by Qiu Xiaolong
Zhao was a man in his early or mid-seventies, white-haired and browed with a ruddy complexion. Dressed in a silk Tang costume, he looked well preserved and spirited for his age. He showed Chen to a sofa and seated himself opposite in a hardback mahogany chair.
“I apologize for not having called for an appointment, Comrade Zhao. Chairman Huang of the Writers’ Association told me that you had come to Shanghai,” Chen said. “I tried to call you, but without success. I have to leave for the United States tomorrow.”
“I have heard about your upcoming trip,” Zhao said. “I was thinking of calling you too. Phone calls have kept coming in.”
“You are on vacation here, I understand, but I have to report my work to you.”
“You have made your reports,” Zhao said, handing a cup of tea over to him. “A leading comrade in Beijing has discussed your work with me. I have said to him, I think, what you are probably going to say to me. So we may spare some repetitions.”
“Oh, a leading comrade in Beijing.” Chen was disturbed by the appearance of an unidentified “leading comrade in Beijing.” Whoever it might be, the discussion and decision must have been made at a higher level than the Writers’ Association.
“While we’re well aware of the urgency of your investigation, he did not think it would matter for you to be away for a couple of weeks.”
“It’s only a couple of weeks, but in the middle of an anticorruption case under the Party Discipline Committee-under you?” Chen said. “There are so many writers qualified for the position.”
“That is for the Writers’ Association to decide,” Zhao said with a smile, producing a folder out of the desk drawer. “As for the battle against corruption, it will be a long one. Let me show you something I have been working on.”
It was a draft on ethical regulations for Party officials. Zhao started by giving a comprehensive definition of corruption. The regulations forbade Party cadres from using their position to obtain improper benefit, to conduct business on their own account, to convert public property into private, to use their powers or influence to help others, to receive above-standard official treatment, to convert public facilities for private use…
“Corruption, especially within the Party cadres, is one of the most serious problems facing China today,” Comrade Zhao said, his silver hair shining like a dream in the sunlight. “People complain about corruption being institutional or a result of the one-Party system, and about absolute power leading to absolute corruption. I think that’s too simplistic. But we have to deal with the problem in an institutional way. We cannot content ourselves with one or two isolated investigations. As a relatively new system, China ’s socialism may experience all sorts of bumps along its way. We should never lose our faith in it.”
“Yes, we have to come to the root of the problem,” Chen echoed, choosing to say little. Some had been talking about his being too liberal. But would such a Party document prove to be the solution? A few conscientious Party cadres, like Judge Bao of the Song dynasty, might follow the regulations. Only there was no guarantee. Neither institutional nor legal guarantee. After all, the Party Discipline Committee had to serve the ultimate interests of the Party.
Chen started to feel irritated with the direction of the talk. He hadn’t come here for a lecture, one day before his trip, two days after An’s murder, and in the middle of an investigation that was reaching a crisis point. For all he knew, he had gotten on somebody’s nerves, which had led to An’s death and to a “leading comrade” saying something in the Forbidden City that resulted in his delegation assignment. He decided to push a little.
“You have given a most profound analysis, Comrade Zhao. As you have pointed out, we must carry the anticorruption work to the end,” Chen said. “It’s the first time for me to be engaged in such a case, and the leading comrade has discussed my work with you in Beijing. Has he made any specific suggestions or criticisms?”
“You are a young Party cadre full of drive,” Zhao said slowly. “That’s very good, but it is also very important for someone in your position to bear in mind the ultimate interests of the Party.”
“The ultimate interests of the Party? I am a Party member and a police officer. I remember what my Confucianist father has taught me. A man lays down his life for the one who appreciates you, and a woman makes herself beautiful for the one who likes her. Because of the Party, I am what I am today. Now you have entrusted me with an emperor-special-envoy task. How can I not fight for the Party’s ultimate interest?”
“We know, but there’s always room for improvement in our work. For instance, the investigation could be conducted more discreetly. Someone has complained about your passing confidential information to the media.”
“No, I have never talked to the media about the case…” Chen sensed something wrong. He had mentioned Dong’s name to Zhu Wei, the Wenhui reporter, but not in the context of the Xing case. It might not have been too difficult for a reporter to associate it with the investigation. Still, the chief inspector was not held responsible for speculations. How could the accusation have made its way into the Forbidden City so fast?
“I have been fighting for the sacred cause of our great Party all my life,” Zhao said. “Now China is finally making great strides in the right direction. Our anticorruption work is to ensure the success of this historic reform. But there are people anxious to make something out of it. To present a totally rotten picture of China, as if all the corruption occurred because of our Party system. And they attempt to stir up trouble through the media both at home and abroad.”
It was a difficult talk, almost like a high-level tai chi performance. Diandaojizhi. Zhao would never push or punch all the way. Just one light touch, sometimes a gesture in a direction, and Chen had to figure out how to respond.
“But it’s not true. I have never talked to the media about the investigation. How could that leading comrade in Beijing have believed it?” Chen said. “Does my delegation appointment mean a stop to the investigation?”
