by Unknown
In about fifteen minutes he felt the pills gradually taking effect. As if surfacing from under waves of drowsiness, a fragment of a poem by Li Shangyin came to mind. Li happened to be Mao’s favorite Tang dynasty poet too.
Oh, last night’s star, last night’s wind, / west of the painted chamber, east of the cassia hall./ Lacking the soaring wings of a colorful phoenix, /our hearts speak through the magic rhinoceros horn …
FOUR
CHEN WOKE UP WITH a fast-fading dream scene: a young woman in a red mandarin dress emerging out of nowhere, her footstep light as a summer rain of grateful tears, a fallen leaf caressing her bangled bare feet, a song coming on like a white cloud, like a light rain, but disappearing into a mural in the subway station …
Disoriented, he slowly managed to bring himself back to the first morning of the Mao Case — a case name he had made up the previous night.
However, his thoughts kept circling around the dream image. Possibly because of Ling, who had worn a similar dress in a different color, he recalled, rubbing his temples; or possibly because of Shang, who was wearing one in a black and white picture in the book, or possibly because of a serial murder case he had investigated not too long ago —
But dreams images are irrational, he thought, when another idea came to him, unexpectedly, like the lady in the red mandarin dress in the dream.
Swinging out of bed like a sleepwalker, he dialed a number from his address book.
“Sorry to call you so early in the morning, Mr. Shen.”
“Oh, Chief Inspector Chen. An old man wakes up early. I’ve been up for a couple of hours. What can I do for you?”
“Do you happen to know Xie, the owner of Xie Mansion on Shaoxing Road? You used to live quite close to that neighborhood, I remember.”
“Yes, I know him. Nowadays he’s an authority on the thirties, on the fashion of those years too. He talked to me about it two or three weeks ago.”
“Have you been to his parties?”
“No, I’m too old for those fashionable parties of his, but I went to his father’s. So he calls me uncle. That was before 1949, of course. What do you want with him, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“So you’re like an uncle to him! That’s great. I’ve been thinking of a book project about old Shanghai. It would be fantastic if you would be so kind as to introduce me to him.”
“Well, the golden and glittering thirties could serve as another myth of the city for the upstarts today. They have to invent a tradition to justify their extravagance. But I’ll introduce you to him. No problem.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Shen. Oh, by the way, you may tell him that I’m a writer — and an ex-businessman too — with an interest in the thirties. Don’t mention that I’m a cop.”
“What Xie’s really up to, I don’t know,” the old man said hesitantly, “but I think he is harmless.”
“I’m not going to get him into trouble, Mr. Shen. I give you my word. It’s only because he might not talk freely to a cop.”
“I trust you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m giving him a call and write you a letter of introduction too — about the talented writer and a good man that I know. Don’t worry. I’ll have the letter sent to you by special delivery.”
“I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“There’s no need.” Shen added with a chuckle, “Just give me a copy of your book when it’s published.”
As he put the phone back, Chen saw a word on the back of a matchbox on the nightstand — Poetry — scribbled in his own sloppy handwriting.
What could that possibly mean?
He had gotten sentimental over Li Shangyin’s poem before falling asleep last night, but that was not something worth writing down.
There was a knock on the door. Another special delivery package for the case, he suspected. It was a package, but to his surprise, it was postmarked as from abroad — from London. It was from Ling — he guessed she must have mailed it during her honeymoon trip. That the couple went abroad was no surprise. The newlyweds were both successful entrepreneurs with HCC background and could easily afford the trip.
He tore open the package to find a large book inside: The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Draft Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound. There was no note enclosed.
It was a book about the writing of T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” containing the manuscripts with the changes made by Eliot and by Pound and the marginal notes made at different stages. The book would shed light on the connection between Eliot’s personal life and his “impersonal” work, Chen contemplated, as he leafed through a few pages.
But it was not the time for him to sit down and read it. Nor was he in the mood. There’s nothing more accidental than the world of words. And ironical too. Had he gotten the book shortly after his college years, he would have used it in his translation of Eliot — possibly making it a better translation, which might have changed his career’s course. At the moment, however, in the midst of the Mao Case, it was irrelevant, and at best, it was only a consolation prize for having lost Ling — perhaps even less than that. She hadn’t totally forgotten about him, but it was like a footnote on a closed chapter.
He was pondering the wording for a thank-you card when there was another knock on the door. This time, it was a stranger standing there, reaching out his hand formally. He was a tall man with a serious-looking square face and broad shoulders, probably in his early forties. He produced a badge to show to Chen.
“I’m Lieutenant Song Keqiang of Internal Security. Minister Huang called about your joining us in our investigation.”
“Oh Lieutenant Song, I was going to contact you. Please come in,” Chen said. “I’ve just read the file. We need to talk about it.”
“Well, all the basic information is in the file,” Song said, sitting on the chair Chen pulled out for him. “Do you have any questions, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“About the Mao material — about whatever Shang left behind, I mean — have you any idea what it might be?”
