by Qiu Xiaolong
“Oh, I see,” she said. “To be cautious, you should not go at all.”
“No, I’d better be there, in case something unexpected happens to you, but I don’t think that’s likely.” He added after a pause, “I’m sorry to bring you into this.”
“Don’t say that, Guangming,” she said, “If it’s for you, it’s for me, too.”
Chapter 31
It was the third day Chen had served as an escort to the American Writers’ Delegation.
The visitors had come through an exchange program sponsored by the China–U.S. Distinguished Scholars Committee. William Rosenthal, a well-known professor, critic, and poet, was accompanied by his wife Vicky. Rosenthal’s position as chairman of the American association added weight to the visit. Shanghai was the last stop on their itinerary.
At Jinjiang Hotel, Chen was assigned a room on the same floor as the Rosenthals. The American guests were staying in a luxurious suite. Chen’s was much smaller, but still elegant, a world of difference from the Writers’ Home in Guangzhou.
Downstairs, he accompanied the American guests to choose souvenirs in the hotel gift shop.
“I’m so glad I can talk to someone like you. That’s what our cultural exchange is about. Vicky, Mr. Chen has translated T. S. Eliot into Chinese,” Rosenthal said, turning to his wife, who was busy examining a pearl necklace. “Including ‘The Waste Land.’” Apparently Rosenthal knew of Chen’s literary background, but he seemed unaware of both his mystery translations and his police position.
“In Beijing and Xi’an, the interpreters also spoke good English,” Vicky said, “but they knew little about literature. When Bill started quoting something, they were lost.”
“I’m learning a lot from Professor Rosenthal,” Chen said, taking a schedule out of his pocket. “I’m afraid we have to leave the hotel now.”
The schedule was packed full. Days before their arrival, the activities had been arranged in detail and faxed to the Foreign Liaison Office of the Shanghai Writers’ Association. Chen’s job was to follow the printed instructions. Morning in the City God’s Temple, lunch with local writers, an afternoon’s riverboat cruise, then shopping on Nanjing Road, and a Beijing opera for the evening . . . . There were several places they’d had to visit—politically necessary—such as the Red Brick House where the Chinese Communist Party had allegedly held its first meeting, the well-preserved remains of the Fangua slum under the Nationalist regime in contrast to the new building under the Communist regime, and the new development zone east of the Huangpu River, all of which they had already covered.
“Where are we going?”
“In accordance with the morning schedule, to the City God’s Temple.”
“A temple?” Vicky asked.
“Not really. It’s a market with a temple in the center of it,” Chen explained. “So some people call it City God’s Temple Market. There are quite a few stores—including the temple itself—selling all kinds of local arts-and-crafts products.”
“That’s great.”
As usual, the market around the temple was packed with people. The Rosenthals were not interested in the newly refurbished temple front with the vermilion posts and huge black gate, nor in the display of arts and crafts inside, nor even in the Yuyuan Garden behind the temple, with its glazed yellow dragons atop the white walls. The sight of various snack bars impressed the Americans more than anything else.
“Cooking must have been an integral component of Chinese civilization,” Rosenthal said, “or there wouldn’t be such a variety of cuisines.”
“And such a variety of people,” Vicky added cheerfully, “eating to their hearts’ content.”
According to the schedule of the foreign liaison office, they were supposed to have Coca-Cola and ice cream for their morning snack. Each activity was listed in a printout, including the place and price range. Chen would be reimbursed after turning in the receipts.
The Rosenthals came to a stop in front of the Yellow Dragon Bar, behind the window of which a young waitress was cutting up a roast duck, still steaming from its stitched rump, while an iridescent fly sucked the sauce on her bare toes. It was a dingy, crowded snack bar, but known for its variety of exquisite appetizers. For once, Chen decided to break the rules. He led them into the bar. At his recommendation, the Rosenthals had special sticky rice dumplings with mixed pork and shrimp stuffing. One dumpling had cost six cents in his elementary-school days— nowadays it was five times more. Still, he could afford to pay out of his own pocket even if he did not get reimbursed.