“No, you mustn’t think so. Don’t ever consider the trip to the United States as a stop to your investigation. As an experienced investigator, you know that there are different perspectives from which to look at one thing. Don’t worry about what people may say about your work. I trust you.”
“Thank you, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said.
Was it possible there was something else in Zhao’s statement? If not a stop, then a continuation of the investigation? Chen thought he caught a subtle emphasis on “the United States,” and “different perspectives.” It suddenly occurred to him that Xing was there too. Was that a hint? There seemed to be something else Zhao could have said, but he didn’t.
Instead, Zhao produced a silk scroll and spread it out on the desk. The scroll presented a poem entitled “The Guanque Pavilion,” written by Wang Zhihuan, a seventh-century Tang dynasty poet.
The white sun declining
against the mountains, the Yellow River
running into the oceans, you have
to climb even higher
to see further-thousands
of miles to the distant horizon.
“I copied out the poem last night. Since retirement, I have learned only one small skill-how to make silk calligraphy scrolls. So this is one for you. Keep it, or give it to one of the American writers there. It may make a good gift.”
“No, I will never give it away, Comrade Zhao. It is special for me. I’ll hang it on the wall.”
Chen was no judge of Chinese calligraphy, but he liked the poem. A silk scroll in Zhao’s handwriting with his red chop seal on it would be spectacular on Chen’s wall. He appreciated the gesture made by the old man.
“Let me add one line,” Zhao said, standing up and writing with his brush, “To Comrade Chen Cao, a loyal anticorruption soldier.”
Was the poem also a subtle hint?
A hint about the necessity of climbing higher to see further. It could be just another reference to the politica
l catch phrase daju weizhong-to take into consideration the interest of the situation in general. Or to the necessity of approaching the investigation from a different perspective.
There would be no point in pressing Zhao for an explicit explanation. The old man had said all that could be said, as well as the unsaid, as in a classical Chinese poem. Politics could be like poetry. A figure of speech whose meaning Chen had never considered before.
“I have one more question, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, pushing a little again. “So far I have made no real breakthrough, but there are some leads that should be followed, I think, during my visit abroad.”
“Well, you’re in charge of the investigation. Do whatever you think necessary.”
“Thank you.” That was better than he had expected. “Comrade Detective Yu Guangming has worked with me for years. A capable and loyal comrade. During this period, can he act on my behalf if need be?”
“Of course. If need be, he can also come to me. I think I’ve heard of his name.” Zhao added, “Any special idea or target?”
“No, it’s just that the case can be complicated. Anything could happen in two weeks, I’m afraid. And I’ll keep in close contact with you, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, rising, “while in the United States.”
“It may not be so easy to make phone calls there. An old Chinese saying puts it well: When a general is fighting along the borders, he does not have to listen to every order given to him by the emperor far away in the capital.”
That had to be a hint, Chen concluded.
And he was going to think a great deal about it. He left the hotel, carrying the scroll. After a while, he put it on his shoulder, like an imperial sword.
There was a flash of light in the tree-a hummingbird flapping up toward the sun.
***
On his way home, Chen called Peiqin, the wife of Detective Yu.
“Tomorrow morning, I would like to have breakfast with Yu.”
“Come to our restaurant,” Peiqin said. “Our new chef is good.”
“ Old Half Place is closer,” Chen said. “Yu has become a loyal noodle eater there, you have told me.”
“Then he will be there.” She added, “Second floor, there are nice private rooms there. I’ll make a reservation for you.”
Peiqin was a smart woman. Chen didn’t have to say more. She must have guessed why he had chosen to call her. In one of their previous investigations, he had also contacted her when he had to take extra precautions.
12
THE FIRST FLOOR OF Old Half Place was as crowded as Detective Yu had anticipated, and even more noisy than he had remembered.
The restaurant was known for its noodles with the legendary xiao pork, and perhaps more for its exquisite taste at a relatively inexpensive price. So it attracted a large number of not-so-well-to-do gourmets.
Looking around, Yu couldn’t help shaking his head as he moved upstairs. There was a huge price difference between the first and the second floor. Peiqin had reserved a private room upstairs-for him and Chen. There were hardly any customers visible there. Such a luxurious room was unnecessary. She could make much ado about his work, especially with Chief Inspector Chen in the background.
A waitress led him into an elegant room with antiquelike table and chairs. He was impressed by silk scrolls hanging on the walls and fresh flower blossoms in the vases. There was also a spell of southern bamboo instrument music wafting through the air. The mahogany chair, however, was not that comfortable. Sitting there, he felt out of place, picking up the menu.
It was not the expense that Yu worried about. Chen wouldn’t have asked him out simply for breakfast. Not on the morning of his visit to the United States. He knew his boss too well.
In the bureau, Chen’s new appointment was a topic much discussed. Something could have gone terribly wrong.
The waitress put four tiny dishes on the table. Pickled garlic, fried peanuts, sliced ginger, and sugar-covered dry plums. After having poured a cup of tea for him, she stepped back and remained standing behind him, like part of the room-silent, still, and almost contemplative.
