by Qiu Xiaolong
Chief Inspector Chen Cao is an emerging Party cadre, touted as a successor to Superintendent Zhao or Party Secretary Li of the Shanghai Police Bureau. It is said that last year Chen was on the top candidate list for the position of Shanghai Propaganda Minister. He also served as the acting director of Shanghai Traffic Control and attended the Seminar of the Central Party Institute. The last event is seen as an unmistakable sign of his further promotion within the Party system. As one of the “liberal reformists” within the Party, Chen enjoys a connection with powerful people at a higher level.
As for his professional performance, he has recently been in charge of several politically important cases, including the national model worker investigation last year, and a recent one concerning the vice mayor of Beijing.
Chen majored in English literature in college in the late seventies, but for some unknown reason, he was assigned to the police. Chen is on the invitation list of the U.S. News Agency as a writer.
In his mid-thirties, Chen remains a bachelor. He has his own apartment in a good location. Like other emerging cadres, he keeps a low profile in his personal life, but it is alleged that the father of his (ex?) girlfriend, Ling, is a leading politburo member.
Catherine put the fax into her file. She made a cup of coffee for herself.
An enigmatic man. She was intrigued by the part about his relationship with a politburo member’s daughter. One of the High Cadres’ Children. She had read about that prestigious group, privileged by their family connections, corrupt, powerful. Were they still seeing each other? The CIA data was vague. She wondered whether a spoiled HCC would make a good wife for him. If he married an HCC, would he turn into one?
Catherine caught herself. Chief Inspector Chen was just a temporary partner in China. It was the CIA’s business to be concerned with his life, not hers. The information about Chen was irrelevant now; what she needed was a clue to Wen’s whereabouts, which she did not have.
She was jolted by the ringing of her phone. It was Chen. There was traffic noise in the background.
“Where are you, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“On my way home. I had a call from Party Secretary Li. He invites you to a Beijing Opera performance this evening.”
“Does Mr. Li want to discuss the Wen case with me?”
“I’m not sure about that. The invitation is to demonstrate our bureau’s attention to the case, and to you, our distinguished American guest.”
“Isn’t it enough to assign you to me?” she said.
“Well, in China, Li’s invitation gives more face.”
“Giving face—I’ve heard only about losing face.”
“If you are a somebody, you give face by making a friendly gesture.”
“I see, like your visit to Gu. So I have no choice?”
“Well, if you say no, Party Secretary Li will lose face. The bureau will, too—including me.”
“Oh no! Yours is one face I have to save.” She laughed. “What shall I wear to the Beijing Opera?”
“Beijing Opera is not like Western opera. You don’t have to dress formally, but if you do—”
“Then I’m giving face, too.”
“Exactly. Shall I pick you up at the hotel?”
“Where is the theater?”
“Not far from your hotel. On the corner of Fuzhou and Henan Roads. The City Government Auditorium.”
“You don’t have to pick me up. I’ll take a taxi there. See you.”
“Oh, by the way, I have not discussed this afternoon’s visit with Party Secretary Li.”
She understood this last remark was a deliberate warning.
She started to dress and reached for her suit, but after such an eventful day, especially after their argument in Qingpu, she felt tempted to appear more feminine. She decided on a black dress with a low neckline.
In front of the City Government Auditorium, she saw the surprise on Chen’s face before she noticed somebody standing by him, Party Secretary Li, a stout man in his early sixties, his wrinkled face dominated by the heavy bags under his eyes.
They were ushered into an elegant reception room where there was an impressive array of pictures on the walls showing high-ranking officials shaking hands with distinguished foreign guests or with the actors and actresses.
“I welcome you on behalf of the Shanghai Police Bureau, Inspector Catherine Rohn.” Li spoke in a rather stiff official tone, despite the smile on his face.
“Thank you, Mr. Party Secretary Li. It is a great honor to meet you today.”
“It is the first time that our two countries are cooperating on an illegal immigration case. It is a top priority for our bureau, and for our Party authorities and government.”
“I appreciate the cooperation of the Shanghai Police Bureau, but there has been no progress so far.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector Rohn. We’ve been doing our best, both in Shanghai and Fujian. You will escort Wen Liping to the United States in time.” Li changed the subject abruptly. “Now, this is your first trip to Shanghai, I’ve heard. What is your impression of this city?”
“Fantastic. Shanghai is more marvelous than I imagined.”
“What about the hotel?”
“Fabulous. Chief Inspector Chen has told the hotel people to treat me as a ‘distinguished guest.’”
“That’s what he should have done.” Li nodded vigorously. “So how is your Chinese partner?”
