THIRTY ONE
MONDAY WAS HUMID. Like all Mondays, this one was a drag.
In the office, Mei received a couple of bills and a couple of harmless inquiries that would almost certainly end nowhere. No one called about the scar-faced man who had left his body in the Hotel Splendor, least of all the police. It was just a normal day, of no particular importance, the kind of day the factory of life had been producing without change, week after week, since factories began.
As usual, the People’s Daily had plenty of editorials announcing government policies. Some of the editorials were republished in the Beijing Daily. Even the normally informative Beijing Morning Post had only happy news to report—prosperity and the great expectation of Hong Kong being returned to China.
Mei binned the newspapers and walked out to the entrance hall. Gupin smiled at her from behind his computer. He was sharpening pencils and lining them up neatly on the desk like missiles. “It’s going to rain today,” he said.
Mei nodded. “It looks like it. Could you call up the Research Institute of Mining and ask for someone who may know what the eye of jade is?”
Gupin had already reached for the phone when he stopped. “Do you not mean who the eye of jade is?”
“Who?”
“Yeah, that’s what we say in Henan. The jade is the emperor’s stone, so the eye of jade meant a spy from the royal palace. Now we use the term for anyone who is spying for someone higher up, like the boss.”
Mei stared at Gupin, her mind racing. Luoyang was the capital of Henan and the capital of thirteen ancient dynasties.
Gupin watched her nervously. “Sorry, that’s not what you meant. I will make the call right away.”
Mei was roused from her thoughts. She remembered where she had seen the older man who was in the picture on Big Papa Wu’s wall. “It’s all right. Forget about the call,” she said. She smiled. “Thank you.”
THIRTY TWO
UNCLE CHEN LIVED in an apartment tower on Fucheng Gate Avenue.
It was lunchtime. Cyclists of all ages were coming from all directions, dismounting and sending up clouds of dust. High school kids in uniforms arrived like athletes. Everyone was in a hurry to get home for lunch.
The noise in the street rose. Cars and trucks rumbled. White and blue electrical buses, looking like slugs with two black antennae, struck sparks from the overhanging wires.
Mei had to drive slowly, her car crawling behind bicycles, choking on its own exhaust. The cyclists either ignored her or glanced back with contempt. Finally, she found a parking spot on the side of Uncle Chen’s building, which was flanked by two identical black and gray structures.
These towers had been built in the late 1980s. At the time of their construction, with their elevators and windowed corridors, they were the most desirable residential buildings in Beijing. Today they looked like shriveled prostitutes flaunting their overused bodies on the footpath. Passersby spat on them, calling them ugly.
A crowd had formed in front of the elevator.
“Come by for a hand of poker tonight?” shouted a beefy man standing behind two fashionable girls in high heels.
A man with glasses glanced at his wife, who pretended to be meditating on the balding head in front of her. He gave his neighbor a bitter smile. “Maybe not.”
When the elevator came, people packed in, hot and sweaty. One of the fashionable girls got her skirt stuck between the beefy man’s legs, and he turned to smile at her. She yanked the skirt out and cursed, whispering something to her girlfriend. They both turned their faces away in disgust.
Mei got out on the tenth floor. Down the hall, a locked bicycle leaned against the grimy window. She peered out. Dark clouds thickened at the horizon. To her left, along a yellowing wall, she saw closed doors, some covered with iron plates. A delicious smell of cooking leaked from one of them.
Mei rang Uncle Chen’s doorbell. She heard heavy steps and locks turning.
“Mei, what a surprise!” Uncle Chen held the door open and stood to one side. His entrance hall was small and taken up by a bulky washing machine. A wash line hung from a nail on the door frame. “We are having lunch,” he said. “Have you eaten? Would you like to join us?”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Mei shook her head. She was nervous. Every move she made seemed false. Her smiles were forced, her voice was unsteady, and she didn’t know where to put her hands.
Auntie Chen came out of the living room, chopsticks in hand. Her face was covered in beads of sweat. “Mei, you poor child.” She leaned toward Mei as if grief-stricken; her plain face had come to life. “But of course, we shouldn’t lose hope. I have a feeling your mother will pull through. We all pray for her.” She ushered Mei into the living room.