When Chen finally walked into the room, Yu was reading through the menu for a second time and feeling that he’d been waiting there for a long while.
“Nice to see you here, boss,” Yu said. “Peiqin has chosen the private room for us.”
“It’s a nice place,” Chen said, taking the tea from the waitress. “Elegant atmosphere and service.”
“Most of the customers for the restaurant are gray-haired retirees. They have few coins jingling in their pockets. Three or four yuan is about all they can afford-on the first floor. It’s far more expensive on the second floor, let alone a private room.”
Yu then handed the menu to Chen.
“Today you choose,” Chen said with a smile. “Peiqin says you’re a regular customer here.”
“Don’t listen to her. Mr. Ren insisted on treating us a couple of times after the shikumen case. That’s all about it.”
Yu chose his noodles with dried shrimp and green onion; Chen had his with deep-fried rice-paddy eel. In addition, they ordered a small bamboo steamer of pork-and-crab soup buns with the lotus leaf-covered bottom. And two side dishes of the famous xiao pork.
Handing the menu back to the waitress, Yu said, “You may leave now. We want to discuss business. If we need anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Business expense, of course, on the Central Discipline Committee,” Chen said as the waitress turned to leave.
“Don’t worry about it. That much I can pay,” Yu said, draining his tea in one gulp. “Something serious, boss?”
“Not that serious. I’m going to the United States for a couple of weeks. It’s a great opportunity, as most people will say, only it comes in the middle of the investigation.”
“Yes, the timing. Why do they want you out at such a juncture?”
“I don’t know. They of course have their reasons. Official reasons.”
“Xing is in the States, isn’t he? So now you’re going there too, I think.”
“I wish that could be the reason, but no, they didn’t say anything to me about it,” Chen said, picking up a dried plum with his chopsticks. Yu’s instinctive response was sharp. Chen hadn’t been aware of such a possibility until at Zhao’s hotel. “For the last few days, I haven’t really discussed the case with you. Not because of any confidential regulations or considerations, but because of little progress-”
“You don’t have to talk like this, Chief. It’s a case under the Party Discipline Committee, I understand.”
“Now I want to discuss with you some new developments. Have you heard about the death of An Jiayi, the TV anchorwoman?”
“Yes, I’ve heard. Found naked and strangled at home. Sort of a celebrity, but not that well known-not politically. So the case went to the homicide squad. Kuang is working on it. Was she involved in your investigation?”
“She was. I’m not sure if her death was also involved, but the timing was suspicious-it was shortly after I interviewed her, and before she gave me some crucial information.”
“Those monstrous rats are capable of doing that,” Yu said. “Don’t you see a similarity between her and Hua in Fujian? In each case, a naked body after sex.”
“I don’t know much about the Hua case in Fujian, but those behind Xing could be connected. So, do a couple of things for me during my visit in the States: in an address book left behind in her room, there are some phone numbers. It’s quite an old address book, but it may still be worth checking into. Also, look into her phone records for the last several weeks, especially after the special investigation group was formed in Beijing.”
“Hasn’t Kuang checked the phone records?”
“He did, but according to him, she made no more than six or seven phone calls in the last three days, all of little relevance,” Chen said. “Kuang doesn’t seem too eager to share his information with me.”
“I see. Anything else you want me t
o do?”
“It may not be easy. You aren’t officially on An’s case. Kuang is not cooperative-for a number of reasons. In fact, you’d better not tell Kuang about your interest in the case.”
“I won’t say a single word about it. Not to Kuang. Not to anybody.”
“Follow the An case as closely as possible. I’ve put together a list of people, either interconnected with An or with Xing. Among them, Jiang, of the City Land Development Office. I want you to pay special attention to him. Any unusual move made by him, like going to another city or applying for a passport. Also, keep this small package for me.”
“I’ll put the name down,” Yu said, taking the padded envelope and producing a notebook. Chen did not explain about the contents of the package. It wasn’t characteristic of his boss, but Yu didn’t ask.
“And Dong, of the State Company Reform Committee, also in connection with Ming’s company.” Chen put down his chopsticks and wrote several names on a piece of paper.
“Tell me more about these people.”
So Chen began with a detailed account of his work, focusing on the involvement of Jiang and Dong, and on the possibility of Ming still hiding in Shanghai. At the end of his narration, he added, “I need to ask a personal favor of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Call my mother from time to time. She’s in rather frail health. You don’t have to go there. Or perhaps Peiqin can call. Does Peiqin know her?”
“Yes-remember the dinner in Xinya? We both met her there.”
“Old Hunter is still making his rounds patrolling as a traffic control advisor, I know. He may occasionally make his rounds there too.”
“Tell me what’s on your mind, Chief.”
But there came a knock on the door. The waitress returned with their noodles and other dishes.
“The soup in the bun can be very hot. You may use the straw,” she demonstrated amiably, “to suck out the soup carefully first.”
It was not exactly soup in the bun, but hot, savory liquid with a rich flavor made of crab ovary and digestive glands. But Detective Yu did not have his heart in the food.