by Qiu Xiaolong
Sometimes she read novels in the office. Like many people of her generation, Peiqin had more or less educated herself by reading novels. The manager must have been aware of her reading, but he had not said anything. He, too, was busy doing something for himself. Peiqin did not have a clue what it was.
Sometimes, when she put down her book, she could not help being momentarily bewildered. How had she ended up here, she wondered, in this tiny office, reading novels simply because she had nothing better to do? Was she going to spend the rest of her life just like this? In her elementary school, Peiqin had been a straight-A student, even though not a popular one, because of her “black” family background. Her father had owned a small import/export company, hence he was declared a “capitalist” in his class status after 1949, which cast his whole family under a dark cloud. The dark cloud turned into a violent storm during the Cultural Revolution.
As an educated youth—a beginning high school student—in the late sixties, she had had to leave Shanghai for Yunnan. Her path had crossed Yu’s then. Their relatives had introduced them, hoping that they could take care of each other in that distant place. Far away in the countryside, with her girlish dreams shattered, she learned to appreciate the man in Yu. Then after they were allowed to return to Shanghai in the late seventies, she considered herself lucky to have a family like hers. Yu was a good husband, and Qinqin a wonderful son, in spite of the fact that they all had to huddle together in that one single all-purpose room. Monotonous as her restaurant job was, she managed to see herself, literally, as one level above those working in the kitchen. She had long since accepted the truism that happiness comes only in contentment.
The lackluster, unchallenging work actually suited her well if she chose to look at it from another angle. For she could devote herself more to her family. The best years of her youth had been wasted during the Cultural Revolution, but she saw no point blaming fate, or crying, like so many others. She had been content to play the traditional role of good wife and mother.
Of late, however, she had become less at peace with the status quo. The world around her was changing. Some of the values, or meanings, which she used to think she had found in her life seemed to be slipping away. I don’t know in which direction the wind is blowing, was a line she recalled reading; it seemed appropriate now. She believed that she should try to do something, in addition to her restaurant work. She had to face the fact that the iron-bowl positions Yu and she had would, at most, satisfy their most basic material needs. The apartment fiasco had been the last straw. Qinqin must have a different life; she was resolved. Almost everybody else in Qinqin’s class had Nike shoes, and Peiqin wanted to buy a pair for him, too. In her school years, brand names did not exist, and army-green imitation rubber shoes were the norm. In Yunnan, sometimes she went barefoot, because she had mailed one pair of those she had been issued back home to her niece. Even today, she still went without cosmetics, in spite of the ever-increasing appeals of commercials on TV. At a recent class reunion, one of her former classmates arrived in a Mercedes, to the envy of most in the room. In school, he had been a nobody, copying Peiqin’s homework from time to time. It was really a changed world.
And then the investigation of Yin Lige’s case, unexpectedly, began to take on meaning for her. Not exactly a new meaning, nor meaningful only to her, but it was traceable as far back as her high school years. Her reading was secret at the time—secret because Chairman Mao’s works alone were officially available-libraries were closed, novels and poems out of reach, and a young girl of her family background had to be careful, carrying novels in a most stealthy way, hidden under her armpit within her cotton-padded coat. Like others, Peiqin had to turn to books that had been published earlier, that were still in clandestine circulation. “Wealthy” with half a dozen books she had hidden from the Red Guards’ clutches, she and several others had formed an underground network to exchange books. There was something like an “exchange rate”: Balzac’s Old Goriot would be worth Dickens’s Hard Times plus a Chinese novel such as The Song of Youth or The Story of the Red Flag. In their network, if a member was able to get a new book through an outside contact, then the book would travel from one member to another, available to each for only one day.
She had developed a preference for certain writers. Yang, the great contemporary translator, was one of her favorites. In her opinion, hardly any modern Chinese writer was comparable to Yang for stylistic innovation, perhaps because he had a unique sensitivity to language, introducing Western expressions, and sometimes syntax too, into Chinese. In the history of modern Chinese literature, she had observed, most intellectuals who had a higher education had become translators rather than writers, for political reasons which were not difficult to understand.
When she had left high school for Yunnan, she carried some of those “poisonous” books with her. She did not talk to Yu about them. It was not that she had intended to keep something from him; rather, she was worried that her bookish passion might have made her less approachable. Besides, Yu had been too busy, doing not only his share of the labor in the field, but a lot of times hers as well.
