by Qiu Xiaolong
“It was a compromise born out of necessity,” Wuting said, going on at the other end of the call. “We had to include some work from other translators so we could present it as a collective effort, but yours are definitely the best, so we put your name on the cover.”
“That’s great. A variety of translation styles collected in a single volume,” Chen said, though he didn’t really believe it. But it was by no means easy to get a collection of poetry in translation published these days, so Chen felt obliged to at least attend the party. “I’ll come, of course, but you can’t expect me to give a talk on such short notice. I haven’t even seen a copy of the book.”
“We can’t afford to let the opportunity slip by, Chen. Guess who is sponsoring the party tonight?”
“Who?”
“Rong Pan, a Big Buck fan of T. S. Eliot—and to be exact, of your translations of Eliot. He’s going all out for the launch party tonight, sparing no expense. Do you know where he wants to hold it?”
“Where?
“The Heavenly World.”
“You’re kidding, Wuting. I’ve heard about that place. It’s a notorious nightclub, rumored to be exotic and obscenely expensive.”
“Obscenely expensive, indeed! You’re right about that. And quite exotic as well.”
“Then why drag T. S. Eliot to such a place?”
“In today’s age of conspicuous consumption, an invitation to this nightclub is worth a lot of face. Just to be invited is a recognition of one’s elite status. Those who are invited will definitely come. What’s more important, they are financially able to buy books—a lot of books. Rong promised to buy five hundred copies himself as an encouragement to others. Now, if the party were held somewhere appropriate, like a library, then some people might still come, but how many copies do you think they’d buy?”
It was an invitation to which Chen couldn’t say no, not when it involved five hundred presold copies of the book. The party was essential to book sales. Poetry couldn’t make anything happen in this age, but money always could.
Personal reasons were also contributing to Chen’s feeling that he couldn’t decline the invitation. It was his translation of Eliot that had first made him known among then-young readers, and it was under Eliot’s influence that Chen himself started writing.
“You owe it to Eliot to give a talk at this party,” Wuting concluded. “You don’t have to speak for very long. Ten to fifteen minutes will be more than enough.”
“When you put it that way, I don’t have any choice.”
Chen flapped the phone closed. Whatever reasons he might have for not going to the party were outweighed by his desire for the collection to succeed.
So he hurried back home to prepare for the talk he’d have to give at tonight’s party.
The more he worked on it, however, the more unsure he was about tonight’s event. At a bookstore, he’d have no problem holding the interest of the audience. Not so at the Heavenly World. What would the Big Bucks who showed up there want to know, particularly about a modernist poet like T. S. Eliot?
Also, he didn’t know how to dress for the occasion. Looking at his disheveled reflection in the mirror, he thought he’d better at least get his hair cut.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Oh, thank you so much, Chief Inspector Chen,” White Cloud said, recognizing his number. “I’ve just received your flowers.”
“Thank you for the invitation to your opening, White Cloud. My hearty congratulations, and my apologies too. Sorry to miss it—I wasn’t in Shanghai.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re always busy, traveling here and there. But it’s been such a long time. You may have forgotten what I look like.”
“How can that possibly be?”
“Then come see me at my salon.”
There seemed to be a subtle complaining note to her words. Did she think he’d been avoiding her? Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had been, for a number of reasons. It wouldn’t do a high-ranking police officer any good even to be seen in the company of White Cloud, given her background as a karaoke girl, let alone get entangled in a close relationship.
But now that he was no longer a cop, was he still going to worry about what people might think?
He put the question aside: right now, he had a more immediate agenda. White Cloud, in addition to helping with his hair, might also be able to tell him something more about the nightclub, since she moved in those circles.
“Drop by any time you like,” she repeated. “I’ll be here every day—and at your service.”
“I will. You’ve come a long way, White Cloud. The first time we met was at a salon, as I recall, and now you have your own salon.”
“You still remember, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I’m no longer a chief inspector, as you might have heard.”
“Mr. Gu has mentioned that, but so what? You’re still a Party cadre. If anything, you might have more time for yourself, and you’ll be able to do what you really want.”
“I hope so. In fact, there’s something I have to do this evening. A new volume including my translations of T. S. Eliot is coming out, and the publisher wants me to attend a book launch party at the Heavenly World.”
“A party for T. S. Eliot at the Heavenly World? That’s mind-boggling.”
“It really is, isn’t it? So let me ask you a question. What can you tell me about the nightclub?”
“Well, a lot of Big Bucks go there. There are a lot of high-ranking Party officials there too, but they usually keep a low profile. The officials, that is, not the Big Bucks. There are a lot of stories about the place, so many that it’s hard to know which, if any, are true.
“The owner is a middle-aged man named Shen, and he allegedly is connected to people both at the top of the Party and to people in the black way. He’s untouchable, and his customers don’t have to worry about police raids or anything like that. That’s why the elite are willing to pay so much for an evening at the Heavenly World. I’m told that there’s even a secret passage connecting the garage and the club’s most ‘private suite.’ So for those that really want privacy, they can get in without being seen. I can find more about it you if you like—”
“No, don’t worry about it. I don’t need any secret passage. I’m just going there for the poetry. But what’s the dress code?”
