by Qiu Xiaolong
“Continue to sing every Tuesday as before, but during the rest of the week, you can work as a hostess and get paid accordingly. You’ll also get free food and board, and a bonus whenever you sing for customers by special request.”
To Qian, Suzhou opera could not have sunk lower. But the rapidly rising rent in the city already took more than half of the money she earned. She had no choice but to move into the restaurant—eating leftovers in the kitchen and sleeping on the hard tables after the restaurant closed late at night.
About a week after starting her new role, she was told that there would be a group of distinguished Western tourists interested in Suzhou opera coming in that evening and that she had to do her best. That evening turned out to be a huge success. Articles covering it appeared in several newspapers, some with pictures, and among the tourists was a well-known American sinologist who spoke highly of the Shanghai government’s efforts to support the local dialect opera. For Kang, publicity like that meant more profit.
For her, however, it was more about a man whom, for the moment, she would call S. He was the one who arranged for the Western tourist group to visit the restaurant, initially as a gesture of support for the traditional art. He was in a position to make decisions for the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office, and he arranged for several groups to come in quick succession.
In S., she saw “someone who understands the music,” an echo from the traditional romantic stories celebrated in Suzhou opera. And S. saw her as “the youthful, vivacious embodiment of the ancient art,” as he told her one evening after her performance. In him, she thought she’d discovered hope for a revival of Suzhou opera. He had the power to make impossible things possible. Because of the groups of foreign tourists who came to the Suzhou opera at the restaurant, and the coverage of it in the media, the opera started to attract some younger people.
All of this happened during a vulnerable time for her. She’d been in Shanghai for nearly a year, with very little to show for it. Her grandma had passed away back in Suzhou, worrying on her deathbed about her granddaughter. Qian was starting to wonder if there was any point in struggling any longer.
That was when S. stepped into the restaurant, and then, into her life. He brought with him flowers, red envelopes, and promises to make her a star in the revival of Suzhou opera. He was generous, though he might not have had to worry about the money, since it was all done under the cover of government business. He told her that he and his wife were separated and that they had filed for divorce. It wasn’t long before he arranged for her to move into a furnished apartment in Xujiahui. He even managed to secure her a “research subsidy for Suzhou opera,” which would be conducted under aegis of the Shanghai Foreign Liaison office.
What happened between the two of them seemed to be one of those old, yet always new, stories.
He told her that she didn’t have to perform anymore—she didn’t need the money, but she still went to the restaurant once a week. He was a busy official, so when he wasn’t around, she worked on recording the CD of Tang poems as part of her research into Suzhou opera.
But that phase of the relationship didn’t last very long. While S. tolerated her continuing to perform, he no longer brought foreign groups to the restaurant. He said that some people were already starting to gossip, and it was getting difficult to see her as much as he would have liked.
So he proposed that she move back to Suzhou. There he would visit her whenever possible, and they wouldn’t have to worry about being recognized. He bought an apartment for her there, and instead of a research subsidy through his department, he gave her a monthly allowance. Suzhou had more important appeal for her: she still had her position in the opera ensemble, and she hoped she might be able to do something more for the opera there. Not to mention the fact that she would be closer to her parents.
She accepted the seemingly reasonable arrangement, but she soon realized that it was something else entirely. He cared for his career more than he cared about anything else, and he wasn’t exactly separated from his wife, who was in the United States with their son while he attended private school. But what could an ex–Suzhou opera singer do? Still, Suzhou held something unexpected for her—a new Suzhou opera club, whose members were devoted fans, and to which she was a welcome addition.
Then she started to notice that S. had changed. He didn’t seem to be that crazy about her anymore. One evening, he even joked that when she was singing in her mandarin dress in Shanghai, she was animated with an irresistible glow, but here in Suzhou, she looked like any ordinary Suzhounese.
Shortly afterward, she found out that he had a new conquest in Shanghai, who was apparently younger and prettier. Qian was devastated by the realization that he’d sent her back to Suzhou to get her out of the way. Yet he still continued to come see her, though less and less, and to provide for her just as handsomely as ever.
Another devastating blow came from her parents. Initially, they were confused by the fact that she’d come back to Suzhou without a job, yet with very comfortable means. When they found out about the ernai arrangement with S., they refused to step into her apartment again.
Then an opportunity presented itself. The American professor who’d been part of the first group led by S. offered her a spot in his university’s Asian studies program. He even offered her a tuition waiver, so that all she’d need would be the money to support herself. He suggested she could support herself by giving performances, but she doubted there would be enough Suzhou opera fans in the local Chinese community.
So she approached S. He was going to get rid of her anyway, this could be a kind of severance pay, she supposed. To her surprise, S. was furious. He thought that once she was out of China, she would start talking and damage his career. He forbade her from pursuing the opportunity any further and, through his connections, had her travel permit rescinded.
“Things can’t go on like this,” she concluded, switching back to the first person. “I was considering starting over in another country when we met near the cemetery.”
