by Qiu Xiaolong
“Six! I did not know there were so many.”
“Indeed, I was so excited, as it says in the Book of Songs, ‘Turning and turning in bed, I cannot fall asleep’.”
Ouyang’s allusion to the Book of Songs was not exactly right.
It was actually a love poem. Still, there was no doubting his sincerity.
After morning tea, Chen went to the hotel where Xie had stayed. The hotel had a run-down façade, a likely choice for job-hunting girls. The desk clerk looked stoically through the register until he found the name. He pushed the book across the desk so that Chen could read it himself. Xie had left there on July 2. Where she went, no one knew.
“So she left no forwarding addresses?”
“No. Those young girls don’t leave any forwarding address.”
So Chen had to resort to his door-knocking technique, going from one hotel to another, holding a picture in one hand and a city map in another. In an unfamiliar and fast-changing city, it was a much tougher job than he had expected, even though he had a list of the names of the possible hotels.
The answer came, invariably, with a head-shaking.
“No, we don’t really remember . . .”
“No, you should try the Metropolitan Security Bureau . . . .”
“No, I am sorry, we have so many guests here . . .”
In short, no one recognized her.
In the afternoon, Chen went into a small snack bar tucked away in a side street and asked for a bowl of shrimp dumplings with several steamed buns. Sitting there, he became more aware of something characteristic of Guangzhou. It was not one of the main streets in the city, but business was good. People were moving in and out all the time, picking up plastic boxes of various lunch combinations, and starting to eat with disposable chopsticks on their way out. Chen was the only one sitting there, waiting. Time seemed to be more important here. Whatever might be said about the changes in the city, Guangzhou was alive with a spirit that could hardly be called socialist, in spite of the slogan “Build a socialist new Guangzhou” seen everywhere, even on the gray wall of the small restaurant.
Guangzhou was indeed turning into a second Hong Kong. Money was pouring in. From Hong Kong, and from other countries, too. So young girls came there. Some came to find jobs, but some came to walk the streets. It was not easy for the local authorities to keep close control of them. They became part of the attraction of the city for the people from Hong Kong or abroad.
So what could Xie Rong be doing in this city, a young girl all by herself? He understood why Professor Xie was so worried.
He called the Guangzhou Bureau, but there was no new information. The local police were none too enthusiastic in their cooperation. They had their problems, Inspector Hua explained, with insufficient manpower to take care of their own cases.
At the end of the third futile day, Chen went back to the Writers’ Home, totally exhausted, and Ouyang offered to take him to the Snake King Restaurant for a “special dinner.” Chen had almost despaired of completing his mission in Guangzhou. The last few days had been too frustrating. Holding a picture in his hand and asking the same question, like a displaced Don Quixote, moving from one hotel to another, attempting the impossible, knowing it, but still going on. So he thought, not without a touch of self-deprecatory irony, that a great meal might be able to bolster up a battered chief inspector.
They were led into a private room with white walls and a flight of cherubim painted in blue tones across the high ceiling, which struck him as a direct import from Hong Kong. The delicacies printed in the menu included roast suckling pig and bear paws, but the chef’s special was Tiger-Dragon Battle. According to the waitress, it was an enormous platter of assorted snake and cat meats. At Ouyang’s request, she started listing the wonderful effects of the snake. “The snake is good for blood circulation. As a medicine, it is useful in treating anemia, rheumatism, arthritis, and asthenia. Snake gall bladder proves especially effective in dissolving phlegm and improving vision.”
Chen’s mind was not on the chef’s special. Holding the menu in his hands, he was having second thoughts about the trip. A wild goose chase? But Xie was the only lead. Giving up on her might well mean giving up the whole investigation.
Ouyang put a spoonful of the snake soup onto Chen’s plate, saying, “It’s definitely a must. The Tiger-Dragon Battle.”
The waitress brought a bottle of wine for their inspection.
“Maotai,” she said, turning it so that they could see the label.
Ouyang sipped the sample, and nodded to indicate that it was drinkable. The liquor was strong. Chen, too, drained his in one sip.
As a man of the world, Ouyang must have noticed Chen’s mood, but he did not ask about it directly. It was not until after a few cups that Ouyang started to talk about his own business in Guangzhou. “Believe it or not, you’re my lucky star, Literature Star. I’ve just received a huge purchase order. So this is a celebration.”
And it was a wonderful meal. The Tiger-Dragon Battle proved to be as fantastic as its name. Between the “dragon” and the “tiger” was a boiled egg—symbolic of a huge pearl.
“By the way, what’s your business here, I mean, apart from poetry?” Ouyang asked as he placed the cat meat in Chen’s saucer with his chopsticks. “If there is something you want to do in Guangzhou, I may be able to help.”
“Well, nothing particular—” Chen hesitated before drinking another cup. The fourth or the fifth—it was unlike him.
“You can trust me,” Ouyang said.
“Well, it’s just something small, but maybe you can help me— with your local connections.”
