by Qiu Xiaolong
But he waited outside the store. About five minutes later, the young American girl walked out with a large package in her hand, and he approached her with the question.
‘How have I learned of his business?’ she said, giggling. ‘Because of Doctor Zhivago!’
‘What?’ He was totally lost.
‘You have read Wenhui Daily, haven’t you? The thirtieth, last month.’
Shortly afterward, a copy of the Wenhui Daily came up on the desk of the neighborhood committee office. Sure enough, the third page of it showed a special report entitled:
Because of Doctor Zhivago
Mr Ma, an ordinary bookseller in Red Dust Lane, had been thrown into prison at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution – for the crime of having stored a copy of Doctor Zhivago in English years earlier. It was then regarded as a counter-revolutionary book.
Who the devil was Dr Zhivago? A decadent bourgeois intellectual who tried to go against the red tide of the Russian revolution. As Chairman Mao said, ‘It’s a new invention to write a novel in conspiracy against the Party.’ It certainly applied to Mr Ma’s shelving Doctor Zhivago, too. The existence of the novel in the bookstore was reported to the Shanghai Police Bureau – along with the information that some bourgeois intellectuals had regularly visited the bookstore, including a rightist writer who had come back from the United States. So the charge was made, the bookstore was closed, and Mr Ma was sentenced to thirty years in jail. He was allowed to carry inside with him only a Chinese medical dictionary. It was because Chairman Mao had declared that Chinese medicine is an invaluable treasure.
Fortunately, it did not take thirty years for the Chinese translation of Doctor Zhivago to appear in our state-run bookstores. What the novel really is about, readers may certainly have different opinions. But no one nowadays would take it as criminal evidence against a harmless bookseller.
It took almost twenty years for Mr Ma to get released. Still, nearly ten years less than his punishment, thanks to our Party’s new policy. Released and rehabilitated, Mr Ma did not have the heart to reopen the bookstore. Instead, he opened a herbal medicine store with the knowledge acquired through self-education from the one and only book available to him in the prison cell. Presumably, he did not want that part of his life to be a total waste.
As an English proverb says, every black cloud has a silver lining. So because of Doctor Zhivago, Mr Ma has become a doctor.
In the evening talk of the lane, Comrade Jun kept shaking his head over the article, unable to make a comment to the expectant audience.
‘An article in Wenhui Daily!’ Long-legged Pang said in the audience. ‘Old Ma surely has his connections. The publicity is worth a fortune.’
‘But how could the Wenhui reporter have learned of his story in our lane?’ Four-eyed Liu asked.
It was a question none of them could answer. What kind of a man was Doctor Zhivago? Possibly a good doctor like Mr Ma, who had now started giving free herbs to his neighbors.
Not until about a month later did the lane come to hear another story from Four-eyed Liu, who had learned it from an old acquaintance connected with the Wenhui Daily.
A rising Party-member police officer surnamed Chen, in charge of ‘rectification of wronged cases’ during the Cultural Revolution and who would soon be promoted to chief inspector in the Shanghai Police Bureau, was said to have visited Mr Ma’s bookstore years ago. Possibly a teenager at the time, standing and reading there for free just like others. Anyway, the moment he heard of the story of Mr Ma, he contacted the district official in charge of ‘rectification of wronged cases’ and managed to have the old man released ahead of time. The would-be chief inspector continued to look further into Mr Ma’s interests, going so far as to make sure that a special license was granted for the herbal medicine store. He too must have been a reader of Doctor Zhivago, so he told Mr Ma’s story to his girlfriend, a young journalist on the Wenhui Daily. To humor him, she had the story published in the newspaper.
‘It reminds me of another old Chinese story about horses,’ Long-legged Pang said deliberately, in imitation of Old Root. ‘When the old man of Sai lost his horse, it was not necessarily a bad thing, because the lost horse brought another horse home in its company. There is no telling the causality of things in this world. Indeed, all because of Doctor Zhivago.’
‘So he became Inspector Chen,’ Old Root blurted out of nowhere, nodding his head.