“I could not ask for a better colleague.”
“Yes, he is our ace inspector. A romantic poet to boot. That’s why we have assigned him to you.”
“You call him a romantic poet,” she said, jokingly, “but he calls himself a modernist.”
“You see, modernism is no good. Inspector Rohn says so too,” Li said to Chen. “Be romantic. Revolutionary romantic, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Romantic, revolutionary romantic,” Chen echoed. “Chairman Mao used this phrase in 1944 in the Yen’an Forum Talk.”
It was obvious to her that Party Secretary Li did not know much about literary terms. Chen seemed to be good-humored, even a bit offhand, toward his boss. Was it because of his special connections within the Party system?
They were ushered to their reserved seats; she sat between Li and Chen. The lights grew dim. An orchestra of traditional Chinese musical instruments started playing and the audience burst out cheering.
“Why are they cheering now?” Catherine asked.
“Beijing Opera is an art of many facets,” Chen said. “Singing, posing, performing martial arts, and playing music. A master of a traditional Chinese musical instrument like the erhu can make a huge difference. The audience is applauding the music.”
“No, that’s not why they are clapping now,” Li interjected. “Our chief inspector knows a lot about literature, but Beijing Opera is different. A well-known actress will soon appear on the stage. So people are applauding in advance. It’s the convention.”
“Yes, our Party Secretary is an expert on Beijing Opera,” Chen said. “I’ve only read about it in a tourist guide book.”
With the rise of the curtain, cymbals preceded the singsong voices of the actors and actresses. An episode of The White Snake unfolded on the stage, a romantic story about a white snake spirit who changes into a beautiful woman in love. The White Snake summoned the turtle soldiers, crab warriors, carp knights, and other animal spirits from the river to overwhelm a temple. In spite of her heroic fight to rescue her lover, detained by a meddlesome monk in the Gold Mountain Temple, she was defeated.
Catherine enjoyed the performance, impressed by the spectacular display of martial arts, glittering costumes, and traditional music. There was no need to understand a single word of the play to appreciate it. Then the White Snake Lady started a series of somersaults across the stage.
“This is symbolic of inner as well as outer intensity,” Chen said. “The banners in her hands outline the waves of the battle. Everything is suggested by her hand gestures and body movements.”
>
The curtain finally fell amid the thunderous applause of the audience.
Afterward, Party Secretary Li offered to drive Inspector Rohn to her hotel, but she declined, saying that she preferred to walk back along the Bund.
“Splendid, you already know your way around.” Li turned to Chen. “Chief Inspector Chen, you may escort Inspector Rohn.”
* * * *
Chapter 17
T
he Bund stretched out along the river like an unfurled scarf.
Catherine was still immersed in the Beijing Opera. “So what’s the moral of the story?”
“It’s ambiguous,” Chen said. “From the orthodox perspective, romantic passion between animal spirits and human beings must be forbidden. In fact, with the institution of arranged marriage dominant in traditional Chinese society, any prenuptial romantic passion was forbidden. Even so, this love story has always been popular.”
She nodded. “So the White Snake is a metaphor. You don’t have to believe in ghosts to enjoy Hamlet.”
“No, and the love story does not have to be between animal spirits and human beings. Look at the lovers on the Bund. They stand for hours, as if fixed there. In my high modernist period, I once came up with an image—comparing those lovers to snails stuck on the wall. The poem has never been published.” He changed the topic. “My high school’s not far away, on the corner of Sichuan and Yen’an Roads. As a student, I used to wander along the Bund frequently.”
“The Bund must be one of your favorite places.”
“Yes. The bureau is also close. I enjoy coming here before or after a day’s work.”
They slowed to a stop beside Bund Park. The water lapped against the bank. They watched the moonlight flecking the waves, gulls hovering around the vessels, and the luminous eastern shore.
“I know a place with a better view,” he said, pointing.
“You’re the guide.”
He led the way into the park, climbing a spiral wrought-iron staircase to a large cedar deck that jutted out over the water. They chose a white cloth-covered table. He had a cup of coffee, and she had a bottle of orange juice. The view was spectacular.
It was close to the murder scene he had examined the day he had been assigned to Wen’s case. From where he sat, he could see that corner, partially covered by shrubbery, the top of which seemed to be trembling in a fitful breeze. It was strange, for the leaves on other trees remained motionless. He cast another glance at it. The bush remained eerily alive.
He took a sip of his coffee, turning to her. She drank from the bottle. A candle in a bowl on the table shed a yellowish light on her face.
“You’re like a fashionable Shanghai girl tonight. No one would imagine that you’re a U.S. Marshal.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“A great many people must have asked questions about your choice of career.”
