by Qiu Xiaolong
“The names in black indicate those already dead, and the names in red indicate those still alive.”
“Isn’t this bad luck for the living?”
“In China, husband and wife are supposed to be buried together under the same tombstone. So after one’s death, the other will have the tombstone erected with the couple’s names both engraved on it—one in black, and one in red. When both of them pass away, their children will put their coffins—or cinerary urns—together and repaint all the characters in black.”
“This must be a time-honored custom.”
“Also a disappearing one. The family structure is no longer so stable here. People get divorced or remarried. Only a handful of old people still follow this tradition.”
Their talk was interrupted as the black-attired old women reached them. They must have been in their seventies or even older, though they shuffled their bound feet steadily forward. He was amazed—such old people, moving with such difficulty, on such a hazardous mountain path. They were carrying candles, incense, paper ghost money, flowers, as well as cleaning implements.
One of them wobbled over on her bound feet, pushing a paper model of a “ghost” house at him. “May your ancestors protect you!”
“Oh, what a beautiful American wife!” another exclaimed. “Your ancestors underground are grinning from ear to ear.”
“Your ancestors bless you!” the third prayed. “You two have a wonderful future together!”
“You’ll make tons of money abroad!” the fourth predicted.
“No.” He kept shaking his head at the chorus in Suzhou dialect, which Catherine did not understand, fortunately.
“What are they saying?” she asked.
“Well, lucky words to please us, so we will buy their offerings or give them money.” He bought a bouquet of flowers from an old woman. The flowers did not look so fresh. Possibly they had been taken from somebody else’s grave. He did not say anything. Catherine bought a bunch of incense.
As he finally located his father’s grave, the old women carrying brooms and mops rushed over to clean the tombstone. One of them produced a brush pen and two small cans of paint, and started repainting the characters with red and black paint. This was done as a service, for which he had to pay. It was partially because of Catherine, he thought. Those old women must have assumed he was immensely rich, with an American wife.
He brushed away the remaining dust from the tombstone. She took several pictures. It was thoughtful of her. He would show those pictures to his mother. After sticking the incense in the ground and lighting it, she came to stand beside him, imitating his gesture, with her palms pressed in front of her heart.
What would be the late Neo-Confucian professor’s reaction to this sight—his son, a Chinese cop, with an American woman cop?
Closing his eyes, he tried to have a moment of silent communion with the dead. He had let the old man down terribly, at least in one aspect. The continuation of the family tree had been one of his father’s highest concerns. Standing by the grave, still a bachelor, the only defense Chief Inspector Chen could make for himself was that in Confucianism, one’s responsibility to the country was considered more important than anything else.
This was not, however, the meditative interlude he had expected. The old women started their chorus again. To make things worse, a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed around them, huge, black, monstrous mosquitoes that intensified their bloodthirsty assault to the chorus of the white-haired ones’ blessings.
In a short while, he suffered a couple of vicious bites, and noticed Catherine scratching her neck.
She produced a bottle from her handbag and sprayed it on his arms and hands, then rubbed some on his neck. The mosquito spray, an American product, did not discourage the Suzhou mosquitoes. They lingered, buzzing.
Several other old women loomed up from another direction.
They had to leave, he concluded. “Let’s go.”
“Why in such a hurry?”
“The atmosphere is mined. I don’t think I will have a moment’s peace here.”
When they reached the bottom of the hill, they ran into another problem. According to the cemetery bus schedule, they would have to wait there for another hour.
“There are several bus stops on Mudu Road, but it would take us at least twenty minutes to reach the nearest one.”
A truck pulled up beside them. The driver stuck his head out the window. “Need a lift?”
“Yes. Are you going to Mudu?”
“Come on. Twenty Yuan for you both,” the driver said, “but only one can sit inside with me.”
“You go ahead, Catherine,” he said. “I’ll sit in the back.”
“No. We’ll both sit in the back.”
Stepping onto the tire, he swung himself over into the back of the truck and pulled her up. There were several used cardboard boxes in the flatbed. He turned one inside out and offered it to her as a seat.
“It’s the first time for me,” she said, cheerfully, stretching out her legs. “When I was a kid, I wanted to sit in the back of a truck just like this. My parents never allowed it.”
She slipped off her shoes and rubbed her ankle.
“Still hurts? I’m so sorry, Inspector Rohn.”
“Here you go again. Why?”
“The mosquitoes, these old women, the trail, and now the truck ride.”
“No, this is the real China. What’s wrong?”
“These old women must have cost you a small fortune.”