He was not sure whether the Americans liked it. At least he had given them a genuine taste of Shanghai.
“It’s delicious,” Vicky said. “You are so considerate.”
“With your command of English,” Rosenthal said, busy between his bites, “there is a lot you could do in the States.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“As English department chairperson, I would be delighted if something could be arranged for you at our university.”
“And you will always be welcome at our home in Suffern, New York,” Vicky added, nibbling at the transparent dumpling skin. “Try our American cuisine, and write your poems in English.”
“It would be so wonderful to study at your university and to visit your home.” Chen had thought about studying abroad, especially when he had first entered the force. “It’s just there is such a lot to be done here.”
“Things can be difficult here.”
“But things are improving, though not as fast as we wish. After all, China is a large country with a history of more than two thousand years. Some of the problems cannot be solved overnight.”
“Yes, there’s a lot you can do here for your country,” Rosenthal nodded. “You’re not just a wonderful poet, I know.”
Chen was annoyed, however, by his own mechanical response. Clichés—nothing but clichés from the newspapers—as if a People’s Daily cassette was being played inside him. He did not mind occasionally saying stupid things, but it had gotten to the point where he was turning into an automatic recording.
And the Rosenthals were sincere.
“I’m not sure whether there is such a lot I can do,” he said reflectively. “Lu You, a Song dynasty poet, dreamed of doing something great for the country, but he proved to be a mediocre official. Ironically, it was Lu’s dream that vitalized his poems.”
“Well, the same can be said of W. B. Yeats,” Rosenthal said. “He was no statesman, but his passion for the Irish freedom movement informed his best poetry.”
“Or his passion for Maud Gonne, the political woman Yeats loved so,” Vicky cut in. “I’m very familiar with William’s favorite theory.”
They laughed together.
Then he caught sight of a pay phone by the door.
He excused himself, went over, and picked up a directory attached to the phone. Thumbing through the pages, he found the Four Seas Restaurant, and dialed Peiqin’s number.
“Peiqin, it’s Chen Cao. Sorry to call you at your work. I cannot locate Yu.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Chief Inspector Chen,”
she said. “We’re all so concerned about you. How are things going?”
“Fine. Busy with the American delegation.”
“Visiting one place after another?”
“Exactly. And dining in one restaurant after another, too. How is your husband?”
“As busy as you are. He, too, says it’s difficult to reach you.”
“Yes, it can be difficult. If necessary, he—or you, perhaps, if convenient—may contact a friend of mine. His name is Lu Tonghao. He runs a new restaurant called Moscow Suburb on Shanxi Road. Or he will contact you.”
“That’s fine. Moscow Suburb, I know where it is. It’s been open for a couple of weeks, and it has made a stir already.” She added, “By the way, will you be at Xishuang Garden this evening?”
“Yes, but how—” Chen cut himself short.
“It’s
a fantastic place,” Peiqin said. “and you deserve to take a break at the karaoke party.”
“Thank you.”
“So take care of yourself. See you.”
“The same with you. Bye.”
He became suddenly alert. The way Peiqin mentioned the karaoke party disturbed him. Also, why was she anxious to end the conversation? Was her office bugged, too?
That was not likely. But the hotel might well be. That was why he had not called from there. Peiqin must have wondered. He should have mentioned that he was calling from a pay phone in the City God’s Temple Market.
Then he dialed Overseas Chinese Lu.
Lu had called the office upon Chen’s return from Guangzhou. In order not to drag Lu into his trouble, he had cut Lu short on the grounds of having to leave immediately. They could not speak safely on the bureau phone.
“Moscow Suburb.”
“It’s me, Chen Cao.”
“Oh, old pal, you’ve really got me worried to death. I know why you hung up on me the other day.”
“Don’t worry. I’m still chief inspector. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Where are you now? What’s the noise in the background?”
