Shanghai Redemption (16 page)

“I'm still waiting to order,” he said, holding up the menu.

Glancing at his watch, He began wondering whether Qian would appear. It was now seven ten. It didn't really matter, he thought. All he really wanted to do this morning was enjoy a bowl of Suzhou noodles, not dwell on his troubles.

As he was breathing deep into his second cup of the fragrant tea, he heard a flurry of footsteps coming up the stairs. Qian appeared on the landing in a ray of dazzling morning light, waving her hand.

She was wearing a light blue, short-sleeved mandarin dress, with a white cashmere shawl over her shoulders. It accentuated her slender figure, as if she was stepping light-footedly out of another poem by Du Mu.

Down and out, I wander around / crossing rivers and lakes / with a cup of wine, / and her waist willowy, / as if capable of dancing / on my lone palm.

Chen stood up to greet her and then poured her a cup of tea, rather than the wine featured in the Tang lines.

“It's such a nice place. Thank you for your recommendation, Qian.”

“You have a good memory, Chen.”

The waitress came over to take their order. Chen chose the double topping of smoked fish and slow-cooked pork belly and the noodles in red soup, while Qian settled on shredded pork fried with pickled cabbage in white soup.

“The deep-fried rice paddy eel is the chef's special. It's from Cai's personal farm, so it's guaranteed to be hormone-free.”

So along with the noodles, they agreed to share a platter of the eels.

“I didn't think you'd call,” she said, chopsticking up the noodles as the waitress withdrew with an empty tray.

“I'm a detective for hire. So why not? But I'm here in Suzhou to oversee the renovation of my father's grave. My mother insists that I personally attend to the details, and I happened to have a few days off.”

“You're a filial son, aren't you?”

“Well, you may tell my mother that,” Chen said, picking up an eel slice for himself.

“How did you happen to pick that hotel?”

“Because of what you said about this restaurant the last time we met. The hotel is a nice one; it's also close to here and to the club.”

“So you have also been to the club?”

“No, not yet. But I'll go there.”

“I didn't know you were a Suzhou opera fan.”

“What does that have to do with Suzhou opera?”

“You just mentioned the club.”

“Don't you mean Southern Heavenly World, the nightclub that's in the hotel?”

“Oh. No. I was talking about the Suzhou opera club. It's just two minutes' walk from here.”

“A Suzhou opera club—” That was a disappointment. He'd invited her out for information of a different kind. “Of course I'll go there too.”

“The Southern Heavenly World nightclub murders the landscape.”

“I couldn't agree more. Because of my job, I have to visit such places. It reminds me of the Heavenly World in Shanghai, which has almost the same name.”

“I've heard that the nightclub here is affiliated with the one in Shanghai. A former colleague of mine works in the Shanghai nightclub.”

“I see,” he said. This was the second time someone had mentioned the affiliation of the two clubs, and this time it was from a more reliable source. “This noodle restaurant is fantastic. There are a lot of customers this early in the morning. We're lucky to be able to get such a great table, with just the two of us sitting by the windows.”

“This raised section by the windows is more expensive. They charge double for the view, and for the service. The other customers at this hour are mostly local retirees who are not well-to-do like you with your lucrative jobs.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“And there's another reason they come so early. They want to get the noodles from the first pot of the morning.”

“Why's that?”

“When the noodles are freshly made, and boiled in the first pot, the taste is particularly delicious. As the day goes on, the chef has to frequently add water to the pot. Let's say you come here around noon. At that stage, the water can be floury from all the noodle residue, and there's a huge difference in the taste.”

“That's intriguing,” he said. “Is that why it's open for only half a day?”

“It might be part of the reason, but there's another explanation for why it's only open for half a day. To make traditional Suzhou noodles, the soup has to be cooked in a pot—a different pot from the noodle pot—overnight, for five or six hours, with all the special ingredients. Because of the great demand here, the soup is usually gone by noon. To maintain the highest quality, the proprietor, Cai, can only serve from morning till one thirty in the afternoon.”

“Cai sounds like an interesting character.”

“He doesn't come in early. He's another fan of Suzhou opera,” she said, reaching into her purse. “I've brought a CD with me.” She showed a disc to Chen. “It is Tang and Song poems set to Suzhou opera. You won't find it in any stores. It was produced by the Suzhou Opera Club.”

“Tang and Song poems set to Suzhou opera!”

“It was an experiment we did at our club. An old proverb says, if you memorize three hundred Tang poems, you might be able to write a little. It's easier for people to remember words when they're set to music. And at the same time, people interested only in the classic poetry might also learn to appreciate opera.”

“That's great. You are promoting poetry as well as Suzhou opera.”

She took a slow sip at the tea, the morning light lambent in her eyes, a tiny greenish leaf between her lips.

The tenderness of the green tea leaf between her lips. / Everything is possible, but not pardonable.…

Did he write those lines himself? Possibly. It wasn't a morning, however, to indulge in poetic reveries.

“We didn't talk much about the job on the phone,” Chen said, steering the conversation back to the reason they were meeting. “Tell me more specifically what you want me to do. Last time, you indicated that it involves somebody in the city government, someone big.”

“He's not that big, but he is in a sensitive position. That's about all you need to know. You should simply focus on the woman. You'll find more about him as you investigate her—it's inevitable, and really only a matter of time. Once you reach that point, it's possible you'll decide the job's too much trouble. Once you understand what's involved, you can decline the job and not tell me anything of what you've learned.”

It was basically what she'd said when they first met. But it would be difficult for him to back out now, since he'd invited her here, with his own ulterior motive in mind.

