by Qiu Xiaolong
He heard himself groaning.
There was a feeling of unreality about the whole thing. Chief Inspector Chen had finally found what he had been trying so hard to find. The motive.
Now everything was coming into perspective. Toward the end of their relationship, Guan had got hold of the pictures, which Wu had used against her, but which she had later used to threaten him. She was aware of how destructive the pictures could have been to him, especially at the moment of his potential promotion. She suspected Wu would try to get them back. That was why she had hidden them.
What she had not anticipated, however, was Wu’s desperation. It cost her her life. Wu’s political career was at a critical moment. With his father lying so ill, this might be his last chance to advance. A scandalous affair or a divorce, either would have damaged his chances. There was no choice left for him. To silence Guan forever would have been his only way out. Now he knew why Wu Xiaoming had committed the crime.
Chief Inspector Chen put the pictures in his pocket, hung Deng’s portrait back on the wall, and turned off the flashlight.
As he looked out of the dorm building, he saw a lone man loitering, casting a long shadow across the street. He decided to take a different lane exit. It led to a side street just one block away from the Zhejiang Movie Theater.
A crowd was pouring out of the movie theater, chatting about a new documentary on the Shengzhen economic reform. People were requested to watch the movie as part of their political education. Its release was supposed to signify some dramatic turn in politics.
Chen walked amidst the crowd.
“It’s not just for pleasure that Comrade Deng Xiaoping has made the second trip to Shenzhen.”
“Of course not. The special economic zone is under fire from those old conservatives.”
“They are saying that China is no longer on the road of socialism.”
“Capitalist or socialist, that’s none of our business. As long as we have three meals a day, we don’t care.”
“And Old Deng has made the difference in your meals, putting chicken, duck, fish and pork on your plates, right?”
“Yes, that’s what it is really about. We Marxists are proudly materialists.”
The difference could be seen in the way ordinary people talked about politics on the street. Comrade Deng Xiaoping became “Old Deng”; in the early seventies, people were thrown into jail for saying “Old Mao.”
In the bureau, Chen had also heard of Deng’s recent trip to the south. It might be a prelude to another dramatic political change, but he found it difficult to dwell on this at the moment. His thoughts were full of Guan, whose personal drama came nearer to him than all the political ones.
At the beginning of his investigation, Chen had cherished a vision of Guan as a poor victim. An alabaster statue smashed by a violent blow. Guan was a victim. On May 11, 1990, she had been murdered by Wu, but even before that, she had long been victimized—by politics. And she was not an innocent, passive statue either. She was in part responsible for her own destruction.
Likewise, he, once a college student dreaming of a literary career, had turned himself into Chief Inspector Chen. He came to this realization with a shudder.
To make no choice is, in existentialist terms, in itself to make a choice.
Guan could have married Engineer Lai, or somebody else. An ordinary housewife, bargaining over a handful of green onions in the food market, searching through her husband’s pockets in the morning, fighting for stove space in the common kitchen area . . . But alive, like everybody else, not too good, and not too bad. But politics had made such a personal life impossible. With all the honors heaped on her, an ordinary man was out of the question for her, not enough for her status or ambition. There was no way she could step down from the stage to pick up a man at a bus stop, or to flirt with a stranger in a café. On the other hand, what man would really desire a Party member wife delivering political lectures at home—even in bed?
And then she had came across Wu Xiaoming. In Wu, she believed she saw her answer. She also glimpsed the hope of holding on to the power through her connection with him. In politics, such a union could have worked out: A model couple in the tradition of orthodox socialist propaganda. Love based on common communist ideals. So her union with Wu appeared to be her last chance both for personal happiness—and for political ambition.
The only problem was that Wu was married, and that Wu did not want to divorce his wife to marry her.
She must have been stung by Wu’s decision, the pain in proportion to her passion. She had given everything to him, at least that was what she must have felt. When everything else failed she resorted to blackmail, turning his own weapon against him. In a crisis, some people will fight back by any means, fair or foul. Chief Inspector Chen could well understand that.
Or was it possible, he wondered, that Guan finally awoke to a passion she had never known before? And surrendered to it because she had never learned how to cope with it. Having been used to wearing a mask, she had come to take the mask as her true identity. She knew how politically incorrect it was to become enamored of a married man, but that was what she had become, a helpless woman groaning behind the mask, her hands and feet bound. Had she felt for the first time an overwhelming passion that gave her life a new meaning, which she had to keep at any cost?
Chief Inspector Chen was more inclined to the second scenario: Guan Hongying, the national model worker, had been carried away by passion.
What the truth was he might never discover.
Chapter 37
Chief Inspector Chen did not expect much from meeting with Party Secretary Li the next morning, but he could not afford to wait any longer.