“I’m calling from a pay phone in the City God’s Temple Market.”
“Wang has called me about your trouble. It’s serious, she said.”
“Wang called you?” he said. “Well, whatever she may have told you, it’s not that serious. I’ve just had a wonderful brunch with the Americans, and we’re going to enjoy a cruise on the river. First-class cabin, of course, with the American guests. But I do need to ask you a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Somebody, actually my partner’s wife, her name is Jin Peiqin, may contact you. She works at the Four Seas Restaurant.”
“I know the place. Their shrimp noodles are excellent.”
“Don’t call me, either at my office or at the hotel. If there is anything urgent, call her or go to her place. You may as well have a bowl of noodles while you are there.”
“Don’t worry,” Lu said. “I’m a well-known connoisseur. No one would say anything if I had my noodles there every day.”
“One cannot be too careful.”
“I understand.” Lu then added, “But can you come over to my place? I want to discuss something with you. Something important.”
“Really? I’ve been so busy the last few days,” he said. “I’ll check my schedule and see what I can do.”
The scheduled afternoon activity was the Huangpu River cruise.
Chen was familiar with the cruise, having served as an escort on a number of occasions. He had no objection to reciting passages from official guidebooks, which he saw as an opportunity for practicing his English. It was just that the activities on the schedule became increasingly boring with repetition. He had no complaint, however, about his escort status at the booking station, where people were standing in a long line. His cruise tickets were reserved at a small ticket window marked FOR FOREIGN TOURISTS.
As they stood on the dock, breathing in the polluted air, he overheard Rosenthal muttering to Vicky about chronic carbon monoxide poisoning in the city. Another serious problem, he admitted to himself, though Shanghai had been making earnest efforts in environmental improvement. In deference to the official guidebook, he remained silent.
As always, a special room on the upper deck of the boat was assigned to foreign visitors. Their room was equipped with air conditioning and satellite TV. There was a Hong Kong kung fu movie starring Bruce Lee—another supposed privilege since Bruce Lee was not available in Shanghai movie theaters. The Rosenthals were not in the mood for the movie. It took Chen quite a long time to find the switch to turn it off.
The waiter and waitress seemed to make a point of bursting into the room, bringing drinks and fruits and snacks, smiling. Some tourists, passing by their door, also looked in curiously. Chen felt as if he were in a glass cage.
In the not-too-far distance, the Bund was alive with a colorful variety of riverfront activities. The eastern shore was catching up, changing even more rapidly with all the new construction going on.
“I’m thinking of some lines about another river,” Rosenthal said. “In ‘East Coker,’ Eliot compares the river to a brown god.” “An ancient Chinese philosopher compared the people to river water,” Chen said, “‘Water can carry a boat, but it can also overturn a boat.’”
“Lost in ‘The Waste Land’ again?” Vicky said with mock irritation. “It would be a shame to lose the sight of the wonderful river.”
They could not enjoy their conversation for long. Another knock came at the door, then a few more, persistently. “Magic show. First-class performance.” A waiter was waving several tickets in his hand. “On the first floor.”
Like the movie, the magic show was just another intrusion. Well meant, of course. It would not be polite for them to remain in the cabin.
There was no stage on the first floor. Just an open space partitioned off by several stanchions connected by a plastic cord, one end at the long window opening out to the deck, the other leading a small door beneath the staircase. There were already quite a number of people gathering. In the center, a magician was poking his wand vigorously into the air.
A young woman, apparently the magician’s assistant, came out of the small door. A touch of the magician’s wand on her shoulder, and she was immobilized, seemingly frozen in the cold blue light. As the magician approached, she collapsed into his arms. Holding her with one arm, he slowly raised her up. She lay stretched out across his forearms, her long black hair trailing to the floor, accentuating her slender neck, almost as white as a lotus root. And as lifeless. The magician then closed his eyes in concentration. To the sound of a muted drum roll, he slid his hand from beneath her, leaving her body floating in the air for a still second. Applause rose from the audience.
