When Red is Black

by Qiu Xiaolong

  He placed a phone call to the city housing committee. The associate director of the committee gave Chen a positive answer regarding the availability of that particular room.

  “We will hold it for you, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

  Such an old-fashioned room might not appear to Yu to be a satisfactory substitute for the new apartment in Tianling New Village that he had lost. But this shikumen room had potential that Chen alone knew about: it was on the street where the New World was going to be built. The value of properties there would increase tremendously when construction started. And as Gu was the potential buyer, Chen was sure he would be able to put in a word or two on behalf of Yu. According to the newest policy, compensation to the resident would be negotiable depending upon the value of the property-and, even better, the original resident could claim a new apartment of similar size in the same area when the project was completed.

  Then Chen started to think about buying a room in that area, too. Perhaps he could buy a modest room for his mother, who refused to move in with him. At least it would be better than the attic she had lived in for thirty years. With the payment from the translation, he reflected, it was not unimaginable.

  He wondered if there might be a conflict of interest. There was no hurry for him to make up his mind though. He would decide later.

  At this moment he had to think of a way to talk Yu into it- without saying a single word to him about the New World.

  A hint might be enough.

  He lit a cigarette as he started visualizing a future visit to Yu in his new quarters, taking part in a game of go in a quaint courtyard, drinking a cup of Dragon Well tea. Perhaps there would be some neighbors in the background, merely as part of the traditional scenery. The picture was a pleasant contrast to his own apartment building, where people met, if at all, briefly, quickly, impersonally, on the stairs or in the narrow hallway. People were simply classified as Room 12, Room 35, Room 26.

  He wondered whether he had been influenced by the business proposal for the New World. It was possible. People could be influenced by a book, a movie, a song, a proverb, not to mention a proposal interrelated with the cultural history of the city. He was no exception.

  It was then that, like an apparition, Party Secretary Li dropped by his office.

  “Great! You are already back at work, Chief Inspector Chen.”

  “I just stopped by to take a look at the paperwork that has piled up. There may be some urgent documents or letters that need my attention.”

  “The Propaganda Minister of the city government has talked to us again. We have decided to hold the press conference this Friday. It’s time the Yin case was concluded. We cannot wait forever, you know.” Li added, “It’s really his decision.”

  The last sentence might have been added for face’s sake. Chen had opposed the termination of the investigation, but the contrary decision might be a little more acceptable if, supposedly, it had been made by somebody outside the bureau.

  Chen knew he was not in a position to argue. Yu had informed Li of the new lead, about Bao, but Li had brushed this aside. There were no witnesses and no direct evidence to connect Bao with the murder.

  “With all the notices that have been sent out, some information about Bao should reach us soon, Party Secretary Li,” Chen said, making a feeble attempt to stall.

  “If you could find Bao and prove him to be the murderer before Friday, it would be satisfactory. We have also spoken to Internal Security, and they have no objection to that conclusion. But they want us to keep them informed if you find out anything,” Li said amiably before leaving the office, “it’s all in the interests of the Party authorities.”

  As Party Secretary Li’s footsteps faded along the corridor, Chen picked up the phone, and decided that he was justified in dialing the number. In a Confucian classic, Chen recalled, there was a long paragraph on the term “expedience.” It seemed relevant now.

  “Hello, Gu.”

  “Hi, Chief Inspector Chen. I was just thinking of giving you a call. My partner has already showed the English proposal to an American investment banker.”

  “But the text has not been finalized yet.”

  “Well, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Mr. Holt decided to go ahead. We may have to make some minor changes later, of course. You have really done me a great favor.”

  “You are flattering me again. But I have to ask a you a favor, Gu.”

  “Anything, Chief Inspector Chen.”

  “If your are not too busy at the moment, how about meeting for lunch at Xinya? We’ll talk there.”

  “Xinya, that’s great.”

  ***

  They were seated in a private room in the state-run restaurant on Nanjing Road. Like other large restaurants in the city, Xinya had been resplendently redecorated. Its facade shone in the sunlight, and its rear connected with a new American hotel, the Amada.

  “You made an excellent choice,” Gu said. “Xinya used to be my grandpa’s favorite place.”

  In his childhood, Chen’s parents, too, used to take him there more often than to any other restaurant.

  “Beef in oyster sauce. Fried milk. Garlic fried fish in a bamboo basket. Gulao pork. These were the dishes we ordered almost every time,” Gu said. “My grandfather had a superstitious belief in them.”

  A waiter in a bright yellow uniform took their order down on a small pad, after suggesting many exotic, expensive possibilities.

  Gu selected those specials his grandfather had always chosen. Chen asked for slices of winter bamboo shoots fried with dried winter mushroom, which had also been one of his parents’ favorites.

  “I am sorry, we do not have bamboo shoots.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Bamboo does not grow in Guangzhou. Xinya is known for its genuine Guangdong-style cuisine. All our vegetables are from there. We get them delivered by overnight air freight.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Chen said, shaking his head as the waiter stepped out of the room. “What about buying bamboo shoots in the local market?”