‘You mean it’s because of Inspector Chen?’
It could have been somebody Old Root had known before, but the old man declined to elaborate, grinding out the cigarette end on the street curb.
Merry Go Round
Jiang Xi was one of the ordinary residents in Red Dust Lane, a high school teacher, with her husband Yiqiang, a technician at a state-run factory, and their only son Kaikai, a middle school student. For so many years, the three of them had been squeezed together in a sixteen-square-foot eastern wing room, which was partitioned by a makeshift bookshelf after Kaikai entered a neighborhood middle school, but they were hardly heard complaining about anything.
In the eyes of her neighbors, however, the late eighties witnessed unexpected improvements for the family. With the job market getting more and more competitive in China, a good college education would make a huge difference for the young people, and their parents came to spend generously on college preparation classes for them. In a tingzijian room sub-rented from her neighbor in the same shikumen house, Jiang found herself busy tutoring private students for a second income, which was estimated as incredibly sizable in the collective calculation of the lane.
For some other people, private tutoring was still considered a gray area, politically speaking. At least, ‘a second job’ was a subject not yet officially encouraged in the Party’s newspapers. ‘Private’ remained a word with so-called negative energy in socialist China. With so many new things happening and changing in Deng Xiaoping’s reform, people had a hard time adjusting, having to tread a fine line in the constantly shifting political background. Not to mention those neighborhood activists like Old Hunchback Fang, who remained on high alert, ready to deal a crushing blow to anything officially declared as capitalistic practices, which could have included Jiang’s private tutoring in Red Dust Lane.
To the consternation of the lane, however, Comrade Tang Changguo, head of the neighborhood police station, was seen one June evening taking his son Xiaojun into the tingzijian room where Jiang was tutoring her students. That served as an unquestionable political endorsement. Those neighborhood activists then saw no point in pointing their critical fingers at her any more. And more private students came pouring in to Jiang’s classes.
So much so that she hardly had any time left for her son Kaikai, who remained in the ordinary middle school. For a successful college entrance test, an officially designated ‘first-class’ high school was considered a must. Not that Kaikai failed to be a good, hard-working student, but in a society of omnipresent materialistic connections, his parents did not have enough connections, nor ‘red envelopes’ fat enough, to get him into such an elite high school. In spite of Jiang’s extracurricular income, they still had to save every penny, as Yiqiang explained to the neighbors, to lubricate the cogwheels for Kaikai’s school transfer.
Just a couple of weeks after Comrade Tang’s visit to Jiang in the lane, Xiaojun passed a mid-term test with flying colors; a success supposedly crucial to the subsequent college-entrance test. Comrade Tang invited Jiang and several others to a celebration dinner in a private room at the Delicacy Heaven Restaurant. An excessively luxurious room it was, with a large TV set on one side, an impressive wine cabinet on the other, and a phone on the wall, too.
‘It’s one of the top restaurants in the city. A place new and fashionable in the eighties, with all the expensive food imaginable under the sun. Believe it or not,’ Comrade Tang declared in high spirits at the banquet table, ‘the finest Chinese delicacies are tasteless in themselves. Like the shark fin, sea cucum
ber, swallow nest, bear paw or camel dome, to name just a few of them. The taste comes from something else, like sauce or soup, which is the very essence of traditional Chinese cuisine. This restaurant is really celebrated for that.’
Comrade Tang appeared to be familiar with those extravagant delicacies, Jiang observed, gingerly putting a slippery chunk of sea cucumber into her mouth, and nodding her head, though tasting nothing special to her, commenting, ‘Yes, it’s just like in Tao Te Ching: “From nothing comes everything.”’
‘Exactly, it’s just like Xiaojun has learned everything from Teacher Jiang. Cheers!’
Jiang felt both flattered and flabbergasted. Such a lavish banquet in her honor was an experience she had never had before. Even more so from someone as powerful as Comrade Tang.
‘All the progress made under her guidance,’ Comrade Tang repeated for emphasis. ‘Let me tell all of you. She’s worth every penny of the tuition.’