Mei sat down on the sofa and looked around. The flat had been decorated with much effort by someone of limited means. A bookshelf stuffed with family photos, books, and ornaments stood in the corner. Against one wall was a single bed with a green and cream bedcover. It was Auntie Chen’s. On the next wall, forming an L-shape, was the bed belonging to Uncle Chen. A few pots of flowers, books, and miscellaneous household items cluttered the windowsills. Hanging from a wire on either side of the window were gold velvet curtains.
“I’ll be done soon,” said Uncle Chen, shoveling food hastily into his mouth.
“You sure you don’t want some tea?” asked Auntie Chen.
“I am fine. Don’t worry about me,” said Mei.
“Okay, I’m done,” said Uncle Chen, standing up. He was still chewing. “Let’s go.”
“Why leave? You two can chat here. I’ll do the washing up in the kitchen.”
“I need to get back to work early. Mei and I can talk on the way.”
“What about your nap?”
“Not tired anymore,” said Uncle Chen, avoiding his wife’s gaze.
“Then wait a moment.” Auntie Chen went quickly to the kitchen, returning a moment later waving a shopping bag. “Buy some radishes on your way home. We’ll have hot pot for dinner.”
Uncle Chen took the bag and nodded.
“Goodbye Auntie Chen,” Mei said. “We’ll chat next time.”
The streets were quiet. It was siesta time. Most vendors had boarded up their stalls. Drivers of flatbed carts had parked under the trees and were squatting in a circle eating their packed lunches.
Uncle Chen walked beside Mei, pushing his bicycle. “Sorry it’s so hot and humid out here. But you know your auntie; it’s better she doesn’t hear what we say.”
There was a stone bench under an oak tree, and a body was slumped over it. Someone had found a bed there for the next hour. Farther on, they came across a bench that was not occupied and sat down. The sky threatened rain.
“Uncle Chen, you’ve been my family’s friend for a long time. You’ve known me since I was little. So I’ll just come straight out and say it: I assume you had your reasons.”
Mei had toyed with many alternatives, yet the words that came out were unrehearsed. “You never went to Luoyang, did you? Otherwise you would know what the eye of jade is—or, more precisely, who the eye of jade is. It was my mother and Song who had that assignment, and it was my mother who told you about the jade seal. You came across the article on the ceremonial bowl by chance. It made you think. Maybe you thought there was a chance for you to get rich, maybe you had other motives. But why lie to me?”
Uncle Chen’s face reddened. He took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’d never—”
“Now I know why you didn’t want me to tell my mother.” Mei stared at Uncle Chen. All the anger and betrayal bottled up inside her threatened to burst out. “Were you pleased that she had the stroke? Now she may never know who you really are.”
“Please, Mei, don’t say such hurtful things. You don’t know how much she meant to me.” Uncle Chen gasped for air like an insect trapped in a spiderweb. “My weakness was that I always wanted things. I wanted to be someone, to have a good life. Don’t
I deserve that? I’ve always followed the orders of the Party. I gave my heart and never hurt anyone, at least not deliberately. But I was never good enough, not for your mother, not for my work unit, and not even for my family.
“Look at my home, one hundred square meters. Is that the best I will ever have? One hundred square meters for a family of four. Your auntie and I have slept in the living room for so many years that it has become a habit. Dong Dong needs to wait till he gets married for his work unit to consider him for housing. Jing’s work unit has no housing at all. They earn so little that they can’t afford to buy or rent.
“I’m a college graduate. I used to think I could be brilliant. But look at Song; he’s got three hundred square meters for just himself and his delinquent son. That little bastard is a worm, and Song knows it. But Song bails him out every time. Why? Because he can! He’s got power and connections, and his son rides around town chasing women in a chauffeur-driven car.
“My children don’t do drugs, they don’t run with criminals, but they have nothing because their father is nothing. Who am I? I’m a nobody, and your mother knows it.” His head dropped into his hands.
Mei didn’t say anything. There was no need to.