“Don’t be too hard on them. There are poor people everywhere. The homeless in New York, for instance. So many of them. I’m not rich, but giving away my change won’t bankrupt me.”
Her clothes were all rumpled, sweat-soaked, and her shoes were off. Looking at her, seated on a cardboard box, he realized how much more she was than merely vivacious and attractive. She had a radiance.
“It’s so kind of you,” he said. Still, it was not appropriate for him, as a Party member, to show an American the poverty of China’s rural areas, even though she had told him about the homeless in New York. He was anxious to resume his role as a guide. “Look, the Liuhe Pagoda!”
The truck pulled up a few blocks ahead of Guanqian Road, where the Xuanmiao Temple was located. Sticking his head out of the window, the driver said, “I can’t go any farther. We’re at the center of the city now. The police will stop me for letting people sit in back. Don’t worry about catching a bus. You can walk from here to Guanqian Road.”
Chen jumped out of the truck first. Bikes were racing by him. Seeing the hesitation in her eyes, he reached out his arms. She let him lift her down.
The magnificent Taoist temple on Guanqian Road soon came in view. In front of it, they saw a bazaar consisting of food vendors as well as a variety of other booths selling local products, knickknacks, paintings, paper cutouts, and small things not readily available in general stores.
“It’s more commercialized than I expected.” She gladly accepted a bottle of Sprite he bought for her. “I suppose it’s inevitable.”
“It’s too close to Shanghai to be much different. All the tourists don’t help,” he said.
They had to purchase entrance tickets to the temple. Through the brass-trimmed red gate, they could see a corner of the flagstone-paved courtyard, packed with pilgrims and wreathed in incense smoke.
She was surprised at the turnout. “Is Taoism so popular in China?”
“If you talk about the number of Taoist temples in China, it is not. It is more influential as a life philosophy. For instance, those performing tai chi in Bund Park are Taoist followers in a secular sense, following the principle of the soft conquering the strong, and the slow beating the fast.”
“Yes, yin turning into yang, yang into yin, everything in the process of changing into something else. A chief inspector turning into a tour guide, as well as a postmodernist poet.”
“And a U.S. Marshal into a sinologist,” he said. “In terms of its religious followers’ practice, Ta
oism may not be that different from Buddhism. Candles and incense are burned in both.”
“If you build a temple, worshippers will come.”
“You can put it that way. In an increasingly materialistic society, some Chinese people are turning to Buddhism, Taoism, or Christianity for spiritual answers.”
“What about Communism?”
“Party members believe in it, but in this transition period, things can be difficult. People don’t know what will happen to them the next day. So it may not be too bad to have something to believe in.”
“What about you?”
“I believe that China is making progress in the right direction—”
The arrival of a yellow-satin-robed Taoist priest cut short any further statement by Chen.
“Welcome, our reverend benefactors. Would you like to draw a piece?” The Taoist held out a bamboo container, in which were several bamboo sticks, each bearing a number.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A form of fortune telling,” Chen said. “Choose a stick. It can tell you what you want to know.”
“Really!” She pulled one out. The bamboo stick bore a number: 157
The Taoist led them to a large book on a wooden stand, and turned to the page with the matching number. There was a four-line poem on the page.
Hills upon hills, there seems to be no way out;
The willows shady and flowers bright, another village appears.
Under the heart-breaking bridge, green is the spring water,
Which once reflected a wild-goose-flushing beauty.
“What does the poem mean?” she asked.
“Interesting, but it is beyond me,” Chen said. “The Taoist will interpret it for a fee.”
“How much?”
“Ten Yuan,” the Taoist said. “It will make a difference for you.”
“Fine.”
“What time period do you want to inquire about—the present or the future?”
“The present.”
“What do you want to know?”
“About a person.”
“In that case, the answer is obvious.” The Taoist broke into an obliging smile. “What you are looking for is right there for you. The first couplet suggests a sudden change at a time when things seem to be beyond help.”
“What else does the poem tell?”
“It may pertain to a romantic relationship. The second couplet makes it clear.”
“I’m confused,” she said, turning to Chen. “You’re the one right here for me.”
“It is intentionally ambiguous.” Chen was amused. “I’m right here, so who do you have to look for? Or it could be about Wen, for all we know.”
They started to walk around in the temple, examining the clay idols on cushion-shaped stones—the deities of the Taoist religion. When they were out of the Taoist’s hearing, she resumed her questioning. “You are a poet, Chen. Please explain these lines to me.”
“What a poem means and what a fortunetelling piece means can be totally different. You’ve paid for the fortunetelling, so you have to be content with his interpretation.”
“What is wild-goose-flushing beauty?”