“The dress code is either formal or fashionable, but it doesn’t really matter to the upstarts who hang out there. They’re just like monkeys, wearing and doing the same thing as all the others. Though I will say that there’s no such thing as ‘too expensive’ for that crowd.”
“Thank you. That helps. You know what? I thought about coming by to get a haircut at your place, but then I realized I wouldn’t have enough time. I have to prepare a talk about Eliot for tonight’s party.”
“Come by any time you like. We have a number of well-trained hairdressers. Or, if you prefer, I’ll take care of you myself.”
He thanked White Cloud again for her help and they said their good-byes.
While there wasn’t time for a cut today after all, it might not be a bad idea to pay her a visit someday, he thought, as he put down the phone. Certainly before he officially started his new job and put in an appearance at the new office.
He picked up the phone and called the convenience store again, this time asking them to deliver the printed photos to his mother. It was already five thirty, and he wouldn’t have the time to take them to her himself.
Chen stared out the window and watched a lone bat flipping by, flying erratically. The light outside was getting dim.
FIVE
SHORTLY AFTER SIX, CHEN was sitting in the backseat of a taxi crawling along Wuning Road. Neon lights began appearing against the city’s night sky like stamps on a huge somber-colored envelope. He couldn’t shake off an uneasy feeling about the party at the Heavenly World.
“You’re going to Wuning Road near the Inner Ring?” the taxi driver said, looking
over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m going to a nightclub there.”
“Wow, the Heavenly World.”
Chen didn’t respond immediately. The notoriety of the club was a given, and he didn’t have to justify going there to the cabdriver. Chen looked out the window instead. The streets seemed to be continuously rediscovered in the ever-changing fantasies of neon lights.
“The cover charge alone is more than what I make in a month. You’re a rich man, sir.”
Shanghai taxi drivers could be either garrulous or grumpy. This one obviously belonged to the former group.
“I have no idea. I’ve never been there before.”
“Spring warm, flowers blossom. It’s a different world, that Heavenly World,” the driver went on. “You’ll enjoy yourself to the fullest.”
“Oh, I’m going there for business,” Chen said.
“Business, you say. And you’re no ordinary businessman, I say.”
Perhaps it was sarcasm on the part of the taxi driver. But the ex–chief inspector wondered if his long immersion in the system had left something recognizable in his look or his manner.
“I’m going to a book launch party there this evening. I’m a translator.”
“A book launch party there?” The driver sounded incredulous. “What will the girls do tonight—demonstrate all the positions in the Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor?”
“You’ve read some books,” Chen said, surprised. The Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor was sometimes compared to Kama Sutra, though to do so was to take the work grossly out of context.
“Whatever kind of a party it is, the place is untouchable. It’s connected with both the police bureau and the city government.”
Chen thought back on what he’d learned from White Cloud. Under Chinese law, organized according to what the government called “Socialism with Chinese characteristics,” prostitution was still forbidden. But customers at the Heavenly World didn’t have be wary of police raids.
“Money-intoxicated, gold-dazzled,” Chen said, thinking of two Tang lines: “Those Shang girls know nothing about the doom of the country, / still singing about the flower blossoming in the backyard.”
“The flower blossoming in the backyard—that’s so vivid, so true to life.”
“So true to life?”
“Come on. Don’t play dumb with me.” The driver chuckled with great gusto. “They will do anything for you, from the front, to the back—”
“Oh that—”
“The club is expensive for a variety of reasons. Not just because of the service in the front or back. Some of the girls there are said to be highly qualified: college educated, fluent in English or French, able to cry out in whatever language you fancy when they come.”
The taxi driver brought his monologue to a reluctant stop at the sight of a tall building topped with an elaborate neon sign that read, “The Heavenly World,” which was just beginning to flash nocturnal conspiracies against the corner of the sky.
Chen got out and noted one thing immediately: the hustle and bustle of the valet parking. The attendants in red uniforms seemed to know their customers well, nodding and greeting each one by name. All the cars that pulled up were luxury models, and Chen alone arrived in a taxi.
Wuting was waiting near the front entrance, with another middle-aged man dressed in a black suit and a red bow. He was beaming at Chen.
The red-bowed man reached out his hand. “Director Chen, I’m Rong Pan, your loyal fan. It’s a great honor for us to have you here.”
“Thank you for your generous support of literature, Rong. Wuting told me all about it.”
“Wuting may not have told you one thing, Director Chen. I began reading your translations as early as the mid-eighties. Oh, those were truly the good, golden years for literature.”
Rong was apparently aware of Chen’s new position, though that didn’t seem to have damped his enthusiasm.
“Let’s move inside,” Wuting said with a smile.
