by Qiu Xiaolong
“They will have to move out, and as soon as possible.”
So there was something going on here. Perhaps there wouldn’t be an exception made for Jiang, and he too would have to leave the hotel, but Chen wasn’t sure.
Walking out of the hotel like a disappointed tourist, Chen looked around before he crossed the street and went to a new restaurant. The restaurant was called Northeast Family, and it sported a row of red lanterns in front of its rustic façade. He walked in, and then went up to the second floor, where he was surprised to see several kangs—or table-and-seat units shaped like kangs—by the windows overlooking Shanxi Road. He went over to one out of curiosity.
A waiter hurried to his side, saying apologetically, “Sorry, this is a table for six people.”
Sitting at this table, however, Chen could easily keep the hotel in sight.
“What’s the minimum charge to sit here?” Chen asked.
At some restaurants, a private room had a minimum charge attached: it was possible this restaurant had a minimum for desirable tables.
“Usually, we charge six hundred. Our northeast cuisine is not expensive, so you can have a banquet for that. One person alone wouldn’t be able to finish that much.” The waiter paused. “Well, let’s make an exception for you and waive the minimum expense, sir,” he said considerately. “We have eating girls here. For just one hundred yuan she’ll sit at your table and introduce you to the specialties of our cuisine.”
“Fine. I’ll pay for her company, but I want to sit by myself for a while first.”
“Whatever you want, sir. I’ll brew you a pot of Dragon Well tea first.”
He secured the table against the window. It wasn’t that comfortable to sit on the kang. A real kang was a long earthen bed with coals burning underneath, the people sitting above with their legs comfortably crossed under them, and with a small table in the middle during mealtime. Here he saw only a resemblance of one, but he took off his shoes, climbed on, and started keeping watch on the hotel.
Across the street, the hotel shimmered in the sunlight. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the hotel looked different that morning. For about fifteen minutes, he didn’t see anybody walking in or out. There were only a couple of luxury cars that drove in, their curtains drawn, and not a single taxi. The hotel must have been converted into a “political base.”
A young eating girl came over, dressed not unlike someone from the northeast, and managed to speak with only a slight suggestion of a northeast accent.
“Shark fin is a specialty of our restaurant, sir.”
“Shark fin is advertised as the special in every restaurant. I don’t have to order it here, but I’ll have the rest of the specials on the menu.”
“You certainly know how to order,” she said in agreement. She perched herself on the edge of the kang and kicked off her slippers. He wondered whether she would sit with him like that through the entire meal, as if they were in some movie scene of a couple in the northeast countryside.
“Thank you,” he said, taking out a ten-yuan bill. “Here’s a small tip for you, but I want to sit by myself for the moment.”
“Whatever you like, Big Brother,” she said, standing up, clutching the bill. “Whenever you need anything, just call me. We have all sorts of service available. And service for you afterward in a private room too.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Soon the dishes he’d ordered arrived on the kang table. Northeast cuisine, known for its homely style, was not considered one of the major cuisines in China. He helped himself to a piece of pan-fried tofu, took a sip of tea, and took out a notebook.
Chen started drawing up a timetable in his notebook of the events surrounding Wei’s accident the previous day. One probable scenario was that Wei—dressed like a tourist—was going to check into the hotel, incognito, in the hope of learning something that had eluded him in his official capacity. But was the hotel already closed that day due to the arrival of the mysterious Beijing team?
Whether the hotel was closed or not, Wei, leaving home around eight that morning, should have been somewhere near this location around nine. He made his way to the scene of the accident three or four hours later, though it was no more than a five-minute walk from the hotel. So, where had Wei been during the interval?
Wei could have sat here by the window, just as Chen was doing today, keeping an eye on the hotel. It was eerie to imagine—to imagine himself turning into Wei—
“Big Brother, the dishes are getting cold,” the eating girl said, returning to the table.
It was true. He hadn’t even touched some of them. He wondered how long he’d been sitting here, lost in thought.
