by Qiu Xiaolong
Chief Inspector Chen pressed the bell; a middle-aged woman came to the door.
Catherine took her to be in the late thirties or early forties, judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes, though they did not detract from her fine features. She was dressed in a purple silk tunic and matching pants, over which she had tied a white embroidered apron. She wore her hair in an old-fashioned bun, but she could still be considered attractive.
It was difficult for Catherine to guess the woman’s status in the house. Not a maid, nor the hostess. Liu’s wife was in Shanghai.
Ambiguity also appeared in the way she treated her guests. “Please take a seat. General Manager Liu will be back in half an hour. He’s just called me from his car. Did you telephone him yesterday?”
“Yes, I did. I’m Chen Cao. Catherine is my American friend.”
“Would you like something to drink, tea or coffee?”
“Tea will be fine. Here is my card. Liu and I are both members of the Chinese Writers’ Association.”
What was up his sleeve, Catherine wondered.
Anything was possible from the enigmatic chief inspector. She decided to let him talk, and she would provide a little echo, as an American friend of his might.
“You have a distinct Shanghai accent,” Chen said.
“I was born in Shanghai. I have only come to Suzhou recently.”
“You are Comrade Wen Liping, aren’t you?” Chen stood up, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The woman stepped back in alarm.
Catherine was stunned.
This was not the Wen in the photo—a broken woman with a listless expression, but a good-looking, cheerful person with alert eyes.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?”
“I am Chief Inspector Chen of the Shanghai Police. This is Catherine Rohn, an inspector in the United States Marshals Service.”
“Did you come here to find me?”
“Yes, we have been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’m here to accompany you to the United States,” Catherine said.
“No, I am sorry. I’m not going,” Wen exclaimed, flustered but determined.
“Don’t worry, Wen. Nothing will happen to you. The American police are going to place you in a witness protection program,” Chen said. “The snake heads will be put in jail. The gangsters will never be able to find you. The safety of your family is guaranteed.”
“Yes, we’ll take care of everything,” Catherine said.
“I do not know anything about such a program,” Wen said in a panic-stricken voice, her hands covering her belly instinctively.
“When you arrive in the United States, our government will help you in a number of ways, providing you with a cash allowance, medical insurance, housing, a car, furniture—”
“How can that possibly be?” Wen cut Catherine short.
“All this is arranged in exchange for your husband’s cooperation, his testimony in court against Jia. It’s a promise made by our government.”
“No. Whatever you promise, I am not going.”
“You have been applying for your passport for months,” Chen said. “Now both the Chinese and American governments are concerned with your situation. So we have not only taken care of the passport, but your visa is ready, too. Why have you changed your mind?”
“Why am I so important?”
“Your husband has insisted on your going to the United States as the condition of his cooperation. So you see, he is concerned for you.”
“Concerned for me?” Wen said. “No, for his son in my belly.”
“If you refuse to go,” Catherine said, “do you know what will happen to your husband?”
“He is working for your government. I’m not.”
“So, now you are staying with another man, a rich upstart, is that it?” Catherine said, “You are condemning your husband to spend his life in prison!”
“Don’t say that, Inspector Rohn,” Chen intervened in a hurry. “Things may be more complicated. Liu—”
“No.”
Lowering her head, Wen sat still, like a plant withered by frost. She spoke, murmuring with trembling lips, “You can say whatever you want about an ill-fated woman like me. But don’t say anything against Liu.”
“Liu’s a good man. We understand,” Chen said. “Inspector Rohn is just anxious about your safety.”
“I have said I will not go, Chief Inspector Chen,” Wen said resolutely. “I will not say anything more.”
Several minutes of awkward silence followed. Wen merely hung her head, in spite of Chen’s repeated effort to renew the conversation. Only once did she look up at the clock on the wall, her eyes brimming with tears.
The silence was broken by hurried footsteps outside the door, a key turning in the lock, and a sob from Wen.
In came a middle-aged man. He was dark-haired, slim, austere-looking, perhaps in his early forties. He had an air of prosperous distinction and wore an expensive suit. The only thing that did not fit his image was a gigantic live carp dangling from his hand, about two feet long, its mouth pierced with a piece of wire, still twitching, its tail almost touching the carpet.
“What’s happening here?” he said.
Wen stood up, took the carp to carry it to the kitchen sink, and returned to his side. “They want me to go to the United States. The American officer insists that I leave with her.”
“So you are Mr. Liu Qing?” Catherine handed him her card. “I am Catherine Rohn, Inspector, U.S. Marshals Service. This is Chief Inspector Chen Cao of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
“Why should she go with you?” Liu demanded.