There was hardly any hope of pushing the investigation forward— with or without the new evidence, for in the light of the Party’s interests, even those pictures could be brushed aside as irrelevant. If it meant that his time in the force was coming to an end, he was prepared for it. He would have no regrets, and no bitterness. As a cop, he had served to the best of his ability, and as a Party member, too. When he became incapable of serving, he would leave. Or he would be asked to leave.
Perhaps it was time to turn over a new leaf. Overseas Chinese Lu had been doing well with Moscow Suburb. According to an ancient proverb, “You have to look at a man anew after three days.” In a couple of months, Lu had metamorphosed into the prototypical “Overseas Chinese,” confident, expansive, and ambitious, sporting a diamond ring on his finger. Now the position of manager of an international restaurant was waiting for Chen. “It’s not just for you, old buddy, but for me, too. It’s so difficult to find a capable, trustworthy partner.”
Chief Inspector Chen had said he would think about it.
Alternatively, he could start a small business of his own. A translation or language tutoring agency. So many joint ventures had appeared in Shanghai. This could be his niche, an economics term he had learned in his college days.
But first, he had to have a talk with Party Secretary Li.
Li received him cordially, rising from his seat. “Come on in, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
“It’s about a week since I got back from my assignment, Comrade Party Secretary,” Chen said. “I need to talk to you about my work.”
“Well, there is something I want to talk to you about, too.”
“It’s about Guan’s case, I hope.”
“You’re still working on that case?”
“I’m still the head of the special case group, and I don’t see anything wrong with doing my job. Not until my suspension is officially announced.”
“You don’t have to talk to me like this, Comrade Chief Inspector.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect to you, Comrade Party Secretary Li.”
“Well, go ahead, tell me about your investigation.”
“Last time we talked, you made a point about Wu’s motive. A good point. It was missing, but we have found it now.”
“What is it?
”
Chen produced several pictures from an envelope.
“Pictures of Guan and Wu taken together—in bed. As well as of Wu with other women. They were concealed behind Comrade Deng Xiaoping’s portrait in Guan’s room.”
“Damn!” The Party Secretary heaved a distressed sigh, but said nothing further in the face of such depravity.
“Guan got hold of the pictures—in one way or another. Then she must have used them to blackmail Wu into divorcing his wife. The timing could not be worse for Wu. He’s at the top of the list for the position of acting Shanghai Culture Minister. At such a critical juncture, he could not allow any interference with his opportunity.”
“I see your point,” Li said.
“The committee member responsible for the promotion happens to be a comrade-in-arms of his late father-in-law’s, and his mother-in-law remains active in the Central Party Discipline Committee. So he had no choice, he could not afford a divorce.”
“Yes, your analysis makes sense to me, I have to admit,” Li said, putting the pictures back into the envelope. “Still, Wu Xiaoming has a solid alibi, hasn’t he?”
“Wu’s alibi was provided by his pal Guo Qiang, to help him out.”
“That is possible, but an alibi is an alibi. What can you do?”
“Bring Guo in,” Chen said. “We’ll make him tell the truth. At this stage, a search warrant is justified, and we may find more evidence at Wu’s home.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, these are possible options. But in the present political climate, it’s out of the question.”
“So there’s nothing we can do?”
“You’ve done a lot. It’s just that the situation is so complicated at the moment,” Li said. “Of course, that does not mean we cannot do anything. We have to proceed carefully. I will discuss it with some people.”
“Yes, we are always discussing,” Chen said, “but Wu’s applying for a visa to the United States at the very moment.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes,” Chen said. “Wu will get away while we are still discussing and discussing.”
“No he won’t if he is guilty, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Li said slowly. “But there’s something else I want to talk to you about first. It’s about your new assignment.”
“Another assignment?”
“There was an emergency meeting yesterday at the city government hall. About the traffic problem in Shanghai. Traffic, as Comrade Deng Xiaoping has pointed out, is one of the everyday concerns for our people. Now that more people have cars, with new construction going on everywhere and roads being blocked, the traffic situation is becoming a serious problem. Comrade Jia Wei, Director of the Shanghai Metropolitan Traffic Control Office, has been sick for a long time. We have to have someone young and energetic to fill such a position. So I recommended you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, all the people agreed with me. You’ve been appointed temporary acting director of Shanghai Metropolitan Traffic Control. It’s an important position. You will have several hundred people under your command.”
Chen was confounded. It was a promotion, to all appearances. And to a position far beyond a chief inspector’s level. Normally, a cadre of tenth rank would be chosen for such a post. According to an old Chinese saying, his promotion to the position was like a carp jumping over a dragon gate. And it would also be highly lucrative. The latest fashion was for people to drive their own cars, to show their wealth, success, and social status. With more vehicles adding to traffic congestion, the city government had set up strict regulations about issuing vehicle licenses. As a result, license applicants had to pay a considerable “back door” amount in addition to the regular fee. Since most of the private car owners were upstarts, they were willing to pay to get their hands on the wheel. Bribery to traffic control officers had become an open secret.
