by Qiu Xiaolong
“I know. And the housing prices are much lower in Shaoxing, with no housing market bubble to worry about. It’s not at all comparable to the situation in Shanghai.”
“Shanghai’s bubble economy is not what concerns me,” Chen said. “Since Zhou worked in the same sector as you, Director Chang, I suppose he talked to you about the housing market during his visits to Shaoxing last year.”
“Of course we had met and talked in the past, but last year he wasn’t here on business. He just called me from the station, a few minutes before his train was leaving,” Chang said, trying to recall. “He did touch on some of the changes in the housing market, specifically the new regulation against the construction of independent villas in the city of Shanghai.”
“Why did he bring that up?”
“With the new high-speed train next year, Shaoxing will be only an hour away from Shanghai. A villa here could become a real bargain.”
“So he wanted to buy one?
“That I don’t know. It was only a short conversation before he boarded his train. Perhaps the call was just out of courtesy.”
As he left Chang’s office, Chen couldn’t help feeling that the Shaoxing trip would turn out to be another waste of time. So far, it hadn’t yielded anything helpful to his investigation.
Still, he did not want to give up so quickly. There might be some details he hadn’t examined closely enough.
The proverb cited by Mingxia—that it’s important for a successful man to return to his old home wrapped in glory—came from the story about Xiang Yu, the king of Chu, in the third century BC. Xiang Yu, at the peak of his military power, was swayed by an ancient saying, “If one is rich and successful without going back to his old home in all his glory, it’s like walking in one’s best clothes in the dark.” So he had led his troops back to his old home, a strategically disastrous move that eventually led to the demise of his kingdom. Despite the results, the concept had become rooted in China’s collective unconscious. It was almost unimaginable for a successful Party official not to show off for the people back home. But to do so after many years, to do so twice in one year, and to do it in the company of Fang … it didn’t add up. What if the stories of him traveling to Shaoxing with a younger woman—not his wife—made it back to Shanghai?
Chen’s cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Detective Tang.
“Anything new, Tang?”
“Sorry, I haven’t found any property listed under his name.”
“Could you check another name?”
“Another name?”
“Fang Fang—possibly a villa near the East Lake. It’s a long shot. If it helps at all, the transaction was probably done last year.”
“That narrows it down. I’ll check into it right now.”
It would take a while, however, before Chen would hear back. In the meantime, he had some time to kill.
Cutting across the side street, he noticed an arrow-shaped sign pointing the way to Lu Xun’s residence. It looked like it was only a ten-minute walk away. The festival was being held there, but he should be able to maneuver around without being seen by the participants. He found himself heading in that direction.
Among modern Chinese writers, Chen admired no one more than Lu Xun, who fought against the injustices of society in the early decades of the twentieth century. For years after 1949, Lu Xun was endorsed by the Party government as the one and only proletarian writer because of his criticism of the Nationalist government.
Beyond a stone bridge, Chen saw a group of tourists getting off a bus near the entrance to an old street, most of them holding maps and brochures in their hands. An elderly man wearing a fake pigtail over a gray cotton gown shuffled up to the tourists, as if he had just emerged out of an illustration of a story by Lu Xun, selling souvenirs from his bamboo basket.
The original Lu residence must have been large, presumably housing the whole clan. Apart from a considerable number of halls and rooms, Chen saw the Hundred-Flower Garden at one side of the street and the Three-Flavor Study on the other, both of them mentioned in Lu Xun’s writings. Chen managed to curb the temptation to walk over to them.
About half a block away, in front of a quadrangle house, was a vertical wooden sign reading Young Writers’ Base of Lu Xun Academy. The door stood ajar, through which could be seen a corner of the tranquil flagstone courtyard. It was probably something like a writers’ colony. If so, he might try to come and stay here for a week, basking in the feng shui of Lu Xun’s old home, though he was no longer a young writer. Hearing voices coming from within, he hurried away.
