’s worth it, buddy. And I’ve got some important information for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Old Hunter, your partner’s father, has observed a white car driving around in Wu’s neighborhood. A brand new Lexus, just like Wu’s. As a temporary traffic patroller, the old man positions himself around Henshan Road. Wu’s not in Shanghai, so the old man wonders who’s been driving the car.”
“Yes, that is something worth observing. Tell him to keep an eye out for the license plate number,” Chen said.
“Nothing is too difficult for him. He’s eager to do something, Peiqin tells me. And so is Peiqin, willing to do anything. A wonderful wife.” Lu added, “Another thing. Don’t forget to give Wang a call. She has made several calls to me-she’s worried about you. You know why she does not contact you herself, she says.”
“Yes, I know. I will call her today.”
Chen telephoned Wang, but she was out on an assignment. He left no message. He felt relieved that she was not there. What could he tell her?
Then he checked his messages at home. There was only one- from Ouyang in Guangzhou:
“ Sorry I cannot reach you today. How I miss our poetry discussion over morning tea! I have just bought two volumes. One is a collection of Li Shangyin.
“When, when can we snuff the candle by the western window again,/and talk about the moment of Mount Ba in the rain?”
“The other one is Yan Rui’s. I particularly like the poem from which our great leader Chairman Mao borrowed the image: “ What will leave leaves, / What will stay stays. / When mountain flow- ers adorn my hair, / Don’t ask where my home will be.”
This was so characteristic of Ouyang, who never forgot to adorn his speech with poetic quotes. Chen listened to the message for a second time. Ouyang surely knew him well, quoting Li Shangyin-but why Yan Rui? The poem had survived in classical anthologies mainly because of a romantic story behind it. The poet was said to be a beautiful courtesan in love with General Yue Zhong. She was thrown into jail by Yue’s political opponent, but she refused to incriminate her lover by admitting their relationship. The poem was said to be about her unyielding spirit in the midst of her trouble. Could that be a hint about Xie Rong to let him know she would not incriminate him?
Of course, Ouyang was wrong about one thing. There had not been anything between Xie and Chief Inspector Chen. But Ouyang’s message confirmed Little Zhou’s information. Xie Rong had gotten into trouble-she was in custody. Not because of her massage business, but because of him, with Internal Security behind it.
Was it possible that Ouyang had also found himself in trouble? Perhaps not. At least Ouyang was still out there, with enough money to make the long distance call, and enough composure to cite Tang and Song dynasty poetry, though the way the message was delivered suggested he was in a difficult situation.
Chief Inspector Chen decided to ask Lu to call Ouyang for him, and to cite another poem for caution’s sake.
When he got back to the office, he thought of a couplet by Wang Changling: If my folks and friends in Luoyang ask about me,/Tell them: an ice-pure heart, a crystal vase.
That would do. He then settled down to work.
Chapter 34
A t seven o’clock, Chief Inspector Chen was about to leave the bureau. The doorman, Comrade Liang, leaned out of his cubicle by the gate, saying, “Wait a minute, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve got something for you.”
It was a large express envelope that had been lying on the top shelf.
“It came two days ago,” Liang said apologetically, “but I could not get hold of you.”
Express mail from Beijing. It might be critical. Comrade Liang should have called him. There had been no message at his office; Chen had checked his voice mail everyday. Perhaps the old man, like everybody else, had heard that Chen had ruffled feathers high up. Since the chief inspector was going to be removed soon, why bother?
He signed for the envelope without saying a word.
“Comrade Chief Inspector,” Comrade Liang said in a low voice, “Some people have been looking over others’ mail. So I wanted to give this to you personally.”
“I see,” Chen said, “Thank you.”
Chen took the envelope, but he did not open it. Instead, he returned to his office, closing the door after him. He had recognized the handwriting on the cover.
Inside
the express packaging was a small stamped envelope, which bore the letterhead-The Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. The same handwriting was on this envelope.
He took out the letter.