She spoke in an amiable, soft Suzhou dialect, as if this were some sort of a theater performance.
Whether she was a reliable narrator or not, he wasn’t sure. There was probably some self-justification woven into her story. Still, her story was probably not that different from those of other ernai, with the exception of her passion for Suzhou opera. If for no other reason than that, she deserved help.
He saw a parallel with his own passion for poetry, except that he was far more realistic.
She went on with a catch in her voice, “He only sees the new one laugh, / but hears not the old one weep.” It sounded like another Tang couplet.
“He’s not worth it,” he said. “Start over, but start over here—and start over for yourself.”
“It’s not that I haven’t tried. But since my only skill is singing, it’s difficult to find a real job in Suzhou. Besides, people have already started telling stories about me. So the prospect of studying abroad is very tempting.”
“It’s tough,” he said, nodding.
“If only things could be just like when we first met—” Qian resumed.
It could be quote from a poem by Nalan Xingde, with a subtle intertextual allusion to a Han dynasty imperial concubine who compared herself to a silk fan that, once used, was forgotten, the memories of her first meeting with her lord now dust-covered.
As compelling as her story was, however, it was disappointing. He’d hoped that she’d be able to help him find out more about the Heavenly World.
“So you want to divorce him—” He cut himself short. She wasn’t even the man’s wife, and he was disturbed by the possibilities of who the man might be.
“No, I just want him to let me go, with or without financial help. But he says that if I try to leave him, he’ll have me crushed like a bug.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to gather evidence that will derail his career. It’s only with that kind of i
nformation that I can even hope to negotiate with him.”
“I see.”
“The new woman in Shanghai—”
“You have met her?”
“No, but she called him one night while he was with me in Suzhou. I checked his cell phone while he was sleeping, and I got her name and number.”
“That’s something to start with.”
“Whatever evidence you get, try to make sure it’s as graphic as possible.”
“But what are you going to do with this so-called evidence? If he’s a high-ranking official, none of the official media will publish it.”
“Now that the Internet exists, there’s no point in bothering with the People’s Daily.”
That was exactly what Old Hunter had told him. Her plan could work.
In a determined voice, she said, “Even in the worst-case scenario, where the fish dies and the net breaks, I’ll still have my freedom.”
“Because of his position at the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office,” Chen said, “he might have special agents working under him. I’ll have to move carefully, but I’ll definitely look into it for you.”
“Great,” she said, taking out her checkbook.
“No, I don’t know how far I’ll be able to proceed, so I can’t take your money now.” After a pause, he continued. “But I have a question for you. Do you know anything about the nightclub attached to my hotel?”
“Southern Heavenly World?” she said. “He took me there one evening. I don’t know why men are so crazy about it.”
“You mentioned that it’s affiliated with the Heavenly World in Shanghai and that you have a former colleague who works at that one.”
“Yes. Why are you so interested? You’re working on a case for another client, aren’t you?”
He nodded without responding. It was a reasonable guess—he was pretending to be a PI, after all.
“Yes, one of my colleagues ended up working there. I can make some calls for you.”
“That would be great. I’d really appreciate it.”
“But, back to my case. You should at least let me cover your expenses.”
“Don’t worry about it. You are doing me a favor, so it’s only fair that I do one for you. Now, about the new woman in Shanghai; you gave me her basic info last time we met, but I’m afraid I don’t have it with me.”
She scribbled the woman’s name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper.
“One last thing. I’ll contact you whenever I need to speak with you. But don’t try to contact me at the hotel,” he said, writing down his new cell phone number. “If anything, call this number and this number alone. That’s very important. And don’t call me unless it’s an emergency and you absolutely have to speak to me. Otherwise, I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
ELEVEN
DETECTIVE YU WAS HURRYING home. He’d gotten a phone call from Peiqin, who had received a phone call from Old Hunter.
The old man had gotten straight to the point with his daughter-in-law, quite unlike his usual Suzhou Opera Singer self. He complained to her about how difficult it was to get hold of Yu these days. In response, Peiqin invited him to come over for dinner that evening. Old Hunter accepted the invitation with an enigmatic comment.
“Good idea. Your three-cup chicken is delicious. The fried mini buns near the agency are not too bad, but you can’t have them every day. By the way, an old friend of mine, who recently lost his job, speaks highly of your cooking skills too, and even quotes a poem about it.”
What Old Hunter had said was unusual, particularly the part about the mysterious old friend, so Peiqin had dialed Yu immediately. Half an hour later, Yu arrived home, having almost run there, arriving even before Old Hunter.
“Old Hunter’s no gourmet,” Yu said, still short of breath. “A cup of strong tea is about all he needs. I think I know which old friend he was talking about.”
“Yes, the friend who recently lost his job,” Peiqin said. “Also, the old man was calling from a new number.”
“You mean a new cell phone number?”
“That’s right.”
Yu lit a cigarette. For once, instead of saying anything about it, Peiqin walked over to the stove.