“They are quite good, but I’ve somehow lost my appetite,” he said apologetically. He pointed at several dishes. “Sorry, these are not even touched.”
“Don’t worry. I was supposed to eat with you, and now I’ll have to finish it all by myself.”
He asked for the bill, which came to a little more than three hundred, including the fee for her. She added her name and number to the receipt.
“Next time, call me directly.”
On his way out, he looked at his watch. It was almost twelve thirty.
It wasn’t pleasant to climb the steel steps of the overpass, but he did. He’d hardly done anything all day, yet he couldn’t shake off a feeling that he was burning up. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead with the back of his hand. Passing under him, the traffic flowed like a turgid river.
It reminded him of a stone bridge he’d crossed long ago, the fallen leaves crunching under his feet, the water murmuring under the arch … It was an elusive scene in his memory, flashing into his consciousness for a split second, and then fading into confusion.
He labored down to the other side of Yan’an Road. A high-rise loomed in the afternoon sunlight—the Wenhui Office Building on Weihai Road. It housed not only the Wenhui Daily newspaper but also the Xinmin evening newspaper and Shanghai Daily, an English-language newspaper, along with several smaller newspapers, all under the umbrella organization of the Wenhui-Xinmin Group, or Wenxin Group, for short.
The scene of the accident was near the intersection of Shanxi and Weihai Roads. Because of the constant flow of traffic at that location, there was no yellow tape cordoning off the area. Nor was there any sign of a policeman on duty.
Chen decided to take a walk around the area first. As if in mysterious correspondence, his cell phone rang: the traffic cop who had dealt with the accident was calling him back.
“Detective Wei was run down on Weihai Road as he turned in from Shanxi Road, heading east. Several witnesses claimed that’s what they saw. There’s no ruling out the possibility that he had walked past the Wenhui Office Building first and then was turning back, but it’s not likely. As for the vehicle that hit him, it was a brown SUV that was parked one block down on Weihai Road. Apparently it started up suddenly, sped west, hit him, and took off. It happened so fast that nobody saw anything clearly. According to one witness, the SUV seemed to slow down after hitting Wei, but only for a second, then it sped away and turned onto Shanxi Road. The driver might have slowed to take a look, but must have realized it was too late.”
“The SUV hit him head-on?” Chen asked.
“Yes. At a high speed.”
“But that means the SUV was in the wrong lane.”
“Drunk driving, Chief Inspector Chen. Luckily, it wasn’t right after school had let out, or it could have been much worse.”
“Thank you. Would you fax a report to my office? Provide as many details as possible. I’ll be back there soon.”
For the next half an hour, however, Chen continued to walk back and forth along Weihai Road, his phone clutched in his hand. There was something not right about the accident.
Weihai was a two-lane street. A westbound car wouldn’t have ended up in the lane alongside the Wenhui Building, unless the driver was drunk or someone’s car spun out of control during a too-swift lef
t turn. Chen thought the chances of such a dramatic, disastrous turn of events were slim.
Once again, he walked past the Wenhui Office Building, this time catching sight of a makeshift noodle stall on the sidewalk. The stall consisted of two pots of boiling water and soup on portable propane gas heads, along with a variety of meat and vegetable toppings on display in a glass case. The chef-proprietor appeared to be a local resident, cooking and hawking his wares with a flourish as if he was in a Hong Kong gourmet documentary. He dipped a ladle of noodles into the water, took it out almost immediately, and added the topping.
Chen went over to the stall and sat at a rough wood table. He noticed there were two or three beers in an almost empty crate nearby.
“A bottle of beer, the roast duck as a cross-bridge dish first, and then the noodles.”
“We don’t serve beer at lunchtime. Those are for myself. But if you really want one, twenty yuan. It’s normally served Hong Kong style, but I’ll make an exception for you and serve the topping separately.”
“That’s great. That you serve cross-bridge, I mean,” Chen said.
