by Qiu Xiaolong
So five minutes later, he led Chen across the street, to the back room of the teahouse, which had once been a neighborhood hot-water shop. The owner, Mai, was in his early seventies, and he kept his business running in the hopes that if the old neighborhood was razed like so many others, he might get a large payoff as compensation. The back room consisted of nothing but a folding canvas bed for Mai’s napping needs, a table, and a couple of chairs. Old Hunter took over the back room by the simple expedient of pushing a ten-yuan bill into Mai’s hand. With the door shut, and a sign reading “Closed for Business” hung up front, the two ex-cops had their privacy, and their tea, if nothing else.
“The tea is not that good,” Old Hunter said with a self-depreciating chuckle, “but you can have all the hot water you want for free.”
“How is the PI business?” Chen asked, after taking a sip.
“Not too bad, but it’s nothing truly exciting. I’m doing it more to prove I’m still alive and kicking than anything else. I’ve read those mystery novels you translated. Those private investigators, Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, have real cases. But here, the profession itself exists only in the gray area—it’s not legally permitted in this socialist society of ours. According to the People’s Daily, if you have any problems, you’re supposed to go to the ‘people’s police.’ And they will take care of them for you. Unless your problems are something you can’t let the government know about, and therefore can’t go to the police for help with. Then you really have problems.
“In the final analysis, the cops work for the Party system, and private investigators work for their clients. That’s why even the term ‘PI’ is still taboo in the official media.
“That’s why it is necessary for our agency to operate under a different name. The sign at the office says, ‘Consulting and Investigating.’ Consulting covers a broad range of activities. We’re not licensed private investigators, but we’re not illegal either.
“In short, it’s like the names of those sex-service operations. You may call it a hair salon, a karaoke club, a foot-washing place, or whatever you like, as long as it’s not about what the place really does. Last year, I planned to attend a PI convention in Hangzhou, but at the last minute, the convention had to change its name and cancel most of the sessions. Internal Security was going to be there, so I changed my mind.
“Of course, I don’t have to tell you about these regulations. They are government-imposed, and then, as a consequence, self-imposed as well. One guideline we have in the office, we try not to accept cases involving Party officials. No matter what evidence we come up with, the authorities will never accept it. And Internal Security might come knocking on our door the very next day. The old proverb put it well; ‘All the ravens are equally black under the sun, and officials protect and shield one another.’”
“You’re a walking encyclopedia of proverbs, Old Hunter, but that one sums it up well.”
“We also can’t do anything if there’s an ongoing police investigation—or even if the official media just says there’s an investigation.”
“Well, Confucius says, there are things a man will do, and things a man will not do. There are things a PI can do—like change one or two words in the name to keep your agency open—and things a PI can’t do. But my question is, how can your agency manage to operate when it’s burdened with such a long ‘can’t-do’ list?”
“Exactly, Chief. It can be really tough. But it’s not my agency. I’m only a part-time helper, so I don’t think I have to—” Old Hunter caught himself abruptly. Why the sudden interest in the agency? He paused, then decided there was nothing wrong with describing the work in general terms. “Well, most of this industry is kept afloat by one particular lucrative niche market: you might not have a customer for three months, but then one customer might make you enough to keep going for three years.
“What’s that lucrative niche? Now, I don’t want to tantalize you as though I were a Suzhou opera singer. Simply put, it’s the old practice of cheater-catching. Particularly when the cheaters are Big Bucks. As another ancient proverb goes, ‘When you’re luxuriously fed and clad, you can’t help but dream lustfully.’” Old Hunter took a long, deliberate sip at the tea before going on. “There’s no need for a lecture about the national moral landslide—our premier used those words not long ago. Today’s Socialism with Chinese characteristics has room for many rich and powerful cheaters. Their wives spare no expense to save their marriages—or, failing that, to extract the maximum alimony from them in their divorce. So suspicious spouses are willing to pay us quite a handsome fee to bring them the evidence they need.”
“Tell me more about it, Old Hunter. You’re so experienced. As they say, older ginger is spicier. Zhang Zhang must depend on your expertise for these operations.”
“For that sort of business, the clients want you to go to these notorious sex-service places and watch, waiting with all the patience you can muster, and from time to time, pretend to enjoy foot-washing or hair-washing like an old idiot. It’s a shame that a retired cop has to resort to such, but to catch those red rats wallowing in money—millions and billions—it’s what you have to do. Naturally, just a picture of the cheater in the company of a girl—with both still dressed, if only barely—may not be enough proof. In those cases, you may have to install a hidden camera to get the photos that are required. We always do a careful risk assessment before taking a job. The fee may not be worth the trouble.
“Some wives know better than to bother if their husbands just have fun on the sly. As a proverb in Dream of the Red Chamber goes, ‘What cats are not keen on stealing fish?’ What those wives can’t stomach, however, are ernai—secondary concubines. If the husband is keeping a mistress with her own upscale apartment, paying for her expenses and all the luxuries on the side, well, that is too much. For cases like this, we have to go out of the way—”
“For wives to fight ernai?”