“Pictures, diaries, letters, anything is possible.”
“I see. Is there anything new — anything that’s happened since the file was compiled?” Chen said, pouring a cup of water for the visitor. “Sorry, there is no tea left at home.”
“Do you know about Xie’s ex-wife?”
“I know he has an ex-wife. What about her?”
“She has just come back. Last week, she met with Xie and then was seen sobbing in the garden.”
“I know they are divorced, but was there anything suspicious about their meeting, Lieutenant Song?”
“She cut all ties when she left China. There were no letters or phone calls for years. So why meet now?”
“Well, with things between a husband and wife, who can tell? Xie’s worth something now, with his mansion and his collection, and they have no children. You know what I mean.”
“It’s more than that. A couple of days ago, she brought a foreigner to the mansion. What for? We’ve also found out that she has booked a return ticket for two weeks from today.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means we have to conclude the investigation before she goes back to the States.”
“So I only have two weeks?”
“Less than two weeks, Chief Inspector Chen. If your approach does not work, we’ll need time to wrap it up our way.”
Chen didn’t like Internal Security’s way. It was too easy for them to apply “tough measures” to Xie or Jiao using any available excuse. As a cop rather than Internal Security, Chen was disturbed, and not only about the possible consequences. But he didn’t want to confront Song during their first meeting. Internal Security might have every reason to be upset with Chen, since his assignment to the case was a challenge to their competence.
“According to Minister Huang, you have suggested a point of entry for me — through Xie’s parties.”
“Yes, with your English and poetry, you’ll be like a
fish swimming in the water.”
“You don’t have to say that, Lieutenant Song.” Aware of the sarcasm in Song’s comment, Chen retorted, “You must go to a lot of his parties too, like a dragon stranded in a shallow pool.”
“We have someone who goes to them. If you want, you may go with him to the next party.”
“Thank you, but I’ve already made a couple of phone calls about the party. I think I may go there by myself and meet your man there. What’s his name?”
“So you are going by yourself? That’s great.” Song added without answering his question, “You’re moving fast.”
“It’s a special case, isn’t it?”
“Well, since you’re going, you’ll see everything for yourself,” Song said, standing up abruptly. “Let’s talk again after your visit.”
Chen also rose, accompanying him to the door.
Why had Song come? Chen pondered, listening to the sound of the lieutenant’s steps fading away in the concreted staircase. It could have been a sort of formal gesture made for the sake of Minister Huang and other “leading comrades in Beijing,” but Chen doubted it.
He wondered whether Detective Yu had heard anything about it in the bureau. But as close as the two had been, he would not enlist Yu’s help for this case. A case concerning Mao could have unpredictable consequences, possibly serious ones for the cops involved.
Instead, he thought of Old Hunter, Yu’s father, a retired cop whom Chen knew and trusted. As a retiree, Old Hunter might also know more about things that happened during the Cultural Revolution, when Chen was still in elementary school. For this case, Chen thought he’d better sound out the old man first. People had very different opinions of Mao. In these days of increasingly rampant corruption and an ever-enlarging gap between the rich and poor, some were beginning to miss Mao, imagining that they had had better days under him. The utopian society of egalitarianism as advocated by Mao remained attractive to a lot of people. If Old Hunter was so inclined, Chen would not even broach the subject. They would meet simply for a pot of tea.
Back at the table, the blank thank-you card struck him as an equally difficult job. He didn’t know what to say, but he had another idea. He might send a present to Ling rather than a card, just as she had. A message in the absence of a message.
Yet another knock came at the door. This time it was only Shen’s introduction letter with his signature plus a red seal at the bottom. Shen recommended Chen warmly, raving about his business career and literary interests. As represented in the letter, Chen was ready to settle down to work on a literary project about Shanghai in the thirties.
His cover story was another weird coincidence. Chen recalled Ouyang, a friend he had met in Guangzhou, saying something similar except that Ouyang was a real businessman, who never made enough money to work on a literary project.
FIVE
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Chen arrived at Shaoxing Road, a quiet street lined with old magnificent buildings behind high walls.
It was an area he was relatively familiar with because of a publishing house located nearby. Still, behind the high walls, behind the shuttered windows, the houses seemed to be hinting at mysterious, inexplicable stories within.
Instead of heading directly to Xie Mansion, he went across the street, into a miniature café. It must have been converted from a residential room and had only three or four tables inside. A narrow bar sporting several coffee makers and wine racks took up one third of the space. He cast a curious look toward the partition at the back of the room. The proprietor apparently lived in the space behind the partition wall.
He chose a table by the window. For the party in the late afternoon, Chen had put on a pair of rimless glasses, changed his hairstyle, and donned an expensive suit of light material. The people there probably wouldn’t recognize him except for the one from Internal Security. While Chen was known in his own circle, he thought those at the party would be a different lot, and he looked at his window reflection with a touch of ironical amusement. Clothing makes, if not a man, at least the role for a man.