“Wen’s husband is there,” Chen said. “At his request, Inspector Rohn has come here to escort her to him. Wen will be put in a witness protection program there. She will be safe. You should persuade her to leave with Inspector Rohn.”
“Witness protection program?”
“Yes, she may not know how the program works,” Chen said. “The program has been arranged for her family’s protection.”
Liu did not respond at once. Instead, he turned to Wen, who met his gaze without saying a word. Liu nodded, as if having read the answer in her eyes.
“Comrade Wen Liping is my guest. Whether she wants to leave or stay, is really up to her to decide,” Liu said. “No one can force her to go anywhere. Not anymore.”
“You have to let her go, Mr. Liu,” Catherine said. “Her husband has made the request to the U.S. government. The Chinese government has agreed to cooperate.”
“I am not preventing her from leaving, absolutely not,” Liu retorted. “Go ahead and ask her.”
“No, nobody is keeping me here,” Wen said. “I want to stay.”
“Have you heard her, Inspector Rohn?” Liu said. “If her husband broke your law, he should be punished. No one has any objection to that, but how can the U.S. government determine a Chinese citizen’s fate against her own will?”
Catherine was not prepared for such hostility from Liu. “She can start a new life in the United States. A better life.”
“Don’t think each and every Chinese wants to crawl to the United States,” Liu snapped.
“I have to inform the Chinese authorities of your attitude. You are obstructing justice,” she said.
“Go ahead. You Americans are always talking about human rights. She has the right to stay where she wants. Gone are the days when you could order Chinese people around. Here is my attorney’s number.” Liu stood up, giving her a card, then gesturing toward the door. “Now please leave, both of you.”
“Chief Inspector Chen, your government has promised full cooperation.” Catherine also rose to her feet. “The local police bureau has to act.”
“Calm down, both of you,” Chen said, turning to Liu. “Inspector Rohn has a point, and you have one, too. It’s understandable that people look at things from their own perspectives. Can we have a talk, just you and I?”
“There’s nothing
to talk about, Chief Inspector Chen.” Liu thought for a moment. “How did you find her?”
“Through your poem. ‘The Fingertip Touching.’ I, too, belong to the Writers’ Association.”
“So you are Chen Cao.” Liu said. “I thought the name was familiar, but it does not change anything.”
“Have you heard of Wu Xiaoming’s case?” Chen asked.
“Yes, it was in the headlines last year. That HCC bastard.”
“I was in charge of it. It was a difficult case. I pledged that justice would be served. And I kept my word. As a poet as well as police officer, I give you my word. I will not force you or Wen to do anything. Let’s have a talk, and then you can judge whether she should discuss her options with me.”
“Chief Inspector Chen,” Catherine protested.
“Hasn’t she made herself clear enough?” Liu said. “Why waste any more time?”
“Wen should decide for herself, but it will not be a sound decision unless she has a good grasp of the situation. Otherwise she will make a decision you are both going to regret. Some of the factors involved are serious, I assure you, and neither of you are aware of them. You won’t let her run headlong into danger, will you?”
“Then talk to her,” Liu said.
“Do you think she will listen to me right now?” Chen said. “You are the only one she’ll listen to.”
“Are you going to keep your word, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“Yes, I will write a report to the bureau to explain her decision, whatever it may be.”
Catherine wondered at his approach. The Chinese authorities had never seemed enthusiastic. They had found Wen, but now Chen did not appear very anxious to make her leave China. Why had Chen brought her with him then?
“Fine, let’s talk in my study upstairs,” Liu said to Chen before he turned to Wen Liping. “Don’t worry. Have lunch with the American. No one will force you to do anything.”
* * * *
Chapter 29
L
iu’s office was far more spacious than Chen’s at the Shanghai Police Bureau. More luxuriously furnished, too: a huge U-shaped steel desk, a swiveling leather rediner, several leather armchairs, and shelves filled with hardcover books. There was a mini-tower computer with a laser printer on the desk. Liu seated himself in an armchair and asked Chen to sit in another.
Chen noticed several miniature gilded Buddhist statues on the shelves. Each of them was clothed in a colorful silk robe. It reminded him of a scene he had witnessed years earlier in his mother’s company, in an ivy-mantled temple in Hangzhou, of a gilded clay image of Buddha sitting high in the hall, while pilgrims in miserable rags knelt in front of the gold and silver silk robes. The ceremony was called “Donning Buddha,” his mother explained. The more expensive the robe, the more devoted the pilgrim. Buddha would then produce miracles in accordance with the donor’s devotion. Following his mother’s example, he lit a stick of incense and made three wishes. These wishes he had long since forgotten, but not the puzzlement he had experienced.