“Buy a scroll of Shaoxing brush pen calligraphy—Lu Xun’s poem.” A scholarlike peddler with a flowing silver beard intercepted him on the street. “The calligrapher is an undiscovered master: in a few years, the scroll could be worth a fortune.”
The scroll showed a quatrain in bold Wei style.
How can I afford to be passionate as of yore? / Let flower bloom or fall, I care no more. / Who could have thought that in the southern rain, / I’m weeping for a son of the country again?
It was a poem Lu Xun composed for Yang Xingfu, an intellectual who was killed in the fight for democracy. Unexpectedly, memories of Detective Wei came back, overwhelming Chen in the guilty realization that he was not a poet like Lu Xun, not having written a single line for the dead.
“Two hundred yuan,” the peddler declared. “You are a man of letters, and you know the true value.”
“One hundred,” he bargained without thinking.
“Deal.”
Back in Shanghai, the scroll could hang in his office, he mused, as a souvenir of the trip, and in memory of Detective Wei.
Like everywhere else in China, Shaoxing was inundated by wave upon wave of consumerism. Along the street, except for the houses marked as part of Lu Xun’s residence, all the houses had been turned into shops or restaurants named in connection to the great writer. One salesman held a brown urn of Shaoxing rice wine on top of his head while jumping in and out a ring of wine bottles like an acrobat. Chen couldn’t recall any such scene in the stories.
He wished he could find a small tea room, but at least he was relieved not to see a Starbucks. He stepped into a small tavern instead, where he ordered a bowl of yellow wine. At this time of the day, he was the only customer, so a waiter also brought him a tiny dish of peas flavored with aniseed. Picking up a pea, he debated with himself whether he should go to the festival, perhaps make only a quick appearance. But once he was there, it might not be easy to get away quickly.
He couldn’t see any real point in going, just to join in the chorus singing the praises of “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” Lu Xun, for one, would never have done that.
Chen thought about an article he’d read recently. It was about a surprising comment Chairman Mao had made regarding Lu Xun in the fifties, during the heat of the antirightist movement. When asked what Lu Xun would have been doing if he was still around, Mao said simply that Lu would be locked up and rotting in prison.
As he sat there lost in thought, Chen got another call from Tang.
“Yes, there is a property registered in the name of Fang, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s a villa near Lu Xun’s old home.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you in a minute. There used to be a phone line under her name, but it was canceled about half a year ago. Which isn’t too surprising, since more and more people use only mobile phones. Also, the property seems to be unoccupied most of the time. According to the subdivision security, a woman moved in just a couple of days ago. Possibly she’s none other than Fang. The security guard is pretty sure she’s there now.”
“Good, I’m on my way.”
There was nothing surprising about the property being registered under her name. Either Zhou was cautious, having purchased it for himself but put it under her name, or he was really smitten and bought it for her.
The subdivision was about two blocks behind Lu X
un’s home. From a distance, he glimpsed a stretch of new roofs shining in the sunlight.
There was no ruling out the possibility that she was kept under surveillance in that subdivision. If he was able to track her down there, so could others. Still, he had to approach her. He turned a corner on the street, looking over his shoulder one more time.
NINETEEN
TURNING AROUND, CHEN CAUGHT sight of Kong Yiji Restaurant.
Kong Yiji was the protagonist in one of Lu Xun’s stories. He was a scholar, totally down and out because of his having failed the civil service examination, his quixotic insistence on the old ways at the end of the Qing dynasty, and his inability to adjust to the changing society. Consequently a helpless drunkard, Kong spent his money—whenever he had any—in a small tavern, where he postured and lectured in an impossibly bookish way.
In that story, the tavern was shabby. It was frequented by short-coated, poor customers who could only afford to drink standing at the counter with just a one-copper plate of aniseed-flavored peas. The relatively better-off, long-gowned customers would sit sipping their wine and relaxing in an adjacent room.