Dear Chen Cao: I’m glad you have written to me. On receiving your letter, I went to Comrade Wen Jiezi, the head of the Public Security Ministry. He was aware of your investigation. He said he trusted you wholeheartedly, but there were some people in high positions-not only those you have crossed in Shanghai-very much concerned about the case. Wen promised that he would do whatever possible to keep you from harm. These are his words: “don’t push on with the investigation until further signal. be assured that something will be happening shortly.” I think he is right. Time can make the difference. And time flies. How long since we last met in the North Sea Park? Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed? It seems like ages. I have remained the same. Busy, always busy, with the routine business of the library. Nowadays I work at the foreign liaison department; I think I’ve told you about it. In June, there will be a chance of accompanying an American library delegation to the southern provinces. Then we may see each other again. There is a new phone installed at home-a direct line for my father. In an emergency, you can use this number: 987-5324.
Yours
Ling P.S. I told Minister Wen I was your girlfriend because he asked about our relationship. You know why I had to tell him this.
Chen put the letter back into the envelope, and then into his briefcase. He stood up, gazing out at the traffic along Fuzhou Road. In the distance, he saw the neon Volkswagen signs shining with a halo of violet color in the night: the “violet hour.” He must have read the phrase somewhere. It was the time when people hurry back home, throbbing taxis wait in the street, and the city becomes unreal.
He took out Guan’s file and started writing a more detailed report, compiling all the information. He was trying to confirm the next step he was going to take. He would not turn in the report; he was making a commitment to himself.
It was not until several hours later that he left the bureau. Comrade Liang had gone, and the iron gate looked strangely deserted. It was too late for Chen to catch the last bus. There was still a light in the bureau garage, but he did not like the idea of requisitioning a bureau car to take him home while he was unofficially suspended.
A cool breath of summer night touched his face. A long leaf, heart-shaped, fell at his feet. Its shape reminded him of a bamboo divination slip which had fallen out of a bamboo container- years earlier, at Xuanmiao Temple in Suzhou. The message on the slip was mysterious. He had been curious, but he refused to pay ten Yuan for the Taoist fortuneteller to interpret it. There was no predicting the future in that way.
He did not know what would happen to the case.
Nor what would happen to him.
He knew, however, he would never be able to repay Ling.
He had written to her for help. But he had not expected that she would give him her help in this way.
He found himself walking toward the Bund again. Even at this late hour, the Bund was dotted with young lovers whispering to each other. It was there that he had thought of writing the letter to her, as the big clock atop the Customs Tower chimed. A new melody.
The present, even as you think about it, is already becoming the past.
That afternoon in the North Sea Park. Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed? He remembered, of course, but since that afternoon he had tried not to. The North Sea Park. There he had first met Ling near the Beijing Library, and there, too, he had parted from her.
He had not known anything about her family when they first met in the Beijing Library. In the early summer of 1981, he had been in his third year at the Beijing Foreign Language Institute. That summer he chose to stay in Beijing since he could hardly concentrate in his Shanghai attic room. He was writing his thesis on T. S. Eliot. So he went to the library every day.
The library building had originally been one of the numerous imperial halls in the Forbidden City. After 1949, it had been converted into the Beijing Library. It was declared in the People’s Daily that the Forbidden City no longer existed; now ordinary people could spend their days reading in the imperial hall. As a library, its location was excellent, adjacent to North Sea Park with the White Pagoda shimmering in the sun, and close to the Central South Sea Complex across the White Stone Bridge. It was not ideal, however, as a library. The wooden lattice windows, refitted with tinted glass, did not provide enough light. So every seat was equipped with a lamp. The library had no open-shelf system either. Readers had to write the book names on order slips, and the librarians would look for them in the basement.
She had been one of the librarians, in charge of the foreign language section, sitting with her colleagues in a recess against a bay window, separated from the rest of the room by a long curving counter. They took turns explaining the rules in whispers to new readers, handed out books, and in the interval, worked on reports. It was to her that he handed over his list of books in the morning. Waiting for her to retrieve them, he began to notice her more and more. An attractive girl in her early twenties, she had a healthy build and moved briskly in her high heels. The white blouse she wore was simple, but it looked expensive. She wore a silver charm on a thin red string. Somehow he took in a lot of details, though most of the time she sat with her back to him, speaking in a low voice with other librarians, or reading her own book. When she talked to him, smiling, her large eyes were so clear, they reminded him of the cloudless autumn sky over Beijing.