Believe, and anything’s possible. Chief Inspector Chen did not know whether Liu believed in these statues’ powers or kept them merely for decoration, but Liu seemed to be convinced that he was doing the right thing.
“Sorry about my temper,” Liu said. “She does not understand how things are in China, that American officer.”
“It’s not her fault. I learned some details about Wen’s life as late as last night. Inspector Rohn does not know about them. That was why I wanted to have a talk between ourselves.”
“If you know what a hell of life she had with that bastard of a husband, do you still insist on sending her to him? You cannot imagine how we admired her in high school. She led us in everything, her long plait fluttering on her bosom, and her cheeks rosier than the peach blossom in the spring breeze... God, why should I tell you all this?”
“Please tell me as much as you can. So I can write a detailed report to the bureau,” Chen said, taking out a notebook.
“Fine, if that’s what you want,” Liu said in bafflement. “Where shall I start?”
“From the beginning, when you first met Wen.”
* * * *
Liu entered high school in 1967, at a time when his father, an owner of a perfume company before 1949, was being denounced as a class enemy. Liu himself was a despicable “black puppy” to his schoolmates, among whom he saw Wen for the first time. They were in the same class. Like others, he was smitten by her beauty, but he never thought of approaching her. A boy from a black family was not considered worthy to be a Red Guard. That Wen was a Red Guard cadre magnified his inferiority. Wen led the class in singing revolutionary songs, in shouting the political slogans, and in reading Quotations from Chairman Mao, their only textbook at the time. So she was really more like the rising sun to him, and he was content to admire her from afar.
That year his father was admitted to a hospital for eye surgery. Even there, among the wards, Red Guards or Red Rebels swarmed like raging wasps. His father was ordered to stand to say his confession, blindfolded, in front of Chairman Mao’s picture. It was an impossible task for an invalid who was unable to see or move. So it was up to Liu to help, and first, to write the confession speech on behalf of the old man. It was a tough job for a thirteen-year-old boy, and after spending an hour with a splitting headache, he produced only two or three lines. In desperation, clutching his pen, he ran out to the street, where he saw Wen Liping walking with her father. Smiling, she greeted him, and her fingertips brushed against the pen. The golden top of the pen suddenly began to shine in the sunlight. He went back home and finished the speech with his one glittering possession in the world. Afterward, he supported his father in the hospital, standing with him like a wooden prop, not yielding to humiliation, reading for him like a robot. It was a day that contained his brightest and blackest moment.
Their three years in high school flowed away like water, ending in the flood of the educated youth movement. He went to Heilongjiang Province with a group of his schoolmates. She went to Fujian by herself. It was on the day of their departure, at the Shanghai railway station, that he experienced the miracle of his life, as he held the red paper heart with her in the loyal character dance. Her fingers lifted up not only the red paper heart, but also raised him from the black puppy status to an equal footing with her.
Life in Heilongjiang was hard. The memory of that loyal character dance proved to be an unfailing light in that endless tunnel. Then the news of her marriage came, and he was devastated. Ironically, it was then that he first thought seriously about his own future, a future in which he imagined he would be able to help her. And he started to study hard.
Like others, Liu came back to Shanghai in 1978. As a result of the self-study he had done in Heilongjiang, he passed the college entrance examination and became a student at East China Normal University the same year. Though overwhelmed with his studies, he made several inquiries about her. She seemed to have withdrawn. There was no information about her. During his four years at college, never once did she return to Shanghai. After graduation, he got a job at Wenhui Daily, as a reporter covering Shanghai industry news, and he started writing poems. One day, he heard that Wenhui would run a special story about a commune factory in Fujian Province. He approached the chief editor for the job. He did not know the name of Wen’s village. Nor did he really intend to look for her. Just the idea of being somewhere close to her was enough. Indeed, there’s no story without coincidences. He was shocked when he stepped into the workshop of the factory.
After the visit, he had a long talk with the manager. The manager must have guessed something, telling him that Feng was notoriously jealous, and violent. He thought a lot that night. After all those years, he still cared for her with unabated passion. There seemed to be a voice in his mind urging: Go to her. Tell her everything. It may not be too late.
But the following morning, waking up to reality, he left the village in a hurry. He was a successful
reporter, with published poems and younger girlfriends. To choose a married woman with somebody else’s child, one who was no longer young and beautiful—he did not have the guts to face what others might think.
Back in Shanghai, he turned in the story. It was his assignment. His boss called it poetic. “The revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of our society.” The metaphor was often quoted. The story must have been reprinted in the Fujian local newspapers. He wondered if she had read it. He thought about writing to her, but what could he say? That was when he started to conceive the poem, which was published in Star magazine, selected as one of the best of the year.