  “Well, that’s what a state-run restaurant is like,” Gu said. “It’s not their own business. Profit or no profit, the people here get the same pay. They don’t care. Soon, you will come to dine in the restaurants of the New World. All of them will be privately run, and you may have whatever you like.”

  “Really, I am not such a fastidious gourmet,” Chen said. “I wanted you to meet me here because I need to discuss something with you.”

  That was true. Chief Inspector Chen did not want to talk too much on the bureau phone, with people like Party Secretary Li dropping in without knocking; Li, for one, still did not have the word “privacy” in his vocabulary.

  “Yes, please go on.”

  “Detective Yu, my long-time partner, has been looking for a young man named Bao,” Chen said, producing a picture from his briefcase. “That’s his picture, taken about a year ago in Jiangxi Province. Like other provincials, Bao has not registered his residence in the city. Detective Yu is having a hard time tracking him down. I do not think Bao is connected with the Blue or other triads, but those organizations may know more about the provincials than we do. The police do not have direct control over them.”

  “Let me ask around. There is one thing I do know about those provincials: if they are from Jiangxi, they will stay together in a certain new area, like Wenzhou village, where the police have not established control yet, but where the Blues have their contacts.”

  “Exactly. It’s an important case for my partner. If you can find out something before this Friday, I would be very grateful.”

  “I will do my best, Chief Inspector Chen.”

  “I owe you a big one, Gu,” Chen said. “Let me know as soon as possible. I really appreciate this.”

  “What is a friend for? You, too, are helping your friend.”

  The arrival of their order prevented them from saying more, but Chen thought he had covered what was necessary.
>
  The lunch was not so satisfactory. The Gulao pork looked like sweet and sour pork done in a hurry at home. The beef in oyster sauce did not taste as delicious as he remembered it. The fried milk was a joke.

  And Gu paid the check once again. The waiter took Gu’s gold credit card-an unmistakable sign of his wealth-ignoring the cash in Chen’s hand.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Chen arrived at the Renji Hospital with a small bamboo basket of fruit. At the front desk, he was told that his mother had been transferred to another room. Panic-stricken, he rushed upstairs, where he found that she had been moved to a better room, a semi-private which also had more advanced equipment. His mother was pleased to see him; she reclined in the adjustable bed, looking more relaxed than he had seen her in weeks.

  “I’m really fine,” she said. “They’ve been running one test after another. You don’t have to come every day. And don’t bring me anything more, I already have so many gifts.”

  It was true. There were so many things on top of the nightstand that it was almost like a display at an expensive food store: smoked salmon, roast beef, white bird nest, American ginseng, pearl powder, black tree ears, and even a bottle of Russian vodka.

  Chen thought he could guess from whom this array came.

  “No, they’re not from Overseas Chinese Lu alone,” his mother said, shaking her head, as if in disapproval of something invisible in the air. “Some are from a certain Mr. Gu. I had never met him before he came to see me here. He must be a new buddy of yours, I guess. He insisted on calling me aunt, like Lu does. He also summoned the head of the hospital to my room, and right in front of me, he pushed a bulging red envelope into his hand.”

  “He’s incorrigible, that Mr. Gu.”

  But he was not completely surprised. White Cloud would have kept her real boss informed of everything concerning Chen, but Gu should have mentioned his visit over lunch.

  “Since then the doctors and nurses have been extraordinarily nice to me. They moved me here. This is a much better room, normally for high cadres, they said,” she told him and shook her head. “You must be somebody nowadays, son.”

  “No, not me, but Mr. Gu. I’ve been doing some translation for him.”

  “Really!” She appeared to be in better spirits and there was amusement in her voice as she said “Perhaps I’m too old to understand things in today’s world, but since when have you had a secretary working for you at home?”

  “She’s no secretary.” He had foreseen that his mother would mention this. In her eyes, he must have strayed far enough from his father’s path. Now the news that he had a “little secretary” would only confirm her opinion. “She is just a temporary assistant for the translation project.”

  “She is young, clever,” his mother said. “And she makes a very good home-made chicken soup.”

  “Yes, she is very capable.” He doubted that the soup had been made in White Cloud’s home. She bought the soup from a restaurant with Gu’s money, probably. But he decided not to correct his mother.

  “And she’s a university student. She likes your work, she has told me.”

  He realized that his mother was already launched in a different direction. It should not have surprised him. “Yes, she’s a Fudan University student,” he said. He was not about to disclose that he had first met White Cloud when she was working as a K girl in a private room of the Dynasty Club.

  Fortunately, his mother was still too weak to push this topic any further. He decided to leave well enough alone. If she wanted to cherish hopes, in spite of everything, especially in her present frail health, why not let her?

  He did not like Confucianism, despite his late father’s influence. Like many other people of his generation, Chen believed that Confucian ideology had caused rather than solved problems in the course of the history of Chinese civilization. Still, the chief inspector considered it only human nature to be a filial son. That was the least a man should do-to provide for his parents in their old age, and, whenever possible, to make them happy.