“Sometimes. Though it’s not just the out-of-favor wives who hire us: the ernai come to us for help, too. Unlike concubines in the pre-1949 era, Socialism with Chinese characteristics doesn’t acknowledge the existence of ernai or grant them any status. Once their men find younger, prettier replacement ernai, they will lose everything. To survive, they have to fight back by any means possible, even threatening and blackmailing their former lovers. That can be very effective, since official propaganda invariably portrays Party cadres as Communist saints. If photos and details were posted online, proving that a cadre kept a spicy ernai, that official would be removed from office, even disavowed.”
“I could work as a private investigator too!” Chen interjected.
“It’s a lot like those old detective movies from the thirties. The one difference is that you don’t have to carry around a bulky camera. You can take all the pictures you need with a light cell phone, all the while mumbling into it on and on, pretending to talk to someone. That way you don’t attract attention from anyone. Still, sometimes you have to wait patiently for hours, even days. And you have to know where to wait.”
“Where?”
“If the target is in one of the well-guarded apartment complexes, it’s useless to wait outside. You’re not going to be able to get inside, much less stand outside the bedroom door, waiting—”
“Hold on, Old Hunter. What if the cheating spouse is a Party official, but the fee is too good to decline?”
“Well, there might still be some room to maneuver.”
“How so?”
“In my day, the newspapers used to portray the Party cadres as good and honest with only the rare exception of a few rotten eggs. People believed that then, as did I. But now? There’s another saying in Dream of the Red Chamber: ‘Except for a couple of stone lions crouching in front of the mansion, nobody is clean.’”
“Another old saying that goes right to the point.”
“You know only too well all the propaganda regarding our Party officials and their role-model lives. But what are they
really up to in their secret lives? Little secretaries, ernai, concubines, three-accompanying girls, and whatnot.” Old Hunter paused, breathing into his mug, creating a series of expanding ripples on the surface of the tea, before he went on. “Some of the wronged wives or deserted ernai are so desperate for revenge, they don’t care how much it will cost. So our agency may occasionally accept some of them as clients. After all, there are many roads leading to Beijing. In such a case, we obtain evidence for them only on the condition that they agree to strict confidentiality. They even have to sign documents agreeing never to name the source.”
“But if the evidence goes public, wouldn’t the source eventually be identified?”
“You’ve investigated cases involving crowd-sourced Internet searches. Once the basic evidence is online, others see it and jump in, adding more information and pictures, until the evidence becomes overwhelming. Ultimately, the government has no choice but to investigate officially. A shrewd wife, however, wouldn’t necessarily put the evidence online immediately. She’d use it as a bargaining chip first. Her husband would know all too well that once it’s on the Internet, his political career is finished.
“To protect our agency, we usually keep a backup copy of the agreement stored in a secure place. If something happens to one or both of us, then the signed agreement will appear online as well,” Old Hunter said. He heaved a sigh, then changed the subject. “Now, you don’t go to the Three-Treasure Temple without praying for something. What’s on your mind, Chief Inspector? You don’t have to mince words like a singer in Suzhou opera.”
“Oh? Now I’ve become a Suzhou opera singer too?” Chen said good-naturedly.
Chen proceeded to tell Old Hunter about his being removed from the police department and about his “promotion,” and then about the events at the nightclub. He finished up by saying that he wasn’t entirely sure he was the intended target of the raid.
“I’m glad you came to me today,” Old Hunter said. “Yu hadn’t told me that this was going on at the bureau. But whatever new position they’ve moved you to, you’re still a high-ranking Party cadre.”
“But what will happen next? That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Soon I might have to start working as a private investigator, just like you.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, but what went on at the nightclub does worry me, Chief Inspector. Sorry, I should call you Director.”
“I wish I could tell you more about the raid, but that’s all I know right now. There’s another proverb you like to quote: ‘A desperately sick man will seek help from any doctor.’ Not that you aren’t a really good one.”
“You remember Pan Ming—” Old Hunter asked, looking up from his cup, “the former propaganda minister of the city?”
“Yes, he came to my mind as well. As I remember it, he got into political trouble in 1989 and was removed from his powerful position. He was then caught at a massage parlor and charged with an illegal sex act. That destroyed him publicly and ruined any possibility of his staging a comeback.”
“Exactly. You know the story, so I don’t have to say any more,” Old Hunter said. “Now, in my current job, I’m no stranger to nightclubs. I will go there and find out the information you need. You couldn’t find anyone more experienced for a job like that.”
“No, I don’t want you to go to the Heavenly World, Old Hunter. I thought about directly approaching Tang, the police officer I recognized in the raid, but that may alert the snakes.”
“You’re right to be cautious. But I can approach him for you. Tang is getting close to retirement age, and I know how to talk to him.”
“All right, but remember—you can’t be too careful.”
“I don’t think people will pay much attention to an old man like me. What could be suspicious about a retiree talking to a former colleague? But what’s your own next step, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m going to go to Suzhou to oversee the renovation of my father’s grave,” Chen said, with a wry smile. “I may even visit a Suzhou opera house, if I can find one.”
“It’s a good idea for you to lie low for a while. You can always come back to Shanghai as need be.”