“Do you know the story about it?” the proprietor asked good-naturedly and went on without waiting for an answer. “In the old days, a scholar was preparing for the civil service examination on a secluded island in Yunnan. His capable wife had to carry his meals across the bridge to him. Among his favorite foods was a bowl of rice noodle soup with assorted toppings. But because of the time it took to deliver them, the noodles lost their flavor, having sat too long in the soup. So she put the steaming hot chicken soup in a special container, the toppings and noodles in two others, and then mixed them after arriving at her husband’s place. That way, the noodles and the toppings still tasted fresh. Revitalized by the delicious noodles, the scholar threw himself back into his preparations and eventually passed the examination. So it’s called cross-bridge—”
“How interesting!” Chen nodded, though he already knew the story.
“And here is my modification. Instead of putting the toppings on the noodles, I serve them separately, so the customer can have the topping as a cross-bridge dish.”
“Good idea,” Chen said, producing a pack and handing the chef a cigarette.
“Wow—Panda.”
Chen wanted to talk with him or, failing that, to sit and observe from the stall. A bowl of noodles wouldn’t give him much time, but a bottle of beer could make the difference.
“So business is pretty good here,” Chen said, slowly pouring himself a cup from the beer bottle.
“Not at this time of day. But during lunchtime, quite a number of journalists come here from across the street. Or in a couple of hours, it’s kindergarten time. It’s not the rich parents who wait in the cars for their kids, but drivers and maids.”
“I see. The roast duck is really fresh and nice. I’d love to have another portion, but I’m full today.” The compliment was true. The duck tasted delectable, its succulent skin crisp, its meat juicy. It wasn’t placed on top of the noodles but in a separate white saucer, its scarlet color making a pleasant contrast to the green vegetable in the soup. “So, are you here all day?”
“Seven in the morning to eight or nine at night. I live in the lane just behind this street. My wife prepares all the toppings at home and delivers them here every two or three hours. They are guaranteed fresh. Those young journalist girls can be fastidious, and they won’t come back if they’re even slightly unsatisfied.”
Chen noticed that several people were now walking around the scene of the accident near that intersection, pointing, commenting, and shooting pictures. They could be journalists, or maybe cops in plainclothes. Chen turned to the proprietor.
“What are they doing over there?”
“There was a hit-and-run accident yesterday.”
“There?”
“Yes, I saw it with my own eyes.”
“That’s something. Tell me about it. And another bottle of Qingdao, please.”
The proprietor eyed him in mild surprise. Presumably he thought Chen was one of those eccentric Big Bucks who would choose to hang out and talk at a plain sidewalk noodle stall, passing out Panda cigarettes, willing to pay twenty yuan for a bottle of Qingdao, which he promptly knocked open on the edge of the table.
“It happened shortly after lunchtime, I remember. The street was relatively quiet. But all of a sudden, I heard a car roaring down the street. It was a brown SUV, and it hit the man right on the corner—”
“Hold on a minute,” Chen said. “The man was walking on the same side as the Wenhui Office Building, right?”
“Yes, it’s the driver’s fault. He must have been dead drunk.”
“Didn’t he stop?”
“He slowed down and reached out, but he saw the victim was beyond hope. So he fled the scene like a wisp of smoke.”
“So the driver can’t have been that drunk.”
“Now that you mention it, there was something strange about it. The brown car was parked not too far away. No more than a hundred meters or so. It was the only car in the neighborhood at the time, of that much I’m sure. I don’t know how long it had been parked there, but at least a couple of hours. I first noticed it when I took a break around ten thirty. It was an expensive SUV, and the driver appeared to be dozing inside. So how could he be that dead drunk after dozing there for a couple of hours?”
A group of young people walked up and interrupted their talk.
Chen took out his wallet and counted sixty yuan. “Keep the change. I’ll be back. The noodles are excellent.”
“My name is Xiahou. I’m here, seven days a week.”
“Thanks.”
As Chen headed back to the corner where the accident occurred, he dialed the number for Party Secretary Li. He didn’t have to report in to the Party boss daily, but he decided to do so that afternoon.