“Sorry, Mei.” He sighed. “I never intended for you to find out. I went to you because I knew you wouldn’t question me.”
“Yes, I was a fool to believe your lies. What else did you lie to me about? Did you send my father to prison? Did Song Kaishan do it? How did my father die?”
“I’ve told you all I know, Mei. That’s the truth. I came to you because I wanted both of our families to profit. I thought we’d share the money.”
“What money?” Mei said. “The jade seal was most likely destroyed long ago, and you know it. So I asked myself why you started this. It’s a perfect plan, isn’t it? One stone, two birds—you’d become rich and get revenge on your enemy. You knew I would track it down to Song. He’d be exposed and ruined. You came to me because I was the right person to do it. I am my mother’s daughter. Now it’s my turn to do the talking for a change. Get me a meeting with Song.”
“You won’t get into the Ministry without a security clearance.”
“But you can. Tell him I need to talk to him and soon.”
Back in her office, Mei sat by the phone. From her window, she watched the clouds brewing a thunderstorm.
She called Lu and left a message with the assistant. She wondered whether Lu’s doctor friend had found out anything from the hospital.
Gupin went home. It was getting dark. Finally, the telephone rang.
“He will see you at the Three Red Flags bar in Hohai in an hour.” Uncle Chen’s voice was tight and dry. He hesitated a moment. “Mei, don’t go. Let’s forget about the whole thing.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” she said.
THIRTY THREE
THE SKY WAS LIKE A GIANT BLACK LID poised to drop. Lightning came in waves, chased by thunder. Rain slanted down sideways.
Mei stepped on the accelerator hesitantly. She couldn’t see the road or the canal. Walls of water slashed on her windshield and in front of her headlights. In a flash and a roll of thunder, she saw the dark, arching shape of a stone bridge. Red lights flared in the blackness ahead as she inched forward. At the next flash, she made a turn and saw the bars of Hohai lit up like paper lanterns in a stormy sea.
Mei left the car by the bridge and got out. She tucked her head down, leaning her shoulder against the rain. Immediately, her shoes and jeans were soaked. Water was leaking into her sleeves as she tried to hold her raincoat closed.
She saw the black Audi clinging on to the slope running down to the canal. She walked on. Something or someone was moving inside the yellow windows, but she couldn’t see clearly. The rain had obscured everything.
When she saw the Three Red Flags, she crossed the road. There was no one about, no tourists, no policemen on duty, no waitresses to invite her in. No one was offering special drinks or happy hour.
Mei battled against the wind and rain to the door. When she was about a foot away, she made a final push and reached the doorknob. It turned, and she fell into the bar. The manager rushed over to shut out the storm.
A heavy-metal band was playing. The lead singer, in a primeval outfit, jumped and screamed as if she had springs for legs. The guitarist, with spiky hair and tight jeans, was cool. She played as if she didn’t care, and she probably didn’t. The drummer was a whirl of flying hair.
The manager said something that Mei couldn’t hear. She wondered whether she’d come to the right place. She peeled off her raincoat and gave it to the manager, who handed the dripping yellow plastic garment to a waitress in black.
“I’m here to see Mr. Song Kaishan!” shouted Mei as loudly as she could. She put all her strength into the name, hoping that the manager would hear it. His mouth opened. Mei thought that he was shouting back, but she couldn’t hear what he had to say. He gestured for her to move away from the band. On the side, there was a rosewood door with two leaves, each decorated with intricate carvings from top to bottom.
“This way,” she heard him say, and followed him through it.
The corridor was narrow and lined with dark wooden panels. They seemed to have walked around the house to the back. Here, only the sound of the drumbeat could be heard.
“Please.” The manager opened a door and indicated for Mei to enter. “Mr. Song, your guest is here,” he said crisply, and with a click of the doorknob, he was gone.
It was a windowless room. A low black table sat in the middle surrounded by soft cushions. Neon-pink lights glowed from the edges of the ceiling.