“Not many that I’d care to answer,” she said wistfully. “It’s simple. I was unable to find a job utilizing my Chinese.”
“I’m surprised. There’re so many American joint ventures here. Your command of Chinese would be an invaluable asset to them.”
“A lot of companies send people to China, but only those with business backgrounds. It is cheaper for them to hire a translator locally. A micro-brewery did offer me a position as a bar manager. An American girl wearing their special bar costume for Chinese customers—sleeveless and backless top and mini shorts.”
“So you applied for the Marshals Service?”
“I had an uncle who is a Marshal. Guanxi—I suppose. He sort of introduced me. I had to attend training seminars, of course.”
“How did you become an inspector?”
“After a few years, I was promoted. There is plenty to do in the St. Louis office, and I go to D.C. or New York occasionally to deal with things related to China. From day one, my supervisor promised I would have an opportunity to come to China. At last here I am.”
“Chinese people are not unfamiliar with the image of American policewomen—Lily McCall in Hunter, if I remember her name, was one. That was one of the few American TV series available to us in the early eighties. Officer McCall was a huge hit here. In the window of the Shanghai First Department Store, I once saw a sleeveless silk pajama top called the McCall Top. It was because the female detective wore such a seductive top in one episode.”
“Really! An American policewoman inspiring a Chinese fashion?”
“In one episode, McCall decides to marry someone. She quits her job. Some Chinese fans got so frustrated that they wrote to the newspapers to say she should go on being a cop, and a wife, too, though some doubted her ability to do so. They saw an insoluble contradiction.”
She put down her juice. “Maybe Chinese and Americans are not that different.”
“What do you mean, Inspector Rohn?”
“When you are a woman and also a cop, it is difficult to maintain a relationship with a man unless he’s also a cop. Women often quit their jobs. Now, what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes. Enough about my career. It’s only fair for you to tell me about yours, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I majored in English and American literature,” he said, with a trace of reluctance. “One month before graduation, I was told that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had requested my file. In the early eighties, the government was responsible for college graduates’ job assignments. A diplomatic career was considered great for an English major, but at the last minute, during the routine family background check, one of my uncles was found to have been a ‘counterrevolutionary,’ executed in the early fifties. He was an uncle I had never seen. This connection nonetheless disqualified me for the foreign service. Instead, I was assigned to the Shanghai Police Bureau.
“I had no preparation for police work but I had to be given a job—the so-called benefits of the socialist system at the time. No college student had to worry about finding a job. So I reported to the bureau. Existentialists talk about making choices for yourself, but choices are more often made for you rather than by you.”
“Still, you have had an excellent career. Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Well, that’s another story. I’d better spare you the sordid details of bureau politics. Suffice to say that I’ve been lucky so far.”
“It’s interesting to think about a parallel between us. Two cops in Bund Park, neither one of us having set out to become one. As you said, life is like a chain of unpredictable events— seemingly irrelevant links.”
“One more example. The very day I took over Wen’s case, just a few hours earlier, I had been shown the body in the park. The way it came to my attention was coincidence. I happened to have received a ci collection from a friend of mine. So I went to the park that morning to read a few pages.” With the coffee cup in his hand, he began to tell her about the Bund Park case.
At the end of his account, she said, “Maybe the victim was connected to Wen in some way.”
“I don’t see how. Besides, if the Flying Axes had killed the man, they would not have left so many ax wounds on the body. It’s like putting their signature on it.”
“I don’t have an answer to that,” she said, “but it reminds me of something I read about the Italian Mafia. They killed in imitation of another organization, in order to muddy the water, to confuse the police.”
He put down his coffee to consider this. It was possible, he conceded, that the park victim had been killed by somebody purposely copying the methods of the Flying Axes.
“If so, there must be a reason for it.”
“A third party who would benefit?”
“A third party—” He had not yet considered a third party in connection with the Bund Park corpse.
What would a third party gain by transporting a body with multiple ax wounds to the park and leaving it there?
He was disturbed by elusive yet confusing ideas, like the sparkle of the candlelight, which could not be caught before it dissolv
ed in the darkness.
The candle on the table before them was burning low, flickering. Draining her drink, she sighed. “I wish I were here on vacation.”
But she was not and they had work to do. There were so many unanswered questions.
They rose slowly, descended the stairs and left the cafe.
Walking toward the corner, he found one answer. Behind the bush that had seemed to move, a young couple sat on a yellow plastic sheet, their arms locked around each other, shutting out the world. They had no idea that a body had been discovered on the spot a few days earlier.