“Any new discoveries, Chen?” Li asked, after he picked up.
“Nothing from me. How about Wei?” he said. “Did Wei talk to you yesterday?”
“He may have called me that day or the day before, but he didn’t have anything important to say. Wei was a good comrade.”
“Did he talk to you about taking a special approach to his investigation?”
“Not that I remember. It was just a routine briefing.”
“Did he mention his plans for the day?”
“No, nothing like that. He was just bringing me up to date. You’re the special consultant on the investigation, not me.”
Li sounded vague, cautious, and irritated.
“This case is directly under your supervision, Party Secretary Li, just as you said that first day. Like Detective Wei, I have to report in to you regularly.”
Another thought crossed Chen’s mind. If Wei had called Li that morning, Wei must have had his cell phone with him. But in the report submitted by the hospital, there was nothing on Wei’s body to identify him. If they had found his cell on him, they could have identified him easily.
Was Wei making a call when he was run down? Was his cell phone knocked out of his hand and out of sight?
There was something else Chen had to do. He took a deep breath, then pulled the tiny jasmine blossom out of his blazer pocket and tossed it toward the accident scene.
A gray pigeon was flying by, its whistle trailing in the air. Chen looked up, but it was already out of sight.
He was reminded of a couple of lines in a Song dynasty poem, which he had thought about not too long ago, in the garden of the Writers’ Association.
But what made him think of those lines here and now was something else. Another person and another life. In the days when he’d just been assigned to the bureau, Wenhui Daily was in another building, one near the Bund. There Chen met with a journalist who later went to Japan.
How far you have traveled, / I don’t know. Whatever I see / fills my heart with melancholy. / The further you go, the fewer / your letters for me. The expanse / of the water so wide, no message-carrying / fish
in sight, where and whom / can I ask for your news?
That was the first stanza of a poem composed by Ouyang Xiu in the eleventh century. At that time, people still liked the romantic legend of fish carrying messages across rivers and seas for lovers. Having to wait weeks or months for communication was something almost unimaginable now, in the age of e-mail.
Chief Inspector Chen turned and walked into the newspaper’s current office building, trying to pull himself together. It was a most magnificent lobby, like that of a five-star hotel. In the middle of the hall, he noticed a black and white photo exhibition, and past it, a small café, which seemed to be a convenient place for journalists to relax or meet with their visitors.
ELEVEN
LIANPING STARTED HER DAY with a visit to Yaqing, the literature editor of Wenhui Daily, who was on maternity leave. Yaqing lived in a high-end apartment that was about a five-minute walk from the newspaper office building.
Yaqing answered the door with a smile, standing slender, suave in a red silk robe embroidered with a golden phoenix, and in soft-heeled leather slippers. A huge diamond dazzled on her finger. She looked like an elegant, high-class lady, and Lianping didn’t immediately recognize her.
Her place was a huge two-story apartment overlooking a small man-made lake. Ji Huadong, Yaqing’s husband, was one of the “successful elites” in the city, dealing in exports and imports.
A nanny served them Dragon Well tea in the spacious living room, along with a platter of fresh lychee.
“This is this year’s new tea,” Yaqing said, breathing lightly into the cup. “Before the Rain.”
“It smells so refreshing. How is Little Ji?”
“A wet nurse is feeding him in the nursury.”
“That’s so nice. I won’t take up much of your time, Yaqing. I just wanted to catch you up on how things are going with the literature section of the newspaper.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lianping. At Wenhui, the literature section is symbolic at best. Few people read it, and that’s why our boss didn’t bother to bring in another editor to work on it while I’m out on leave. I know it has added so much to your workload. I’m sorry.” After taking a sip of tea, Yaqing resumed casually, “I may or may not come back to the newspaper after my leave. I haven’t yet told anybody at the paper, but Ji thinks it’s not worth it. He’s been so busy with his work, and when he comes home, he wants me to be there for him.”