  He shuddered to think of those who refused to pay the deposit for their parents at the hospital. And for those who were unable to do so. It was not their fault, of course. Chen was able to do so, in the last analysis, because of his Party cadre position.

  Someday, he might be able to make his mother happy in that particular aspect, but his first priority must be to do a good job as a chief inspector of police. In the Confucian ethical system, responsibility to one’s country was more important than to one’s family.

  As for White Cloud, she was just a temporary assistant, as he had told his mother. He did not know whether the future would ever throw her into his path again. There was no predicting with Mr. Gu, of course. Two lines came to mind: Waving my hand lightly, I’m leaving, / leaving, carrying not a cloud with me.

  He thought he had forgotten this poem by Xu Zhimo, and he wondered whether it had come back to him now because of her name. Or was it because of something else?

  Chapter 22

  The ringing of the telephone woke Yu.

  Chen told him, “Bao’s address is 361 Jungong Road. Second floor. It’s in the Yangpu District.”

  Yu said, “How did you get this information?”

  “Through one of my connections,” Chen replied vaguely.

  The boss did not sound too willing to go into detail. Yu understood.

  “I’m on my way,” Chen continued. “Not a word to Old Liang or anybody else. Meet me there.”

  This was a surprise to Yu. So far, Chen had made a point of staying in the background. When Yu reached that section of Jungong Road, the chief inspector was already waiting for him, smoking a cigarette.

  In the pre-1949 era, this area had been a slum. It had been upgraded in the early fifties, when some workers’ housing was built there to show the superiority of the socialist system. Nothing further had been done, as the city was overwhelmed by one political movement after another. The area was now considered a depressed neighborhood that had a markedly different living standard from other parts of the city. It had acquired a nickname-”the forgotten corner.”

  In recent years, it had also become one of the streets where provincials gathered because of the cheap rentals that they could obtain there by means of illegal subleases. Five or six people usually squeezed into a single room when they first arrived in the city. When they bettered their finances, they moved out into other areas.

  “According to my information, Bao lives by himself in a small room here,” Chen said. “He moved in about two months ago. He does a not have a regular job; he survives by working part-time for an interior construction company.”

  “If he has a room for himself, he is better off than others,” Yu commented.

  Bao’s building, 361 Jungong Road, was one of the old two-story workers’ houses from the fifties. It boasted neither the sophisticated style of a shikumen house nor the modern facilities of the new apartment buildings. The house consisted of units, rather than apartments; each unit was inhabited by several families; each family had one room and shared the common kitchen area. Bao’s room had originally been a balcony accessed from the kitchen area of the unit. Beneath it was a small restaurant on the first floor of the building. It, too, looked like it had been converted from a residential room.

  Chen and Yu went up the stairs. Their knock on the door was answered by a tall, lean young man of sixteen or seventeen. Bao looked like an undeveloped green bean sprout. His small eyes dilated with fear at the sight of Detective Yu in uniform. His room was one of the barest Yu had ever seen. There was hardly any furniture. A hardboard had been placed on two bamboo benches as a bed, and beneath it stood a disorderly pile of cardboard boxes. A broken chair and something like a student desk completed the furnishings, which appeared to be castoffs Bao had found and brought back.

  “Let’s crack this nut here before we take him to the bureau,” Chen whispered.

  This was not like Chen, who normally made a point of fol
lowing procedure. But they were pressed for time, Yu knew. If they took Bao to the bureau, Party Secretary Li and others might join their interrogation. In one way or another, they might slow things down.

  It was Thursday. They had to get the truth from Bao before the press conference on Friday.

  “You’d better spill the beans,” Chen told Bao. “If you come clean about what you did on the morning of February seventh, Detective Yu may be able to work out some sort of a deal for you.”

  “We know everything, young man,” Yu said, “and if you are cooperative, we will recommend leniency.”

  Detective Yu did not know if he could guarantee this, but he had to back up Chen.

  There was nothing for them to sit on, except for the broken chair. Bao squatted against the wall, like a wilting bean sprout.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, officers,” he said, without looking at either of them.

  “You question him, Detective Yu,” Chen said. “I will search the room.”

  Again, Chen was departing from his usual standard of behavior this morning, Yu observed. They did not even have a search warrant.

  “Go ahead, Chief,” Yu said, playing along. “Where were you on the morning of February seventh, Bao? We know what you did, so there’s no point denying it.”

  Perhaps Bao was too young. He did not know that the police had to have a search warrant before they could go through his room. Still he evaded Yu’s questions, mechanically proclaiming his innocence of any wrongdoing.

  Chen, searching under the bed, pulled out a couple of cardboard boxes. Inside a shoebox he found a bunch of paper, rubber-banded together.

  “This is the manuscript you took from Yin’s place on the morning of February seventh,” Chen said in a composed voice, as if this discovery was a foregone conclusion. “This is the manuscript of the novel that Yang wrote in English.”