“In ancient China, there were four legendary beauties, so beautiful that everything else reacted in shame: the bird flushed, the fish dived, the moon hid, and the flower closed up. Later, people used this metaphor to describe a beauty.”
They then moved on, strolling into the temple courtyard. She started taking pictures, like an American tourist, he thought. She seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, shooting from many different angles.
She stopped a middle-aged woman. “Could you take a picture for us?” she asked. She stood close to him. Her hair gleaming against his shoulder, she gazed into the camera with the ancient temple in the background.
The bazaar in front of the temple was swarming with people. She spent several minutes looking for exotic but inexpensive souvenirs. Besides several baskets of herbs, which filled the air with a pleasant aroma, she bargained with an old peasant woman displaying tiny bird’s eggs, plastic bags of Suzhou tea leaves, and packages of dried mushrooms. At a folk toy booth, he rattled a slithery paper snake on a bamboo stick, a reminder of his childhood.
They chose a table shaded by a large umbrella. He ordered Suzhou-style dumplings, peeled shrimp with tender tea leaves, and chicken and duck blood soup. Between bites, she resumed her questions about the fortunetelling poem.
“The first and the second couplet are both by Lu You, a Song dynasty poet, but from two different poems,” he said. “The first is often quoted to describe a sudden change. As for the second, there’s a tragic story behind it. In his seventies, when Lu revisited the place where he had first seen Shen, a woman he loved all his life, he wrote the lines, gazing into the green water under the bridge.”
“A romantic story,” she said, swallowing a spoonful of the chicken and duck blood soup.
* * * *
Chapter 27
T
hey reached the hotel in the growing dusk.
From her room, Chief Inspector Chen made a phone call to Detective Yu. Aware of Inspector Rohn’s presence, Yu did not say much on the phone, except that there would be a new interview tape delivered to Chen.
Then she said she wanted to phone her supervisor.
He excused himself to smoke a cigarette in the corridor.
It was a short conversation. She came out before he finished the cigarette. Looking out at the ancient city in the dusk, she said that her boss suggested she return home. She did not seem eager to comply.
“We may make some progress tomorrow,” she said.
“Let’s hope so. Maybe the fortunetelling poem will do the trick. I’ll take a rest in my room. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
“If anything happens, call me.” She remembered there was no phone in his room. “Or knock at my door.”
“I will.” He added, “Maybe we can take a walk this evening.”
He went to his room. When he turned on the light, to his surprise, he saw a man sitting there—to be more exact, taking a nap with his back resting against the headboard.
Little Zhou looked up with a start. “I’ve been waiting for you. Sorry I fell asleep in your room, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“You must have waited for a long time. What has brought you here, Little Zhou?”
“Something from Detective Yu. Marked to be delivered to you, ASAP.”
Since Qiao’s abduction, Chen had made a point of contacting Yu by cell phone, and in an emergency, through Little Zhou, whom Chen trusted.
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” Chen said. “I will be back at the bureau tomorrow. Nobody knows of your trip to Suzhou?” Chen asked.
“Nobody. Not even Party Secretary Li.”
“Thank you so much, Little Zhou. You are taking a great risk for me.”
“Don’t mention it, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m your man. Everybody knows that in the bureau. Let me drive you back tonight. It’s safer in Shanghai.”
“No, don’t worry. We have something to do here,” Chen said. “Let me talk to the hotel manager. There should be another room available. You can return to Shanghai tomorrow morning.”
“No, you don’t have to. If there’s nothing for me to do here, I’m leaving. But first I’ll go to the night market for some local products.”
“Good idea. Live river shrimps are a must. And Suzhou braised tofu too.” He wrote his cell phone number on a card for Little Zhou. “Both you and Lu can call me at this number.”
He walked out to the door with Little Zhou. “It’s a long drive back to Shanghai. Take care, Little Zhou.”
“Two hours. No sweat.”
Back in his room, he opened the envelope. It contained a cassette tape with a short introduction from Yu.
Chief Inspector Chen:
Following the interview with Zheng, I found Tong Jiaqing in a hair salon. Tong is a girl in her early twenties, charged with indecent pra
ctices on several occasions, though discharged soon afterward each time. The following is the interview with her in one of those private rooms. As you did in the national model worker case, I made an appointment at the salon.
Yu: So you are Tong Jiaqing.
Tong: That’s correct. Why do you ask that?
Yu: I am from the Shanghai Police Bureau. Take a look at my card.
Tong: What! A cop. I’ve done nothing wrong, Officer Yu. Since the
beginning of the new year, I’ve been working here as a law-abiding