Song Kaishan sat on the cushions behind the table. In front of him were small plates of salted eggs, marinated pigs’ earlobes, and roasted peanuts. There was a bottle of Wu Liang Ye—Five Virtuous Liquid, its trademark red and white instantly eye-catching. A white porcelain liquor warmer had been lit next to it.
“I got here early. I hope you don’t mind.” Song pointed at the layout on the table.
Mei couldn’t tell how long he had been drinking or how much. The room smelled strongly enough of rice wine to intoxicate a hog. Song extended a white hand and motioned for Mei to sit down. His rimless glasses added to his intelligent air and acted as a screen for his thoughts.
“I hope you’re pleased with what I’ve done for your mother.”
Mei felt herself sinking into the cushions, and she curled up her legs. She knew that she ought to be grateful to Song, maybe say a word or two of thanks. It wasn’t difficult to be gracious in front of an elegant man. But she didn’t want to be. “I didn’t come to talk about my mother. I’m here because of a stolen jade seal and a man named Zhang Hong.”
Nothing changed in his expression.
“Would you like to hear the story?” Mei asked.
Song slowly filled up the liquor warmer. A sharp smell of rice wine rose like smoke.
Mei carried on. “Thirty years ago, two young secret agents were given a field assignment to Luoyang, the ancient capital, where tens of thousands of members of the Red Guard had taken it upon themselves to smash the old traditions—museums, books, and the lives of intellectuals—and, in doing so, had broken into factions and were fighting among themselves. The agents’ job was to provide support to the Red Guard as well as collect intelligence on anti-Mao feelings in the province.
“One of the faction leaders was a teenager named Zhang Hong, a real brute and a gambler by nature. Maybe he had seen one of the agents taking a valuable jade from the museum, so he grabbed one for himself, a Han Dynasty ceremonial bowl. Zhang Hong knew nothing about antiques, but he was not entirely stupid.
“Thirty years later, everything has changed. Revolutions have long since gone out of fashion. Now money rules. So Zhang Hong came to Beijing to sell the ceramic he had stolen from the old Luoyang Museum. Instantly, he was rich.
“What does someone like Zhang Hong do when he has money? He spends it. He lived a life that h
e never could have dreamed of. He picked up a girl from a night café and went to stay at a flashy hotel. They gambled heavily.
“Soon he lost all the money and was in debt. He went back to the dealer who had bought the ceremonial bowl, asking for help. The dealer refused. By pure chance, Zhang Hong saw a photo in his office and recognized the father of the dealer’s business partner, who was in fact the agent he had seen in Luoyang thirty years ago.
“He decided to blackmail him. Then he was murdered in his hotel room.”
Song Kaishan poured a shot of rice wine for himself and another for Mei. “Why are you telling me this?”
“It was not just the jade that he was blackmailing you for, was it? Stealing national treasures is a small crime compared to murder. There were many killings in Luoyang. How many were committed by your own hands?” Mei looked at the shot cup but didn’t touch it.
Song shook his head and laughed. He emptied his cup. “Are you worried? You think I may have drugged your drink? Mei, you’ve got me all wrong. I loved your mother. Perhaps I’m still in love with her. Please, let me tell my story now that I’ve listened to yours. I’ve waited for thirty years. I’ve done her enough harm.
“The Cultural Revolution! Who didn’t do something terrible in the Cultural Revolution? Many people killed people. But your mother couldn’t stomach it.”
He poured himself another shot. “Your mother always said that the best quality of your father was his integrity and courage. So he had courage, so what? Challenging the Party was not an intelligent thing to do, not during the Cultural Revolution. Look at what he brought you: the hard-labor camp. Your mother chose to go with him. Your father could offer her nothing, no protection, no food. Why did she go?”
“Because she loved him.”
“Maybe she needed to prove to herself that she loved him.”
Mei stared. Words hung heavily in her throat.
“In any case, your mother could not afford to be as arrogant and selfish as your father. She had two young daughters to worry about. The reality was that you and your sister simply could not survive that kind of life. So she came back and asked me for help. It wasn’t easy. She had sealed her own fate when she refused to cooperate with the Party and went off to the labor camp with your father. The Party never forgets or forgives.
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