“I will do my best,” Ouyang promised, putting down his chopsticks.
“I’ve come here to collect some material for my poetry,” Chen said, “but a professor from my college years also wants me to find some information about her daughter. The daughter came to Guangzhou several months ago, but has not contacted her home to give her address and phone number here. The old professor is worried. So I promised I would try my best to find her. And here is the daughter’s picture.”
“Let me have a look.”
“Her name is Xie Rong. When she came here about three months ago, she stayed in a hotel called the Lucky Inn for a couple of days but left without a forwarding address.”
Chen was not sure that Ouyang believed his story. It was not a total invention, but he was obliged to keep the investigation confidential.
“Let me have a try,” Ouyang said. “I know several madams around here.”
“Madams?”
“It’s an open secret. I’ve dealt with a number of them. Business necessities; one cannot help it. They’re well informed about new girls.”
Chen was more than astonished. According to regulations, he should report the madams, and even report Ouyang’s connection to them. He chose not to do so. The success of his mission depended on Ouyang’s help, a kind of help that was not readily available from the local authorities.
And as Ouyang promised, the snake feast was the most exotic meal Chief Inspector Chen had ever had.
Chapter 23
Detective Yu hesitated before pressing on the owl-shaped door bell as he stood on the landing overlooking an upper-class neighborhood just a few blocks north of Hongkou Park. The front door was locked, so he had come up an iron back staircase.
He was not comfortable with his share of the division of labor. Yu was to visit Jiang Wehe, an emerging artist, while Chen was away in Guangzhou. It was not that Yu had wanted to go to Guangzhou, which was most likely to be a tough trip—a wild goose chase. It was just that Detective Yu had never dealt with an artist before.
And Jiang Weihe happened to be a well-known one, and avant-garde enough to pose nude for Wu Xiaoming.
Before he placed his finger on the bell, a woman opened the door, and stared inquiringly at him. She was in her early thirties, tall, well-built, with a long graceful neck, a narrow waist and terrific legs. A nice-looking woman, with
a sensual mouth, high cheekbones, and large eyes, her hair in an unruly mass of tangles. The smooth flesh beneath her eyes was smudged with black shadow. She was wearing a paint-smeared coverall drawn in at the waist by a black leather belt, and standing barefoot.
“Sorry to interrupt you at your work,” Yu said, quickly taking inventory and producing his I.D. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
“The police?” She put her hand up to the door frame and studied him intently without making a gesture of invitation. There was a look of confident maturity about her. Her voice was deeply pitched, bearing the trace of a Henan accent.
“Yes,” he said. “Can we talk inside?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Do you have a warrant or something?”
“No.”
“If not, you’ve no right to push your way in here.”
“Well, I’ve just a few questions, Comrade Jiang, about somebody you know. I cannot force you to talk, but your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.”
“Then you cannot force me.”
“Listen. Comrade Chief Inspector Chen Cao—you know him—is my boss. He suggested I come to you this way first. It is in our common interest.”
“Chen Cao—why?”
“The situation’s quite delicate, and you are well known. It would not be a good idea to draw publicity to you. Unpleasant publicity. Here’s a note from him.”
“I’ve had plenty of publicity,” she said. “So why should I care?”
But she took the note and read it. Then she frowned, standing with her head slightly bowed, gazing at her bare feet, which were spotted with paint. She must have been working.
“You should have mentioned Chief Inspector Chen earlier. Come in.”
The apartment was a studio but also served as a combination bedroom, dining room, and living room. Apparently she did not care much about the appearance of her room. Pictures, newspapers, tubes of paint, brushes, and clothes lay scattered all over the place. Dozens of books were shelved against the wall in different positions and at various angles. There were also several books on the nightstand, with a bottle of nail polish among them. Shoes, most of them separated from their mates, had been abandoned around the bed. The other furniture consisted of a large working table, a few rattan chairs, and an enormous mahogany bed with tall posts. On top of the table were glasses of water, a couple of containers filled with wilted flowers, and a shell ashtray containing a half-smoked cigar.
On a pedestal in the center of the room stood a half-finished sculpture.
“I’m having my second cup of coffee,” she said, picking up a mug from the table. “What would you like to drink?”
“Nothing. Thank you.”
She pulled over a chair for him, and another for herself which she set opposite him.
“Questions about whom?”
“Wu Xiaoming.”
“Why me?”
“He has taken pictures of you.”
“Well, he has taken pictures of a lot of people.”
“We’re talking about those—in the Flower City—”
“So you want to discuss the art of photography with me?” she said, sitting up in her chair.
“I’m a common cop. So I’m not interested in talking about these pictures as art, but as something else.”
“That I can understand,” she said with a cynical smile. “As a cop, you must have done some research work.”
The shadows beneath her eyes somehow gave her a debauched look.
“Well, it’s to Chief Inspector Chen’s credit, I have to admit,” he said.
But how Chief Inspector Chen recognized her, Detective Yu did not know.
“Really?”
“Yes. So we believe you may want to cooperate.”