“Yes, I can do that.” Chen added, as if in afterthought, “I’m also going to double-check some of the latest cases assigned to the Special Case Squad, particularly the cases that were sent to me just before I was transferred to this new job.”
“That’s right. Someone might have been determined to keep you from checking into a particular case.”
“The day my new position was announced, I happened to have with me electronic copies of the files on the dead pig case, and a case involving Shang’s son. But the other few case files are still at the bureau. I’ll go back to my old office in the police bureau in a day or two and pick them up.”
“I’ve heard about the dead pig scandal. It made a laughingstock of the Shanghai government. Thousands and thousands of dead pigs came floating down the Huangpu River in a scene imaginable only in Journey to the West. Living people and dead pigs both enjoying the same river, and the city government subsequently declaring that the river’s water quality is perfectly fine. What an absurd joke! But how did that come to be a case for your squad?”
“The city government wanted me, I think, to put up a convincing show of investigating that whole situation.”
“Of course. You’re known as a ‘good cop,’ so assigning you to investigate would show how serious the city government was. With so many scandals breaking out in our miraculous society, people will probably soon forget about that one. But what is this case about Shang’s son? Why is it such a big deal?”
“You know who Shang is, don’t you?”
“Of course. He was very popular in his day, back during the Cultural Revolution. He was known for singing the songs for a movie called Little Red Star. He must be quite old now, perhaps even my age, and probably long retired.”
“You haven’t been keeping up, Old Hunter. In fact, he’s been making frequent appearances on TV of late.”
“Really! Why?”
“You just mentioned that song from the movie. A red song. As the original singer, Shang is seen as embodying the revolutionary spirit. He’s being used in the current political campaign that encourages ‘singing red.’ He may have been pushed back into the limelight by others, but he’s definitely profited from it. Not too long ago, he was made a general—at least, in terms of cadre rank. And the other day, he claimed that when he sings that old red song, he becomes energetic. What a shameful lie.”
“I’m sure he welcomes being used by the Party. As the proverb says, ‘The one is anxious to slap, and the other is eager to be slapped.’ But what is the case that involves him?”
“After the Cultural Revolution, Shang married a young singer—she was more than twenty years younger than he—and they had a cute son, Little Shang, just like the little revolutionary in Little Red Star. For a while, Little Shang appeared to be growing up to be the red revolutionary teenager they expected him to be. About a year ago, however, he got into a car accident, and then savagely beat up the other driver. When police arrived, he started shouting, ‘My father is General Shang.’ The police officers hesitated, afraid to do anything to the son of a high-ranking cadre, but a passerby recorded the scene with his cell phone. When he uploaded the video online, it became an instant scandal. Before even that scandal blew over, Little Shang got into more trouble. He and some of his buddies dragged a young, drunk girl out of a bar. Took her to a hotel and gang-raped her.”
“That’s outrageous. Why haven’t I read anything about it?”
“It only happened a couple of weeks ago. But you’ll never read anything about it in the newspapers. The only place it’s being discussed is on the Internet. Someone even made a playlist of all the red songs Shang had sung, and paired them with pictures of him standing on various stages, accepting congratulations from Party leaders.”
“Like a bad apple, society is really rotten to t
he core,” Old Hunter said, shaking his head. “In those red songs, only the Communist Party can save China. No one can ever question it. Now, corruption has been exposed as being deep-rooted in the one-party system. People can’t help but be disillusioned and cynical.”
“Right before I was removed from my position at the police bureau, Shang’s son’s case was sent on to our squad. Quite possibly it was sent to us as a public example of the Party’s propriety, or as just another damage-control job. Or both.”
“I don’t know what to say, Chief Inspector. Today’s China is beyond my understanding,” Old Hunter said, draining his tea. “Perhaps I’m meant to be just a private investigator. I’ll get Tang talking and see what I can find out for you.”
EIGHT
THE NEXT DAY, CHEN made his way back to Suzhou and the cemetery with his father’s grave. This time, he brought with him a hardcover book.
It was a study of neo-Confucianism written by his father and published posthumously just last year. The publication quite possibly had something to do with Chen’s then-position as chief inspector and rank as a Party cadre. Now it was his mother’s request that, once the renovation of his father’s grave was complete, the book be buried in the casket.
There had been almost a supernatural aspect to his first trip to Suzhou, Chen reflected. Because he went to visit his father’s grave, because he decided that he needed to have his father’s grave restored and renovated, and because he took pictures of the grave and sent them to his mother, he’d gotten a call from his mother while he was at the nightclub. All these things seemed to be connected through the inexplicable links of yin and yang, as if guided by an invisible hand.
Had he told his mother about what happened at the nightclub when he stepped out to return her call, she would have declared that he’d been protected by his late father. It seemed the least he could do to return the favor was to pay personal attention to the restoration. The trip might also serve as a signal to anyone who might be trying to ruin him that the ex–chief inspector had given up, and instead of trying to fight back he was simply keeping himself busy among the graves in Suzhou. Providing them with a sideshow wouldn’t hurt, whether they believed it or not.