So that’s the hypnosis of love. A metaphor for it. Spellbound. Helpless. Had Guan Hongying also been like this? Weightless, substance-less, nothing but a prop, being played with at will in Wu’s hands.
And he thought of Wang.
Everything was possible to a lover. Had he been such a lover?
He could not give himself an answer.
The willow looming through the mist,
I find my hair disheveled, and the cicada-shaped pin fallen on the bed.
What care have I about my days afterward,
As long as you enjoy me to the full tonight?
Another stanza by Wei Zhuang. In traditional literary criticism, it was viewed as a political analogy, but to Chen, it was simply a female’s sacrifice for the magic of passion. Like Wang, who had been the more courageous, more self-sacrificing one, that night in his apartment, and then again the night in the phone booth.
And years earlier, it had been the same for Guan, who had given herself to Engineer Lai before she parted with him . . .
When the magic show was over, he could not locate the Rosenthals among the dispersing crowd. He went upstairs to find them leaning over the rail, gazing at the white waves breaking against the boat. They were not aware of him. It would be better to leave them alone. He walked downstairs to buy a pack of cigarettes.
He was surprised to see the magician’s assistant sitting on a stool at the foot of the stairway. No longer in her glittering costume, she appeared years older, her face lined, her hair lusterless.
The magician, too, slumped on a stool next to her. The change in him was even more striking. With his make-up removed, he was just a bald, middle-aged man with heavy bags under his eyes— his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and shoelaces undone. The aura of possibility that surrounded him on stage was gone. But they appeared relaxed, at ease, sharing a large cup of pink-colored drink. Probably they were a couple. They had to play their role, Chen reflected as he lit his cigarette, on whatever stage they managed to land. When the curtain fell, they stepped out of the limelight and out of their roles.
The world is
a stage—or all sorts of stages.
So with everybody.
So with Guan.
She, too, had to play her role in politics, but it was little wonder that she had decided to play a different character in her private life.
His cigarette had been consumed without his awareness.
“Everything is wonderful,” Rosenthal said, when they met again in the cabin.
“Were you enjoying a moment of privacy?” Vicky asked.
“Well, “privacy” is a word that is difficult to translate into Chinese.”
He had stumbled over it several times. There was not a single-word equivalent to “privacy” in his language. Instead, he had to use a phrase or sentence to convey its meaning.
On their way back to the hotel, Rosenthal asked about the schedule for the evening.
“Well, there’s nothing special for dinner tonight,” Chen said. “It is listed as ‘no activity,’ so you can decide for yourselves. Around eight thirty, we’re going to the Xishuang Garden in the hotel for a karaoke party.”
“Great,” Rosenthal said, “so it can be our turn to treat you to dinner. Choose a good Chinese restaurant.”
Chen suggested Moscow Suburb.
It was not just because he had promised Overseas Chinese Lu to dine there after numerous phone invitations. There might be some new message from Peiqin. His accompanying the Americans would not appear suspicious to Internal Security, and it would bring some business to Lu. Afterward, he could even write a short article about “The Rosenthals in Shanghai,” mentioning Moscow Suburb.
And Moscow Suburb proved to be as splendid as Lu had promised. With its castlelike front, golden dome, and fully landscaped sides, Lu had totally transformed the appearance of the originally shabby restaurant as if by magic. A tall, blond, Russian girl stood at the gate, greeting the customers, her slender waist supple like a young birch tree in a Russian folk song popular in the sixties.
“It seems the current economic reforms are really transforming China,” Rosenthal said.
Chen nodded. Entrepreneurs like Lu were springing up, as in an old Chinese saying, “like bamboo shoots after a spring rain.” One of the most popular slogans nowadays was xiang qian kan. A play on Chinese pronunciation, it meant: “Look to the money!” In the seventies, with the character qian written differently, the slogan had been “Look to the future!”