The new restaurant was huge, even though its façade sported some decorations depicted in the story, such as a hot water container for wine warming; a row of dented, ancient-looking bowls and saucers; and a signboard on the wall with a chalk inscription declaring, “Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers.” Chen walked over and stepped inside.
“Give me a private room,” Chen said to the young waitress who came up to greet him, “a small one.”
“Just for two?”
“Yes, just for two. You know what I want.”
“Sure, we have one for you.”
The waitress led him to a cozy room lined with pink floral wallpaper. It was furnished with a dining table and chair, a long couch, and a coffee table sporting a statuette of a naked Venus, none of which had anything to do with the original story or its protagonist. That bookish archetype would have never dreamed of a romantic rendezvous in a room like this. The waitress handed Chen a pink-covered menu.
“These are specialties of your restaurant?” Chen asked.
“Yes. There is a minimum charge of seven hundred yuan for the private room. I can recommend some—”
“That’s fine. Bring me whatever you recommend, but make sure to include the local specials.”
He then took out his notebook and scribbled on a page:
Don’t worry about who I am. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help. Come to the restaurant. Private room 101. I’ll be waiting for you.
He tore out the page, put it into an envelope, and addressed it before handing it to the waitress.
“Deliver it to the address on the envelope. Make sure she herself gets it. Here’s ten yuan for delivering it. When she comes over, I’ll have another twenty for you.”
The waitress eyed him up and down slowly before she nodded, like one waking from a dream. Her face lit up with an arch smile.
“I see, sir. She’ll be here.”
He wondered what the waitress saw, but that hardly mattered.
A middle-aged man wearing a long, worn-out blue gown appeared in the doorway, gesticulating, mumbling literary quotations that ended invariably with the refrain, “forsooth, little left, indeed, little left.” Originally, it referred to the peas in the impoverished character’s hand, Chen recalled. He waved “Kong Yiji” away, closed the door, and wondered what Lu Xun would have thought of that.
Twenty minutes later, there was a light knock on the door.
“Come in, Fang.”
A woman in a plain white blouse and black pants stepped in, a suggestion of hesitation in her timid movements. She appeared to be in her early or mid thirties. Thin, slender, she had a slightly long face, almond-shaped eyes, and a black mole on her forehead.
He stood up and signaled her to a seat, raising his finger to his lips like an old friend. The two sat in silence, waiting, as the waitress came in to serve the cold dishes and then pour the rice wine in two bowls in front of them.
Chen took a slow sip from the bowl. The wine was surprisingly sweet and mellow. The dishes of food in front of them appeared interesting. Smoked duck, white fish fried with green onions, stinking tofu, salt-water-boiled river shrimp, fermented winter melon, and dried bamboo shoots. Thanks to Lu Xun, the special dishes all appeared to reflect the traditional local flavor, even though it was done for a strictly commercial purpose.
“Don’t hurry with the hot dishes. We’d like to talk first,” he said to the waitress. “And please make sure to knock before entering.”
“Of course.”
The moment the waitress stepped out, Chen produced his business card and placed it on the table before Fang.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Fang. I’m Chief Inspector Chen Cao, Deputy Party Secretary of the Shanghai Police Bureau, and also a member of Shanghai Party Committee.”
He didn’t like to use the titles printed on his business card, but they might help in the present situation.
“Oh, I’ve heard of you, Chief Inspector Chen, but—”
“Let’s open the door to the view of the mountains. I told others that I’m here for the literary festival, but that’s only a smokescreen.”
“A smokescreen? For somebody like you?” She gave him an incredulous look and said nothing else.
“I’m here because of the Zhou case.”
“That’s what I guessed.”
“Do you believe Zhou committed suicide?”
“Does it matter what I believe?”
“It matters to me. You might remember Detective Wei, a close colleague of mine.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear that he died? The day before he died, he interviewed you.”
“Died? How?” she said, her face blanching.