Pouring a small cup of sesame oil into the wok, she started on the three-cup chicken by frying the chopped chicken. As it fried, she set up a cup of yellow rice wine, a cup of soy sauce, and a pinch of fresh basil on the kitchen counter.
Yu tried to help, clumsily, without much success. His mind kept wandering back to the conversation he had with Party Secretary Li back at the bureau.
Just the day before, Li had snapped at him, even threatening to remove Yu from his position when the latter questioned him about Chen’s being removed from the bureau without notice. But then this afternoon, Li talked to Yu like an amiable Party secretary again. After a bit of small talk about the recent work of the Special Case Squad, Li came around to the point, telling him that the decision to remove Chen and to promote Yu to the head of the Special Case Squad had come entirely from the higher authorities. As far as Li was concerned, the promotion was long overdue. Even Chen himself had suggested it several times.
“The decision was unknown to us until the morning it was announced,” Li said emphatically. “I had no choice but to read it word by word. Some people might have different interpretations of what the higher authorities intended with this decision. Have you heard any, Detective Yu?”
“No. I’ve been overwhelmed with the squad’s caseload, particularly with Chen gone, and Jia away on vacation, and…”
“Has Chen spoken to you lately?”
“Only once, when he was on a cemetery bus to Suzhou. I tried to discuss the open cases with him, but like a filial son, he talked about nothing but his guilt over not having visited his father’s grave in years.”
“How did he sound to you?”
“A bit low. But that’s natural for one on a Qingming trip.”
“Did he mention anything about what he’s planning to do?”
“That would be too personal a topic.”
“No, I mean what he plans to do once he starts his new position.”
“Nothing that I recall.”
“Nothing?” the Party secretary asked, with a suggestion of seriousness in his voice. “You have to take the correct attitude, Comrade Detective Yu. As a Party member and the head of the Special Case Squad, you must trust the Party authorities. In today’s society, things can be complicated. Whatever Chen might have said to you or whatever information he might have given to you, you know what you should and shouldn’t do.”
“Of course, Party Secretary Li. I’ll report to you if there’s anything new. The position as head of the squad is difficult, with a lot of new responsibilities unknown and uncharted. I’ll look to move forward under your guidance.”
“You’re an old hand in our bureau. With Chen gone, there’s nobody but you to help yourself. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, Party Secretary Li. I’ll keep every word of yours in mind.”
It was a talk in which Yu had decided not to give anything anyway, speaking only in respectful yet empty phrases. Li should have known better than to try to get him to reveal anything about the ex–chief inspector.
To Detective Yu, Chen was not just a partner or a boss but also a friend. What was more, Chen represented what Yu believed a cop should be. For that reason in particular, Yu was deeply disturbed by Chen’s removal.
It was puzzling that, at this juncture, Chen chose to keep himself busy with the renovation of his father’s grave, alone in Suzhou. Though it wasn’t the first time that the ex–chief inspector had behaved in such an enigmatic way.
Chen had made no attempt to discuss the dire situation with Yu. Instead, Chen had contacted Old Hunter. Chen’s reasoning wasn’t difficult to figure out: as a retired cop, Old Hunter wasn’t under scrutiny.
“A penny for your thoughts
,” Peiqin said, slicing the thousand-year egg with a thread for a cold dish. Another cold dish—tofu mixed with sesame oil and green onion—would be prepared once the guest arrived. “Thinking about the trouble your boss is in?”
Yu was indeed thinking about just that, though he had no clue what kind of trouble Chen had landed in.
“He’s my friend,” he said.
“Our friend,” Peiqin said echoing. “And Old Hunter’s too. But your father said very little on the phone.”
“He’ll tell us more this evening.”
“What will happen to Chen, no one knows. Still, it might not be bad for him to start all over. He’s not happy. As a Party-member chief inspector, he’s a product of the system. He tries to make a difference but is that even possible?”
* * *
When Old Hunter finally appeared, the table was set with dainty cold dishes and tiny porcelain cups. Yu poured a cup of tea for him. Peiqin hurried to the stove, lifting the wok lid, adding a handful of chopped green onion and then drops of sesame oil to the slightly browned chicken.
“The three-cup chicken smells irresistible,” Old Hunter said as Peiqin opened a bottle of yellow rice wine.
Raising his cup, Yu lost no time asking questions of Old Hunter. For once, the retired cop answered in a straightforward way. Without dwelling on his meeting with Chen, he launched into a detailed account of his meeting with Tang.
“That’s about all Tang could tell me,” Old Hunter concluded, “but he may be able to find out more soon.”
“Tang has no idea that you’re making inquiries for Chen’s sake?”
“No, I don’t think so. He doesn’t even know that the target at the club was Chen.”
“But he knows that Yu is a friend of Chen?” Peiqin cut in, pouring more wine for Old Hunter.
There was no answer to that. Old Hunter stared at a slice of the thousand-year egg, which was shining darkly, like a mystery covered in minced golden ginger.
Their conversation shifted to Chen’s stay in Suzhou.