“I’m so overwhelmed,” Chen said, trying to gain time by resorting to political clichés. “I’m too young for such a position of heavy responsibility. And I have no experience—none whatever in the field.”
“In the nineties, we are getting experience every day. Besides, why shouldn’t we use our young cadres?”
“But I am still working on the Guan case—I am still the head of the special case group—aren’t I ?”
“Let me repeat it one more time: No one says that you have been suspended from your job here. The case is not closed—I give you my word as an old Bolshevik with thirty years in the Party. This is an emergency posting, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
Could it be a trap? It would be much easier to connect him with malfeasance in the new position. Or could it be a demotion in the disguise of promotion? Such a tactic was well known in China’s politics. The new job was a temporary one, and after a while he could be justifiably relieved of it, and then of his chief inspectorship at the same time.
Anything was possible.
Outside the window, traffic was heavy along the Fuzhou Road, where a white car came rushing through the intersection recklessly.
A decision flashed through his mind. “You are right, Comrade Party Secretary,” Chen said. “As long as it is the Party’s decision, I accept it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Li said, apparently pleased. “You are going to do a great job there.”
“I will do my best, but I want to ask for something—a free hand. No Commissar Zhang or anybody like him. I need the authorization to do whatever I think necessary. Of course, I’ll report to you, Comrade Party Secretary Li.”
“You’re fully authorized, Comrade Director Chen,” Li said. “You don’t have to go out of your way to report to me.”
“When shall I start?”
“Immediately,” Li said. “As a matter of fact, the people there are waiting for you.”
“Immediately, then.”
As he stood up, ready to walk out of the office, Party Secretary Li added casually, “By the way, you got a phone call from Beijing yesterday. It was a young woman, judging by her voice.”
“She dialed your number?”
“No, she somehow had access to our bureau’s direct line, so it came to my attention. It was during the lunch break. We could not find you, and then I had to attend the meeting at the city hall. Well, her message is ‘Don’t worry. Things are going to change. I’ll contact you again. Ling.’ Her phone number is 987-5324. If you want to call back, you can use our direct line.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I think I know what this is about.”
Chen knew the number, but he did not want to call back. Not in the company of Party Secretary Li. The Party Secretary was always politically sensitive. Ling’s access to the bureau’s direct line would have spoken for itself. And the phone number in Beijing, too.
She had made another effort to help—in her way.
So how could he be upset with her?
Whatever she did was done for his sake—and at cost to herself.
“So don’t worry,” Party Secretary Li said as Chief Inspector Chen left his office.
Chief Inspector Chen did not even have time to worry.
Downstairs, he saw a black Volkswagen waiting for him at the driveway. The driver, Little Zhou, was all smiles. Party Secretary Li was not just being dramatic about the urgency of the assignment.
“Good news!”
“I don’t know,” Chen said.
“Well, I know. We’re off to your new office,” Little Zhou said. “Party Secretary Li has just told me.”
The traffic was terrible. Chen thought about it, and about his new position, as the car crawled along Yen’an Road. It took them almost an hour to reach the Square Mansion, located at the People’s Square.
“What a location! And you’ll have a car exclusively for yourself, and a driver, too,” Little Zhou said, reaching out of the window before he drove away. “Don’t forget us.”
His new office was a multi-room suite in the Square Mansion in the center of Shanghai. The city government itself was
located in the same building, together with a number of important organizations. Such an impressive office site was probably chosen to convince people of the serious attention being paid to traffic congestion by the city authorities, Chen reflected.
“Welcome, Director Chen.” A young girl wearing a pair of silver-rimmed glasses was waiting for him. “I am Meiling, your secretary.”
So he had a personal secretary working for him at a reception area in front of his spacious office. Meiling lost no time showing him the ropes. “The office is not just a department under the Shanghai police bureau. It’s under the joint leadership of the city government and the bureau,” Meiling said. “Even the mayor himself calls in here from time to time.”
“I see,” he said. “So there is a lot of work.”
“Yes, we’ve been terribly busy. Our old director was rushed to the hospital, and we have not had any preparation for your arrival.”
“Neither have I. As a matter of fact, I knew nothing about my appointment until a couple of hours ago.”
“Our old director has been sick for several months,” Meiling said apologetically, “There’s a backlog of work.”
So there was all the routine work he would have to familiarize himself with—documents to read, officers to meet, reports to review, and calls to make. Several papers were already waiting his signature.
Following Meiling, he made a tour of his office suite. There were several computers in each room, forming a network for metropolitan traffic control. In spite of the evening computer courses he had taken, he would require two or three weeks to become familiar with the system. A director’s responsibilities consisted not only of dispatching traffic police officers, but also maintaining close cooperation with the public transportation bureau, the construction bureau, and the city government.