“Killed by a car. I don’t believe he died in a simple traffic accident—not while he was in the middle of investigating Zhou’s death. I’m here because of that investigation but also because of Detective Wei’s death.”
She made no response.
“Detective Wei wasn’t in charge of the shuanggui investigation—the Party investigation into Zhou’s corruption—but I believe that his investigation into the cause of Zhou’s death led to his fatal accident. I want justice for Wei. And I believe you want justice for Zhou, if Zhou was murdered.”
She nodded, her fingers touching the wine cup without lifting it.
“Thank you for telling me all this,” she said, making a visible effort to pull herself together. “Yes, I want justice done if he was murdered, but I’m only the office secretary. People have put a lot of pressure on me, trying to force me to say things I don’t know. I couldn’t do that, so I wanted to get away from it all for a few days. That’s all I can tell you.”
“If you were really just enjoying a vacation here, I don’t think people would be frantically looking for you everywhere. You’ve only worked in that office for two years. How did you come to have a luxurious villa bought for you? I’ve already talked to your parents. They’ve told me what happened after you returned from overseas. We may go over all this, and, if need be, the transaction records for the property will prove everything.”
She kept her head hanging low, her lips sealed tight.
“Let me assure you that you’re not a suspect in my investigation, and I will do nothing to harm you. But I can’t say the same about the others who are looking for you.” Taking another sip of the deceptively sweet wine, Chen went on, adopting a different tone, “I’m not just a cop; I’m also a poet. As the proverb says, even my heart goes out to beauty—like you. If anything, I’m trying to get you out of trouble.”
“But how?” she said. “How can you help me?”
“Tell me what you know about Zhou—and then, only then, will I be able to find a way.”
“He’s dead because of a pack of cigarettes. How can anything I tell you about him help?”
“What you te
ll me may help us get the real criminal. The one who was behind all of this. Only by pushing this investigation through to the end will I be able to get everyone else off your back. We have to help each other,” he said, then added gently, “If it would make it a little easier for you, tell me something about yourself, how you started to work for him.”
“My parents have already told you everything, I suppose,” she said. Still, she started telling Chen her version.
About seven years ago, after she graduated from a college in Shanghai, she had gone to England to further her studies. She studied hard and got an MA degree in communications. People believed that she would have a great future, but she couldn’t find a job in England. In the meantime, she used up all the money saved by her not-that-well-off parents. She couldn’t stay in England any longer, so she had no choice but to go back to Shanghai. Once back, she found herself a “haigui”—a derogative term for a returnee from overseas, which was pronounced the same as the word for “sea turtle”—and soon turned into a “haidai,” a derogative term for the jobless from overseas, pronounced the same as the word for “seaweed.”
Then she happened to read about Zhou in the newspapers. He had once lived in the same neighborhood as she, had moved away when she was still very young, and was now an important Party official. In desperation, she contacted him, wondering whether he would remember a little girl from the old neighborhood. He did, and to her surprise, he went out of his way to help her get the job as the secretary in the housing development office. At first, she thought he’d simply taken pity on her, but nothing was simple and pure in the world of red dust. It didn’t take long for her to grasp the true meaning of being a little secretary. She was unwilling, then reluctant, but ultimately resigned. Spring is gone, no one knows where. She was no longer young, and she thought she should feel flattered that a powerful man like Zhou wanted her as a little secretary. Zhou was considerate enough to keep their relations a secret in the office, though possibly more because of his own position, since he had to think about the political consequences. Still, he seemed to care for her in his way, even though he chose not to divorce his wife. He arranged for them to go to England on vacation, where they were able to spend a week like a real couple, staying in the sort of five-star hotels that she had never dreamed of being able to stay at when she was there as a student. It was all at the government’s expense, of course. Then he took her to Shaoxing to buy her a villa. When she asked him why, he told her that there was no telling what might happen to him in the future and that now at least she would have something to fall back on—and wasn’t she glad to own her own home?