by Qiu Xiaolong
***
Late that evening, a sealed package was express-delivered to Chen at home. No one had told him about such a package. He looked it over in puzzlement. The young, bean-sprout-thin courier refused to tell him the name of the sender.
“No, I can-can-not say,” the courier stammered, his face as scarlet as a cooked shrimp. “My customer is strict about it.”
“That’s fine,” Chen said, putting a rumpled ten-yuan bill into his hand. “Thank you.”
Closing the door after him, Chen opened the envelope only to have a bunch of pictures fall onto the table.
They were pictures of An in a variety of scandalizing poses with a man. Chen took in a sharp breath. One of her drying herself with a white towel, her bare ass like two shining moons, the man sitting on the edge of a bed, his hand reaching out to her breasts. Another of her throwing her naked body across the bed strewn with pear blossom petals. In still another, the two were sitting up in bed, her bare shoulders flashing out of the blanket, reading, leaning against his… The pictures were not of high quality- most of them were out of focus. Possibly taken by a hidden camera in a hotel room.
Whoever the man in the pictures was, it was not Han. Moving the lamp over, Chen took a closer look at the clandestine lover. A tall, gaunt, middle-aged man with gray-streaked hair. There was a mole noticeable above the left corner of his mouth. Chen did not recognize him.
Chen was no moralist. In the mid-nineties, an extramarital affair was no longer seen as something corrupt or scandalous. Not in An’s circumstances. In spite of a story of success with fame, family, beauty, and her own company too, he sensed her loneliness behind the glittering façade.
Exquisite as jade,
she cannot compete with the autumn crow flying
overhead, which still carries the warmth
from the Imperial Palace…
It was understandable that there was some other man in her life. Or men. Chen did not want to judge, though he could not help feeling slightly depressed.
He could guess who had sent those pictures. He had talked about An with Gu alone. The shrewd businessman hadn’t promised anything specific, but the man in the pictures was no ordinary man. So here came the message: a potential lead in the romance. The sender chose to remain anonymous-for good reason.
It was a quiet evening. He pushed open the window and the air seemed instantly filled with the message of the early summer. One cicada started screeching in the foliage, and then a group of them followed in chorus. Still, Chief Inspector Chen did not see the necessity of approaching An in the name of the special investigation. Not immediately.
He returned to her file on the desk. In addition to her TV show and business, she had recently published a book based on her interviews of celebrities. Judging from the reviews, the book provided some interesting anecdotes as well as a number of photos. Popular because of people’s interest in the celebrities. Chen had purchased a copy and skimmed it-there was no need for him to read it through. In those pictures, An looked elegant, professional, in sharp contrast to those in the package.
Jotting down some notes on a piece of paper, he picked up the phone.
“Hi, I want to speak An.”
“Who is it?”
“Chen Cao, your old friend.”
“Oh, it’s you, our famous detective,” An said with a surprise of recognition in her voice. “What has made you call this evening?”
“Your book, I’ve just read it,” he said, “and I’ve looked at your pictures too. So stunningly beautiful, all the geese and fish would dive out of your sight in self-consciousness.”
“Come on, Chen. You’re not calling to make fun of me like that.”
“No, I’m not. People buy the book like crazy because they like you so much. And count me in, one of your greatest fans.”
“Well, that I do not know. You must have long forgotten about me.”
“How could that be? I’ve been busy, as you know, but I kept seeing you on TV and I grabbed the book as soon as I heard about it.” He added emphatically, “I like your prose style.”
“You really do?”
“Definitely. So let me buy you dinner, An, in celebration of your literary success.”
“You’re overwhelming me tonight, Chief Inspector Chen. When?”
“How about tomorrow evening?”
“Fantastic. I know a restaurant, Golden Island. Still quite new. Not too many people go there, but it’s excellent. On the Bund.”
“ Golden Island. I’ve heard of it too. On the Bund. You’ll sign the book for me, won’t you?”
“I would love to. I’ve been thinking about interviewing you for my show.”
“It would be a great honor for me. On your show, in your scarlet cheongsam, you have always reminded me of Li Bai’s ‘Qingping Tune.’ ‘The clouds eager to make I your dancing costume, the peony, I to imitate your beauty, the spring breeze I touching the rail, the petal I glistening with dew-’ “
“Cut it out, Chen,” she said with a giggle. “You’re being hopelessly romantic.”
“See you at the restaurant.” He added, imitating her tone, “See me on TV.”
“Oh, you still remember that.”
See me on TV was a phrase she had used years earlier. It was a little flirtatious on her part, then. Still a little flirtatious on the phone, now.
The way he talked shouldn’t have alerted anyone. He was notorious for quoting poetry, and perhaps for being romantic too.
She’d better not be prepared for the evening.
6
GOLDEN ISLAND WAS ONE of the new restaurants on the Bund.