His recommendation sounded somewhat condescending to her, but he made it purposely, she understood, for the benefit of the other guests at the table. And for her, too. Sure enough, one of them instantly turned to her for contact information.
So Jiang started introducing her tingzijian room class in the midst of those exotic plates and platters arriving at the table. She could not help wondering at the extravagance, becoming more nervous as Comrade Tang respectfully placed a bowl of shark fin in front of her.
Comrade Tang had paid for Xiaojun’s tuition like other students, but the truth be told, Jiang would have taught him for free, considering Comrade Tang’s power in the neighborhood police office. His official rank might not be that high, but as in a popular saying, ‘a mayor may not be as mighty as a manager who directly commands and controls’. As whispered in the neighborhood, ‘red envelopes’ were frequently pushed to Comrade Tang – on the table or under the table. Anyway, his son’s excellent score in a mid-term test seemed far from enough to justify such an exorbitant banquet. The bill at the end could be more than a thousand yuan – way too much for Comrade Tang’s far-from-extravagant salary.
‘The shark fin is fantastic, Teacher Jiang. Add several drops of red vinegar and it will bring out the special flavor of the shark fin so fabulously,’ Tang said with great gusto.
‘I’ve never had red vinegar before,’ Jiang said in bashful honesty, ‘you know such a lot, Comrade Tang.’
‘Well, I’m no gourmet like the would-be chief inspector Chen in the city police bureau. Still quite young, he knows so much more. Not just full of gastronomical expertise, of course. A truly versatile, talented man. He has a long way to go in the system. A most promising career in front of him, I tell you,’ Comrade Tang said, turning to Jiang with a mysterious knowing smile, as if she knew exactly what he was talking about. ‘A long, long way to go indeed.’
Again, she nodded mechanically, though not sure whether she had ever heard of the would-be chief inspector in question. Besides, what was the relevance to her anyway? It mattered not to her whether he would be promoted or not. And she could not help wondering how a rising Party cadre like Chen would turn out if he was capable of dining even more extravagantly than Comrade Tang – more likely than not at the socialist expense.
It was then that a young waitress in a scarlet mandarin dress brought in a large cake, the top of which proclaimed in bright colors: ‘Happy Teacher’s Day’.
So it was prepared specifically for her. There was no questioning Comrade Tang’s sincerity. Still, it was more than two weeks past the Teacher’s Day. She was getting more and more confounded.
‘The would-be chief inspector Chen is a man full of respect for his teacher, isn’t he?’ Tang said, smiling again.
‘Would-be chief inspector Chen?’ She could not help repeating it, searching frantically for clues in her memory. It was surely not for nothing that Comrade Tang had brought him up again.
‘He paid you a visit about a couple of months ago, I’ve heard. Later he called me at the office. He talked a lot about his gratitude to you as a middle school student in your class during the years of the Cultural Revolution.’
‘Chen—’
‘Yes, his name is Chen Cao.’
‘Oh, Chen Cao. Yes, Chen was a good student at the time.’
In reality, she hardly remembered anything about him as a student during those years. Not a troublemaker, she was sure about it, but not a politically enthusiastic Little Red Guard, either. Anyway, Chen did not stand out in the class. Not as far as she could remember.
‘He got the highest grade for writing in your class – about an essay on Chairman Mao’s poem. You did such a wonderful job teaching and encouraging students even in those difficult, disastrous years. That’s what he said to me.’
‘Yes, we all had to memorize Chairman Mao’s poems those days for the sake of showing our loyalty to him. That’s so true. You had no choice,’ one of the guests at the banquet table sort of echoed, head-shaking, mouth-watering, helping himself to a large piece of soy-sauce-braised bear paw, which looked absolutely fatty.
She was now trying desperately to recall something, but her mind remained largely blank.
‘Yes, we had to teach Chairman Mao’s poems in the class. No text books those days. The students had to write essays about them.’ It was all she could do to come up with some vague words about it with a piece of slippery sea cucumber dropping from her chopsticks.