“What do you want to know about Wu?”
“What you know about him.”
“You are asking for quite a lot,” she said. “But why?”
“We believe Wu’s involved in a murder. It’s the case of Guan Hongying, the national model worker. There’s a special investigation under way.”
“Ah—I see,” she said, without registering too much surprise on her face. “But why does your Chief Inspector Chen not come to interrogate me himself?”
“He is away in Guangzhou, interviewing a witness.”
“So you are serious?”
“Yes, we are.”
“You must know something about Wu’s family background?”
“That’s why we need your help.”
Detective Yu believed he detected a change in the artist’s tone, and also a subtle sign of it in her body language, as she slowly stirred her spoon in the coffee mug, as if measuring out something.
“You’re so sure?”
“Chief Inspector Chen has made a point of excluding your name from the official file. You will be an understanding woman, he says.”
“Is that a compliment?” She took a long swallow of the coffee, the cream leaving a white line along her upper lip. “By the way, how is your chief inspector? Still single?”
“He’s just too busy, I think.”
“He had an affair in Beijing, I’ve heard. It broke his heart.”
“Well, that I don’t know,” Yu said. “He has never talked to me about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know much about it, either. It was such a long time ago,” she said with an unfathomable smile on her lips. “So, where shall we start?”
“From the very beginning, if you please.”
“First, let me make a point. The whole thing’s in the past tense. I met Wu about two years ago, and we parted one year later. I want to emphasize this, not because of his possible involvement in a murder case.”
“Understood,” he said. “Now, how did you get to know him?”
“He came to me, saying that he wanted to take my picture. For his magazines and newspapers, of course.”
“Few would turn down such an offer, I bet.”
“Who would say no to have one’s own picture—free and published?”
“So the pictures were published?”
“Yes, the pictures turned out to be of high quality,” she said. “To be fair, Wu’s a gifted photographer. He’s got the eye for it, and the instinct, too. He knows when and where to get the shot. A number of magazines are eager for his work.”
“What happened afterward?”
“Well, as it turned out, I was his personal rather than professional target—that’s what he said to me over a lunch. Believe it or not, he posed for me, too. One thing led to another. You know what happens.”
“A romantic involvement?”
“Is that a sort of euphemism?”
“Is it?”
“Are you trying to ask if we slept together?”
“Well, was it a serious relationship?”
“What do you mean by ‘serious relationship’?” she said. “If it means that Wu Xiaoming proposed to me, then it wasn’t, no. But we had some good times together.”
“People have different definitions,” he said, “but let’s say, did you see each other a lot?”
“Not a lot. As a senior editor for Red Star, he got assignments from time to time, to go to Beijing or other cities, even abroad on one or two occasions. I am extremely busy with my work, too. But when we had time, we were together. For the first few months he came to my place quite frequently, two or three times a week.”
“Days or nights?”
“Both, but he seldom stayed overnight. He had his car—his father’s, you know. It was convenient for him.”
“Did you ever go to his place?”
“Only a couple of times. It’s a mansion. You must have been there. You know what it is like.” She continued after a pause, “But when we were together, I wanted to do what we were together for. So what was the point of staying somewhere without any privacy? Even if we could shut ourselves up in one of the rooms, I wouldn’t have been in the mood—with his people walking around ther
e all the time.”
“You mean his wife?”
“No, she actually stayed in her room all the time—she’s bedridden. But it’s his father’s house. The old man was in the hospital, but his mother and sisters were there.”
“So you knew he was a married man from the very beginning.”
“He did not make a secret of it, but he told me that it had been a mistake. I believe it was true—to some extent.”
“A mistake,” he said. “Did he explain it to you?”
“For one thing, his wife’s been sick for several years,” she said, “too sick to have a normal sex life with him.”
“Anything else?”
“Marriage in those years could have been a matter of convenience. The educated youths were lonely, and life in the countryside was extremely hard, and they were far, far away from home.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said, thinking of his years with Peiqin in Yunnan, “but you had no objection to an extramarital relationship?”
“Come on, Comrade Detective Yu. We’re in a new decade, a new time. Who lives any longer like in the Confucian books? If a marriage is a happy one, no outsider could ever destroy it,” she said, scratching her ankle. “Besides, I never expected him to marry me.”
Maybe he was an old-fashioned man. Yu certainly felt ancient sitting beside the artist, to whom an affair could be just like the change of her clothes. But he also felt it tempting to imagine the body under her loose coverall. Was it because he had seen it in the picture? And he also noticed the black mole on her nape.
“But if he’s so unhappy with his marriage, what kept him in it?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I don’t think a divorce would do him any good, politically, I mean. I’ve heard that somebody in his wife’s family is still influential.”
“That’s true.”
“I also had the feeling that he cared about her in his way.”
“What made you think so?”
“He talked to me about her. She had come to him in his most miserable days—as an educable educated youth of a capitalist roader family. She took pity on him, and she took good care of him, too. But for her, he once said, he could have fallen into despair.”