For most Shanghainese, the Bund still constituted one of the most glamorous areas in the city, with its picturesque waterfront and the magnificent buildings stretching along Zhongshan Road. In Chen’s childhood, most of these buildings, though in government use then, were seen as evidence of the imperialist exploitation, for they had housed prestigious Western companies in the pre-1949 era. In the nineties, the city government had released those buildings to the original or new Western companies. Consequently, high-end restaurants reappeared around the area.
Golden Island was popular not only because of its location but also because of its architectural design. The swelling restaurant had been converted from the original rooftop of an old business building, with ceilings, tall windows, and walls added on a modern note.
As Chen stepped out of the elevator, a young waitress came over to him. “Have you made your reservation, sir?”
“Under the name of An or Chen.”
“Oh, Miss An has already reserved a special room. Lovers’ Nest, please.”
“Oh-”
He had heard of the Lovers’ Nest. While the main dining hall did not look so different from other restaurants, across the entrance, on the side overlooking the Bund, stood a row of cubicles named Lovers’ Nest, well-known among young people. He had learned about them from White Cloud.
It was a tiny room, with only two bench seats inside, a wood table in between, and hardly enough space for two to dine without accidentally touching each other. Lovers might not mind that, though. The windows boasted a broad view of the Bund with the vessels moving along the river, and those sitting by the window would enjoy a sensation of being up above the crowd.
It was surprising that she had reserved such a room, but nonetheless a good choice, considering what they were going to talk about. He took his seat and noticed that there was a “do not disturb” sign available on the table.
“You can put the sign outside the door,” the waitress said with a knowing smile. “We will knock before coming in.”
While he waited for An, he took a picture out of a large envelope. He had accomplished only one thing that day-the identification of the middle-aged lover in those pictures. He was Jiang Xiaodong, the Director of the City Land Development Office. It was a relatively new position and not exactly a big fish in terms of the cadre rank, but it was a crucial position in terms of the pr
operty market. Especially to the locusts of real estate developers. Now Ming’s use of An’s PR company made perfect sense. Of course, Jiang might not be the only one behind the scenes. Chen put the picture back into the envelope and picked up the menu.
Chen did not have to wait long. Halfway through looking at the menu, he heard a light knock, and he looked up to see An entering with a familiar smile. It was as if they had never fallen out of touch all these years.
She wore the same scarlet silk cheongsam, high-slitted, sleeveless, and an elegant pearl necklace shimmered around her neck. The dress clung to her body like caresses, hugging her sensual curves as she moved. She looked barely changed from their reading-group days.
“The room is lit by your presence,” he said, standing up.
“The room is great because of a great man like you,” she said, holding out her hand. “So now we have had our exchange of literary compliments.”
Hers, too, sounded like an echo from a classical essay. An was a popular anchor woman not merely because of her pretty face: she also spoke in a cultured manner.
There was another knock on the door. The young waitress came in and lit the candle in a glass bowl. It added a romantic touch to the occasion. She then placed a bottle of Dynasty on the table and uncorked it for them.
“Compliments of the house.”
He shook the glass, sipped at it, and made a gesture of approval.
The candlelight flickered on their faces. The dancing flame carried Chen back to the old days of their passion for reading literature. Now, he joined her in reading the menu instead. The restaurant claimed to have invented a new Shanghai cuisine, which, according to a brief introduction on the front page, consisted of a combination of other cuisines, subtly modified to a taste acceptable to the city. A Sichuan dish was made less spicy, or a Ningbo dish, less salty.
“When it is everything,” Chen commented, “it is nothing.”
“How about lovers’ table d’hôte? It contains all of our chef’s specials. It will be a dinner you two cannot forget,” the waitress recommended.
Not a bad idea, he thought, and it saved him from taking the time to choose. The two resumed their talk. It was the first time they had ever been alone together for a dinner. The cubicle felt like a sampan room. The river came to life under their gaze, as the neon lights formed and transformed fantastic patterns.
He was not in a hurry to question her. They would at least enjoy some of the meal first. While he might not have much to say about himself, he found it not at all difficult to listen to her story. Perhaps with the unexpected reunion, with the wine, with the scene spreading outside the window, she would grow sentimental.
Hers wasn’t a new story, not the personal part of it, which he had already learned from other sources. Narrated from her perspective, though, it sounded nonetheless tragic, albeit ordinary.
“Han says that he will not come back without success. When? God alone knows. But for my mother, who takes care of our son, I couldn’t have managed these years all by myself,” she said wistfully. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on him.”
The color of the fresh willow shoots out there
precipitates her into regret:
She should not have sent him away,
so far away, going after success.
She couldn’t be blamed for being such a celebrity, but her husband’s dilemma wasn’t difficult to understand-it was hard to have such a well-known wife. Still, it was not for Chen to judge who was responsible for her failed marriage. Deep in his heart, he guessed there was something parallel in his life-a peg, a string-he didn’t want to touch at the moment.
“Thank you for telling me all this,” he said. “Indeed, every household has a difficult account. Look at me. Still a bachelor, about which my mother worries all the time. I wish we could all be back in the days of our reading group.”
“No need to be too hard on yourself,” she said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “The past is past, but we still have the future in our hands.”