In Yunnan she learned that Yang had written poems as well as translated novels. She found a short poem in an old anthology, which she copied into a notebook and memorized. It was not until after she came back to Shanghai that Yang’s poetry collection edited by Yin appeared in bookstores. By then, Peiqin was no longer a young, sentimental girl; still, she admired those poems. It broke her heart to learn that his poetry career had been cut short even before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution. In the collection, she also read a few poems written shortly before his death.
Now she picked up the poetry collection that Yin had edited and turned to a poem entitled “Snowman”:
You have to be a snowman
To stand in the snow
Listening to the same message
Of the howling wind
With imperturbable patience,
Gazing at the scene
Without losing yourself in it
While a hungry, homeless crow
Starts to peck at your red nose,
Apparently, a carrot.
She did not think she truly understood the poem, yet she felt a sudden, almost Zen-like enlightenment, overcome by empathy for the poet. He must have been so lonely, so desolate, so chilled, standing outside alone like the snowman. Peiqin did not have to guess what “the same message of the howling wind” might have been. Or the “hungry, homeless crow.” But the snowman did not lose itself in the scene: it kept its human shape, paradoxically, in snow.
She looked at the date underneath the poem. It had probably been written before he met Yin. Peiqin could understand how Yin’s appearance might have made a great difference in Yang’s life.
But Peiqin was drawn into the investigation of Yin Lige’s case not just because of Yang, nor even because it might help her husband in his work. It was also because of a vague yearning she thought she had long since put behind her, a yearning to find something, some meaning, in her own life—like the meaning one could find in the “snowman.”
Geng had suggested she become his partner when he expanded his business. She had not discussed this with Yu. It might be too early for her to let go of the iron bowl. No one could predict the future of China’s economic reform. Nor was a restaurant business something in which she was genuinely interested. She had helped her husband and Chief Inspector Chen once before when they were investigating the death of a National Model Worker, but she had never thought that she would come to be so engaged in an investigation. The combined temptation of doing something for a writer she had admired, of doing something for Yu, and of doing something for herself, too, was irresistible.
Could she discover a clue Yu might have overlooked? There was no way she could investigate as he did. She still had to come to her office during the week, and the weekend was reserved for Qinqin’s homework. There was only one thing she could do, Peiqin realized. Read. Yu
had joked about her having lost herself God-knows-how-many times in The Dream of the Red Chamber. She thought she would now do a close re-reading of Death of a Chinese Professor.
“Peiqin, the soup will turn cold if you do not come down,” someone shouted from the kitchen.
She put away the books and went downstairs.
The restaurant was full of customers. One of its new specials was rice cake with soy-sauce-braised pork steak, a popular choice. While a lot of state-run restaurants had suffered from tough competition with privately run restaurants, Four Seas had done fairly well. This was probably because of its convenient location.
Taking her seat on a bench near the kitchen entrance, she had a portion of the rice cake with pork steak in addition to a bowl of the fish-head soup. The rice cake was pleasantly soft and sticky, the steak tender, and the soup delicious, shining with the red pepper strewn over the surface. It was a pity that she could not take it back home. Once cold, the fish soup would start smelling.
Xiangxiang, a dish washer, also an ex-educated youth, came over to Peiqin. Xiangxiang had to wear rubber boots that creaked as she moved, for the sink area was always wet. As she sat beside Peiqin, she pulled one water-soaked foot out of her boot. Xiangxiang had a slight stoop from bending over the dirty dishes all year round, and her fingers were red, chapped, swollen like carrots. She worked seven days a week under a special arrangement. Her husband had been laid off. She had to support the whole family.
“We have worked our butts off, for what?” Xiangxiang complained, wiping her hands on her gray apron. “All the meat goes to the government. Nothing but the soup is left for us.”
In order to compete, the restaurant had started a dinner business, instead of opening only in the mornings and afternoons as before. Business had improved, but little of the profit went to the employees, except as inexpensive perks like the fish-head soup.
“We are not doing that badly, with our location, and with our name too.”
“Geng is damned smart. Now he is his own boss.”
“The soup is delicious,” Peiqin said, finishing her rice cake. It was true. In Yunnan, such a meal would have seemed like a banquet. She then wondered whether she was like A Que, a well-known character created by Lu Xun, a character who always succeeds in seeing the bright side, whatever the circumstances. Was it “A Que” of her to have thought that? “I have to go back to my work, Xiangxiang.”
“With all the new accounting work you have, now that we work two shifts instead of one, you still have to manage all by yourself,” Xiangxiang said. “It’s not fair.”
“Nothing is fair. Life is not fair.”