A young girl emerged from behind a door in the partition wall, through which Chen caught a glimpse of a back door that led into a lane. She looked like a middle school student, helping the family business, serving coffee to his table with a sweet smile. The coffee was expensive, but it tasted fresh and strong.
Sipping at the coffee, he dialed the Shanghai Writers’ Association. A young secretary answered the phone. She was quite cooperative but knew little about Diao, the author of Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. Diao was not a member of the association and had become known to the association only after the book’s publication. She checked through files and said that Diao might have been invited to a literary meeting somewhere, but she didn’t exactly know where. Diao wasn’t in Shanghai, of that much she was sure.
Chen followed up by making a long-distance call to Wang, the chairman of the Chinese Writers’ Association in Beijing, asking him to find out the whereabouts of Diao. Wang promised to call back as soon as he learned anything.
Placing the phone by the coffee cup, Chen took out the file on Xie, turning to the part about the history of the mansion.
A lot had happened to the prestigious buildings in this area. In the early fifties, high-ranking Party officials had moved in, driving out most of the former residents, only a few of whom remained. Things got much worse at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. At the time, a large house could be forcefully seized by dozens of working-class families, each of them occupying one room — a “revolutionary activity” that abolished the remaining privileges of the pre-1949 society. In the early nineties, a number of those old buildings were pulled down to make way for new construction. It was a miracle that Xie kept his house intact for all these years, and according to the legend told and retold in that social circle, it was achieved through a sacrifice made by Xie’s ex-wife. It was said that she had an affair with a powerful Red Guard commander, who consequently let the family remain in the house undisturbed. Then she and her husband divorced and she went to the United States before the value of the mansion was rediscovered.
Whatever the truth behind the stories, the mansion across the street looked magnificent in the afternoon sun. Looking up from the file, Chen didn’t see anyone approaching the building yet. He decided to measure out his time, alone, with the coffee spoon.
A group of young people came in, clamoring for coffee, Coca Cola, and a variety of snacks in a boisterous chorus. They took no notice of him.
About twenty-five minutes later, he saw a black car pulling up in front of the mansion. Two girls emerged, waving their hands to the driver. There was no taxi sign on top of the car. They went up to the front door and pushed the bell. From where he was sitting, Chen couldn’t see who opened the door for them. Soon another man arrived in a taxi and headed toward the door.
Chen rose, paid for his coffee, and walked out.
On close examination, Xie Mansion struck him as slightly shabby and dilapidated. The paint on the door had faded badly. There was no intercom. Pressing the discolored doorbell, he had to wait minutes before a lanky man in his early fifties came out, examining the Italian leather briefcase in Chen’s hand like a business card.
“Mr. Xie?” Chen said.
“He is inside. Please come in. You are a bit early for the party.” Chen didn’t know the exact time the party would start, but newcomers seemed to be arriving from time to time. People who might not necessarily know one another.
He walked into a spacious living room, which was oblong, with large French windows on one side looking out into a garden. There were several people standing by the windows, holding drinks in their hands. The party hadn’t started yet and no one bothered to greet or acknowledge him. He noticed a middle-aged woman in the group, slightly plump, incessantly fanning herself with a round silk fan. The air conditioning was barely on. Opposite the French window, there were several chairs along the wall, unoccupied.
At the other
end of the living room, there was another room with frosted-glass sliding doors. Through the slightly opened door, Chen caught a glimpse of a red skirt. That had to be where the female students had their painting lessons. It seemed that there were two events this afternoon, the painting class, and the dancing party.
He moved over to the group by the French window. These people were sometimes called Old Dicks in the Shanghai dialect — from the phrase Old Sticks in Colloquial British English. In Shanghai the phrase carried association of high-class gentlemen in the thirties, brandishing brass-topped walking sticks, hence the embodiment of the values of that time. Now in the nineties they had staged a comeback, their knowledge of the thirties marketable and fashionable.
“My name is Chen,” he introduced himself to a silver-haired man with gold-rimmed glasses and a gold watch chain dangling from his vest pocket. “I’m a writer.”
The silver-haired man nodded, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses along the ridge of his aquiline nose, saying not a single word in response. He continued talking to a chubby old man in the group.
Chen was not one of them, apparently. None of them seemed interested in him. Still, he managed to introduce himself around, trying to fit in. The Old Dicks were invariably nostalgic, looking backward at the past as if it were the only real life. They kept exchanging anecdotes of the “good families,” out of which they came, as a means of criticizing the present-day upstarts who possessed neither history nor taste. They remained indifferent to the presence of a stranger with apparently neither an illustrious family background nor knowledge of those glittering years.
It was not until fifteen minutes later that a man came striding out of the other room, extending his hand even at a distance. An ordinary-looking man in his early sixties, fairly short, slightly overweight, with thinning hair and an angular face, he wore a gray jacket and black dress pants. He spoke with a strong Shanghai accent.