A clever remark, echoing perhaps another book they had read together in the group.
“Gather the flower while you may,” he said, taking a drink, “or you have only a barren twig in your hand.”
“Exactly.” She then tried to make him talk about his work, which he managed to evade.
“You’re not that unfamiliar with the official world, An. Nothing but sordid details. I don’t think we should spoil the evening with those things. On the other hand, you have a PR company. It’s a huge success, I’ve heard. Tell me more about it.”
“How long do you think I can work as an anchorwoman, Chen?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a star-making age. As a woman, how long can I remain attractive to the public? I have to be realistic. Several people have been coveting my position at the TV station, and you should see them-younger, and much prettier too. In the entertainment industry, new young faces come along every year. Xie Donghong at CCTV, you know, is only in her midtwenties, and with an MBA degree from an American university.”
“But you have so many loyal fans who watch you every night. I’m one of them.”
“Come on, Chen. A man may blossom in his forties, but a woman goes downhill in her thirties. I’m thirty-seven. It is a fact I have to acknowledge,” she said, gazing into the wine, as if in search of her own reflection. The early summer evening spread peacefully outside the window, while autumn waves rippled in her eyes. “But you are different, a rising star in the political world.”
It reminded him of two lines of a poem-As always, a general is like a beauty, / there’s no seeing a white hair. In China ’s new cadre policy, age became a crucial criterion. He was lucky, but he had better seize the moment too.
“The car, the apartment, and the new boarding school for my son, all these I have to pay for,” she went on. “Do you think my state company salary is enough? I have to earn money for the future of my son, if not for myself.”
There was real worry in her voice. Spoiled by her success, she might not be able to envision the life of an ordinary woman. It wasn’t something she had planned, but it wasn’t something she could help, he understood.
“I know what you mean. I have to do translation to make up for my bureau salary.”
“Besides, I have to keep myself busy. Because of my working schedule at the TV station, and my son studying away at school, I am all alone when I come back,” she said, taking a sip of the wine. “One or two solitary evenings may not be too bad, but-”
“You are multitalented,” he said, in an effort to change the topic. “You have so many fans of your show. Now you have so many clients for your PR company.”
“It’s nothing but connections,” she said. “You can do it too. In fact, you can help me a lot.”
Was she going to include him as one of her connections? If so, she would talk more freely.
“Well, you never know,” he said.
“Heaven and Earth of Connections. That’s the name of another PR company, my biggest rival in the city. The company owner is the son of an ex-politburo member. All he needs to do is to make phone calls to important people, ‘Hi, Uncle, my father asks about you,’ or ‘Oh, Aunt, I’ve just talked to my father about you,’ and he then slips in a few words for his clients. These ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’ are in powerful positions, capable of making decisions. So he charges for the calls-”
Abruptly Chen felt something moving in his pants pocket-throbbing. His cell phone began vibrating instead of ringing. He must have accidentally pressed a button. As he took it out, the caller hung up. He was clumsy with the new gadgets and he fumbled with it a bit, unsure how to restore the ringing function.
She took the phone from his hand, pushed a few buttons, and it rang with a pleasant tune he had never heard before.
“Thank you so much.” He refrained from asking how she’d done it. To her, he must have appeared awkward enough.
The lovers’
table d’hôte started to arrive. First, the cold dishes. One was salted cucumber skin in green rolls, crisp and clear. Another presented red shiny dates steamed with sticky rice stuffed inside. Not only sweet, it was also sensual in its color suggestion, the soft white rice inside the scarlet date skin. It took enormous imagination to invent this small wonder-like something from The Dream of the Red Chamber.
“Scarlet and white, as in a classical Chinese love poem,” An said. “People call the dish ‘your soft heart.’”
She seemed to be at home. Possibly a regular customer in the company of Jiang, or of some high-ranking officials. After the limelight, after the wine, she must have found it hard to turn back to those old days. A company of hers would ensure the luxurious lifestyle she enjoyed. There was perhaps nothing wrong with it in this materialistic time, he admitted.
She drank a little, set the glass on the table, and held a scarlet date between her red lips, her white teeth glistening in an amorous way. There was a subtle, mature voluptuousness about her. She must have sensed his glance, her eyes mirroring the response in his imagination.
According to one of his favorite poets, what might have been points to infinite possibilities. Years earlier, this could have been a most wonderful night, with two of them sitting together there, wrapped in a cocoon of intimacy, ready to burst into unknown realities. But time flies. People change. It was an evening for police investigation. He could not help it. The way he could not help being Chief Inspector Chen.
Another knock on the door. The waitress sent in more dishes. It turned out to be a feast of delicious nostalgia, in tune with the latest trend of the city. He was particularly impressed with the Old Subei Chicken Soup, which smelled rich and pleasant with a subtle flavor of wistfulness. Its very name sounded like a call for a bygone era. Another call was the Granny Pork in the small urn with the shining homely color of brown soy sauce. As in a granny’s traditional home cooking style, the pork had been fried and then steamed for such a long time that it melted on their tongues.