Back in her own office, Peiqin took out the book and magazines again.
This time, Peiqin did not read Death of a Chinese Professor from the beginning. Instead, she tried to focus on some pages she had already marked. This re-reading underscored something she had already vaguely noticed: the quality of the writing was not even. Parts of the book seemed to be written by a naive beginner, while other parts struck her as sophisticated. The book seemed to have been written by two different people. Especially the part about the causes of the Cultural Revolution, which was so full of analytical power. It would be hard to imagine a young, hot-blooded Red Guard possessing such historical insight. But then the next few chapters became bogged down in details about local Red Guard organizations, their conflicts of interests, their struggles for power, as well as personal grievances within them. Some of those details were both trivial and irrelevant.
The quality of a book could vary in different parts, she understood, but surely this extreme variance in Death of a Chinese Professor was abnormal.
She was unable to shake off a feeling that someone other than Yin must have written this book. Peiqin then laughed at herself, shaking her head at her own reflection in a small, slightly cracked mirror on the desk.
When she looked up from the book again, it was almost two o’clock. She rose and paced about in the room. It was all right for her to do so, but the manager had to walk carefully, with his head bent, in this low-ceilinged office. She called to make sure that Hua would not return that day. Then she locked the door before picking up the telephone again to call Chief Inspector Chen.
After polite routine greetings, she asked a question. “What do you think of Yin as a writer, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“I have not read her book yet. In the last few days, I’ve made phone calls to some people who have read it. They seem not to have a very high opinion of it. Of course, they may be biased because of her Red Guard activity.”
“That I can understand. I have read the book several times. One thing keeps puzzling me. Some parts are written so amateurishly, at least so it seems to me, almost like the diary of a high school student. But other parts are really good, like the beginning of the book, which shows historical depth.”
“You have made an insightful observation,” Chen said. “As to the uneven quality of her writing, one critic made a similar point, saying that Yin might have used a ghostwriter. After all, she had never written anything before.”
“But that does not account for the inconsistency.”
“The ghostwriter might have helped to write only part of the book.”
“Perhaps you have found us the motive we are seeking. Maybe somebody demanded money from her to keep her secret—I mean either the ghostwriter or someone who had found out—” Chen paused before contradicting himself “—but no, if it she was being blackmailed, why murder her? I’m confused.”
“It confuses me too.”
“Still, this could be important. At least it may be a lead to a possible motive. Thank you so much, Peiqin. I have been too busy with my translation to help Yu with the case.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’ve simply read the novel. There’s not too much to do in my restaurant anyway.”
“But you’re doing a lot for the investigation.”
That was all she could accomplish for the moment, however. She decided to go home earlier than usual.
There was something else for her to do, she remembered. Something different.
* * * *
Chapter 12
S
ince the start of the translation project, Chief Inspector Chen had become accustomed to surprises. This morning’s surprise came with a lanky workman who was supposed to install electric heaters and an air-conditioning unit in Chen’s apartment. The installer was almost as surprised as the chief inspector, for Chen was positive that he had not ordered such appliances.
He remembered having read about electric heaters. Most of the new buildings in the city still had no hot water system. So an electric heater was an option, a very expensive one. He had never thought about getting one for his own apartment. After all, he could always take showers at the bureau. As for an air-conditioner, he had not even dreamed of owning one.
He guessed whose idea this must have been, and picked up the phone.
“I cannot accept anything from you, Mr. Gu. It’s a matter of principle, you know.”
“White Cloud says that it’s too cold in your room. That’s not good for your work. I have several sets left over at the Dynasty Club. So why should they go to waste? “
“No, it’s too much.”
“How about buying them from me?”
“I cannot afford them.”
“I bought a large supply, so they came at a discount. Then there’s depreciation for the three years I’ve had them. How about nine hundred Yuan? And you don’t have to pay me right now. I’ll deduct it from the payment for the translation.”
“You are going out of your way for me, Mr. Gu.”
“No, I am a businessman. These units are lying around, useless, in storage. And to be honest, I think a cadre of your level should have had them long ago. You’re a man of integrity, and I admire you for that.” Gu changed the topic abruptly. “Oh, if I could secure American investment because of the business proposal you are translating, my dream would come t
rue.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You are doing me a great favor, I mean it, Chief Inspector Chen.”
But Chen remained disturbed for a long while after the phone call, staring at the translation on the desk. It was not just by the noise of the man working in the bathroom, although installing the unit in the bathroom seemed to be very complicated, with some long pipes involved. It might take quite a while for the workman to finish.