Fortunately, Comrade Tang got an unexpected phone call. It must have been important as Comrade Tang raised his forefinger to his lips to the guests in the banquet room before he spoke into the receiver in an abated voice, nodding and smiling in the midst of saying yes over and over again.
She heaved a sigh of much-needed relief, grateful that she did not have to put those indescribable delicacies into her mouth for a couple of minutes.
But was her memory already failing her so much? She must have been too busy with the private tutoring classes in the tingzijian room.
Even Chen’s visit to her, recent as it was, seemed to be so blurred, elusive in recollection. She hastened to take a large gulp of the iced water, which seemed to refresh her mind a bit.
It was nothing but an unannounced visit, as Chen had put it, she now remembered, in order to show gratitude to his middle school teacher. According to him, he had used to live quite close to the neighborhood, so he knew about her home in Red Dust Lane. Possibly in his late twenties or early thirties, Chen did not say anything about his being a cop, and certainly not about his being one on the rise …
She took another large gulp of the water. Chen might not have come over just to visit her. Placing down the water cup, she was struck with another thought. He seemed to know several others in the lane as well, though he mentioned them in a casual manner. Among them, Mr Ma, the once private bookseller jailed because of a ‘black book’ and nowadays a successful Chinese herbal medicine doctor thanks to the knowledge learned from a medical dictionary in prison; a woman named Minmin, who had migrated to the US by marrying someone much older, an overseas Chinese related to Chen’s family; a retired neighborhood security activist nicknamed Hunchback Fang; Juqing and her son Dong, about whom Jiang knew very little, except that the family of three generations still lived together in that small room with an attic at the end of the lane. After Chen’s visit, she had heard, Dong changed his surname back to a rare one, something like Huyan, and he was said to be making some money as an amateur photographer.
Jiang was beginning to feel that Chen had come to the lane not so much to pay her a visit, as to collect information about those other people on the sly. But wasn’t that common for a cop? That was probably why Chen had not even disclosed his police identity during his unannounced visit to her.
Still, how could all those people have gotten involved in a criminal investigation?
‘Your encouragement meant such a lot to him at the time,’ Comrade Tang went on, nodding and turning to raise the glass high. ‘Nowadays, it’s fashionable for the French red wine to go with the
Chinese cuisine. This bottle’s from Bordeaux, France, obscenely expensive, but it brings out the special taste of the camel dome fabulously.’
In the sunlight streaming through the window, the wine appeared rippling blood red in the glass. She suddenly remembered one particular detail in that long-ago class.
‘Yes, there was an essay in class about Mao’s ci poem Loushan Pass, which ends with the majestic lines: “Green mountains stretching / sea-like, and the sinking sun, blood-red …”’
Fragmented details then came flashing back to Jiang’s memory. In the essay assigned for homework about that poem of Mao’s, one student traced the possible influence to the ending of a ci poem by Li Bai’s in the Tang dynasty: ‘In the west wind, the sun sinking, / shining obliquely over the ruins / of the Han imperial cemetery.’
The comparison appeared to be more than surprising for a middle school student at the time, but the argument proved quite convincing in its way. Mao was said to like Li Bai’s poems, and it was politically correct to the student to make the comparison. So the student that she gave an A+ to was none other than Chen?
‘You mean Chen’s essay?’ Comrade Tang inquired, a slippery piece of beef in oyster sauce dropping from his chopsticks. ‘He is said to be a poet, too. Little wonder. Still quite young, he is also in charge of “rectification of wronged cases during the Cultural Revolution” right now. The appointment of his chief inspectorship will soon be announced.’
Around the table, others were staring at one another in confusion. She did not consider it a good idea for her to go into detail about that essay such a long time ago, murmuring inaudibly with increasing uneasiness, munching the abalone in her mouth as a ready excuse not to speak.
More exquisite dishes arrived at the table. Almost as anticipated, Comrade Tang brought the subject back to Chen once again, sipping at his red wine.