The book launch party was being held in a large hall with a banner stretched across overhead, bearing the name and portrait of T. S. Eliot. Chen wondered about the original function of the room, noting a colored poster near a closed door to the left.
In the middle of the hall stood rows of leather chairs. In front of the first row, there were some marble coffee tables, and further up, a cordoned-off area with a dais in the middle. To the right of the dais was a long table with piles of books stacked on it.
It turned out that Rong did know something about Eliot. Not only were copies of the new volume displayed around the room, but there were also several girls dressed up like cats scampering around, just like in the musical.
The party started off with a fairly long introductory speech from Rong, one full of Eliotic lines. He did bring up one interesting detail about how the English poet was the catalyst for a crucial change in Rong’s life.
“In those years, I would bring a copy of Director Chen’s translation of Eliot to bed with me every night. I dreamed of becoming a poet myself, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that, as a young college graduate, I had neither the time nor the money for poetry. One night, I happened to reread a paragraph in Director Chen’s preface. It talked about Eliot’s early career as a banker. Eliot became a banker because there is no money in poetry, but making enough money as a banker made it possible for him to write. This hit me like a bolt of lightening across a black sky. If Eliot could do that, then so could I. I took a job in a state bank and worked my way up, until eventually I left to start a private bank of my own. That part is a boring business story, which I don’t need to tell here. But it all came about because of T. S. Eliot. And because of Director Chen too.”
Applause broke out across the room. People put down their drinks and their cigarettes so they could clap.
“Time flies. This all happened so many years ago,” Rong said. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t make my way back to poetry, but through Director Chen’s masterful translation, I might be able to relive my old dream tonight.”
Rong’s likening his career path to Eliot’s seemed far-fetched. Eliot never earned much at the bank, and he never quit writing. Nonetheless, it probably made sense from Rong’s point of view. People interpret their own past however they want, seeing and believing their personal history through the perspective they’ve chosen.
It was now Chen’s turn to speak. The lights were dimmed, and after a brief silence, they were brought back up, as if Chen were onstage.
“Speaking as a translator of T. S. Eliot’s work, thank you, Mr. Rong. Or may I say, on behalf of T. S. Eliot?” Chen started with an awkward attempt at a joke, wondering to himself whether Eliot would have been amused at the book party.
He fumbled, struggling to find his rhetorical footing in this talk. With the exception of Rong, who kept nodding and grinning, there was barely any real response from the audience. As he looked around the room, Chen couldn’t help but think of some of the characters from Eliot’s poems. There was a red-faced, middle-aged man in the front row with a girl nestling against him like a pussycat, purring as his finger caressed her shoulder-length hair. A gray-bearded, cigar-chomping man in the back spilled red wine on his silk Tang dynasty costume, and another young girl dressed as a cat hurried over to lick up the wine. Spiraling cigarette smoke from all corners of the party began to spread out like a shroud over the room. Distracted by the tableau in front of him, Chen continued to stumble, make more mistakes, ultimately deciding to rush through to the conclusion of his speech.
As Chen stepped down from the dais, a well-known actor stepped up and started to read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” in a rich, self-possessed voice that was absurdly incongruous with the persona in the poem. In the dimming background, a mermaid floated out of nowhere, naked except for green gauze wrapped about her loins, and began dancing, moaning, singing, groaning …
“For me … for me…”
At the conclusion of the reading, Wuting sto
od up and announced, “Now it’s time to sign some books.”
To Chen’s astonishment, once this announcement was made the room was plunged into darkness. He could hear hurried movements about the room, like ragged claws scuttling across a sea floor.
When the lights came back on, the hall had been turned into a ballroom. Most of the chairs were folded up and leaning against the back wall; only the long table with stacks of the book on it remained unmoved. From the side of the ballroom came pouring in yet more attractive cat girls. Unlike in the musical itself, they were practically naked, covered mainly by body paint.
It was a bizarre scene. The girls were not singing, swirling, swaying in tight choreography as in the musical Cats. Instead, they were each dancing with various Big Bucks.
Once again, Rong stepped into the limelight and began addressing the crowd. “I still have a copy of Director Chen’s earlier translation. Someone on Confucius.com offered to purchase that cherished copy for one thousand yuan and, mind you, it’s not even a signed copy. Of course, I didn’t sell it. Here it is—the same life-changing poetry collection. I brought it with me tonight so I could ask Director Chen sign it for me. With his signature on this collectable item, it’ll be worth at least five times as much as before.” In one hand, he raised his copy of the older edition high. Then, with a flourish, he waved a check in his other hand. “And this is for five hundred copies of the new edition, all of which I’ll get signed. What a great investment!”
Wuting, all smiles, walked over next to Chen and whispered in his ear, “Confucius.com is an online site for rare and old books.”
“You don’t have to sign all of those copies tonight,” Rong said. “But if you could, please sign my personal copy now, Director Chen. Wuting, please send all the other copies to his home so he can sign them at his leisure.”