Maybe she noticed him, too. His reading list was an odd mixture: Philosophy, poetry, psychology, sociology, and mysteries. His thesis was difficult. He needed those mysteries to refresh himself. On several occasions, she had reserved books for him without his asking, including one by P.D. James. She had a tacit understanding with him. He noticed that on his order slips, which stuck out from between the pages of the books, his name was highlighted.
It was pleasant to spend the day in the library: to study under a green-shaded lamp beneath the tinted glass, to walk in the ancient courtyard lined with bronze cranes staring at the visitors, to muse while strolling along the verandah, to look at the tilted eaves of yellow dragon tiles woven with white clouds… Or to simply wait there, watching the lovely librarian. She, too, read with complete absorption, her head tilted slightly toward her right shoulder. Occasionally she stopped to think, looked up at the poplar tree outside the window, propped her cheek on her hand and then resumed reading.
Sometimes they would exchange pleasant words, and sometimes, equally pleasant glances. One morning, as she came toward him wearing a pink blouse and white skirt, holding the pile of his reserved books in her bare arms, he was inspired with an image of a peach blossom reaching out of a white paper fan. He even started dashing down lines but the noisy arrival of several teenage readers interrupted him. The following week, he happened to have a poem published in a well-known magazine, and he gave her the usual list together with a copy of the magazine. Blushing in her profuse thanks, she seemed to like it very much. When he returned the books in the late afternoon, he mention the uncompleted poem by way of a joke. She blushed again.
Another inconvenience was that the canteen in the adjacent building was open only to the library staff. Convenient, small, inexpensive privately-run restaurants or snack booths were nonexistent in those days. So he resorted to smuggling in steamed buns in his rucksack. One afternoon he was chewing a cold bun in the courtyard when she happened to bike past him. The next morning, she handed over his reserved books along with a suggestion: She would take him to the staff canteen, where he could buy lunch in her company. He accepted her offer. The food was far more palatable, and it saved him time, too. On several occasions, when she had to attend meetings somewhere else, she managed to bring him food in
her own stainless-steel lunchbox. She seemed to be quite privileged; no one said anything about it.
Once, she even led him into the rare book section, which had been closed for restoration. It was a dust-covered room, but there were so many wonderful books. Some were in exquisite cloth cases from the Ming and Qing dynasties. He started leafing though the books, but she, too, stayed. There must have been a library rule about it, he thought. It was hot. There was no air conditioning in the room. She kicked off her shoes, and he felt a violent wonder at her bare feet beating a bolero on the filmy dust of the ancient floor.
Soon he had to resist the temptation to look at her over his books. In spite of his effort to concentrate by turning his chair sideways, his thoughts wandered away. The discovery disturbed him.
Most of the time he read till quite late and soon he found himself leaving the library with her. The first couple of times, it looked like coincidence. Then he saw that she was standing by her bike, under the ancient arch of the library gate, waiting for him.
Together, they would ride through the maze of quaint winding lanes at dusk. Past the old white and black sihe style houses, and an old man selling colorful paper wheels, the sound of their bike bells spilling into the tranquil air, the pigeons’ whistles trailing high in the clear Beijing sky, till they reached the intersection at Xisi, where she would park her bike, and change to the subway. He would watch her turn back at the subway entrance, to wave to him. She lived quite far away.
One early morning as he was riding toward the library, he stopped at Xisi subway station, where he knew she would emerge to find her bike. He bought a ticket and went down to the platform. There were so many people milling about. Waiting there, he lost himself gazing at a mural of Uighur girl carrying grapes in her bare arms. The Uighur girl appeared to be moving toward him, the bangle on her ankle shining, infinite light steps, moving… Then he saw her moving toward him, out of the train, out of the crowd…