“I see,” he said, putting down the chopsticks. “I still have to ask you some questions first.”

“Go ahead.”

“The identity of the man aside, why do you want information on this woman?”

“Do you really have to know, Chen?”

“Yes, I have to know what is motivating a potential client before I take on any job.”

Chen was betting that Qian would choose not to answer, and then he would be off the hook.

She cast a plaintive look at him.

The waitress came over again, ready to clear the table.

“We're in no hurry,” Chen said. “We want to talk for a while. Bring us another pot of good tea.”

“Yes sir,” the waitress said.

“And here is twenty yuan for you,” Chen said, handing her a bill. “Once you bring the tea, I'd appreciate it if you could leave us alone to talk in peace.”

“I understand, sir,” the waitress said with a knowing smile. “For fifty, I can make sure that no other customers are seated near you.”

“That's reasonable,” Chen agreed readily. “I'll pay you when we leave.”

Qian looked on in amazement. She expected a private investigator to know the ways of the world, but the way he tipped was surprising.

The waitress brought over another pot of Dragon Well tea in no time, leaving them with an obliging smile.

“You really must have been paid well for your last job,” Qian said.

“Not too bad. The customer thought I did a good job.”

“I see. And to do a good job, you have to know why you're being hired. I understand,” she said slowly. “It's a long story. I'd better start from the beginning.

“In Suzhou opera, an actor might sing a couple of lines before starting into the narration. I don't want to be that dramatic, but there's a poem on the back of the CD cover, which might set up my story.”

Chen picked up the CD, on the back of which was the silhouette of a graceful woman dressed in ancient attire leaning against a pavilion. Beside that image was a ci poem set in a special font that looked like petals.

Thanks to the long willow shoot bending / itself for her, she succumbs / to the mistlike catkins caressing / her face, as if touched / by an old friend
.

“Oh, it's by Li Yu, the poet-emperor of Southern Tang in the tenth century,” he said. “He was a lousy emperor, but a brilliant poet.…”

A group of customers appeared, laughing, talking, cursing, heading straight to their section, possibly having just come from an overnight mahjong party or a party at the Southern Heavenly World. It seemed the waitress wasn't able to keep her word.

One of the new customers shouted out to the waitress, “Double toppings for each of us, a couple of the best cross-bridge dishes as well. And a pot of your best Before-Rain tea.”

“Sorry about that,” the waitress apologized to Chen and Qian.

Since it was no longer possible for them to talk privately there, they paid their bill and left.

It was just past eight in the morning, and neither the Lion Garden nor the bookstore had opened yet. Chen, instead, led Qian to the back garden of his hotel. Considering the time of year, it was surprisingly pleasant sitting on a bench out by the pond. Faint music came wafting over on a fitful breeze.

No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. By all appearances, they were merely a couple from the hotel, stepping out into the garden to watch the goldfish in the pond after enjoying an early breakfast.

“It's a fairly long story,” she said quietly. “Like a Suzhou opera, I think it's better told in the third person.”

“Perspective is what makes a story. Please go ahead.”

*   *   *

She was born in Suzhou. Her parents, both of them opera fans, dreamed of her growing up to be a Suzhou opera singer. She began showing a passionate interest in it as early as her primary school years. After middle school, she entered the Suzhou Arts School, where she was a top student. Soon she was hired by the Suzhou Number One Opera Ensemble. In the heyday of the opera, that would have meant a secure future. But times had changed. The audience, once huge in number, was shrinking rapidly, and frenzied real estate development led to the demolition of the old Suzhou opera theaters, one after another. As audiences dwindled, revenue fell, and once the government dropped their subsidy, the ensemble could hardly make ends meet. The dire financial situation meant the company could no longer continue as before.

Eventually, the ensemble had to resort to the old ways: having its members perform at whatever venue available. One night they performed at a restaurant, the next night a private performance for a wealthy family, and the day after, at a birthday party. Ultimately the members had to go their separate ways, with some of them going on the road and touring beyond Suzhou. Suzhou opera was said to have a considerable fan base in Shanghai, so Qian went there on her own, though nominally still a member of the ensemble.

In Shanghai, she came to play in a restaurant called Plum Blossom Pavilion, which was known for its inexpensive breakfast and was popular with the not-so-well-to-do retirees. The restaurant proprietor, a middle-aged man named Kang, invited Suzhou opera singers to perform every Tuesday morning. It was a marketing gambit—a free treat for customers to enjoy over a bowl of noodles or dumplings—but it gave the restaurant a reputation as “a conscientious enterprise intent on preserving the traditional arts.” The Foreign Liaison Office heard about the performances and started to bring foreign visitors to the restaurant. Then Kang made a suggestion to her.

“Continue to sing every Tuesday as before, but during the rest of the week, you can work as a hostess and get paid accordingly. You'll also get free food and board, and a bonus whenever you sing for customers by special request.”

To Qian, Suzhou opera could not have sunk lower. But the rapidly rising rent in the city already took more than half of the money she earned. She had no choice but to move into the restaurant—eating leftovers in the kitchen and sleeping on the hard tables after the restaurant closed late at night.

About a week after starting her new role, she was told that there would be a group of distinguished Western tourists interested in Suzhou opera coming in that evening and that she had to do her best. That evening turned out to be a huge success. Articles covering it appeared in several newspapers, some with pictures, and among the tourists was a well-known American sinologist who spoke highly of the Shanghai government's efforts to support the local dialect opera. For Kang, publicity like that meant more profit.

For her, however, it was more about a man whom, for the moment, she would call S. He was the one who arranged for the Western tourist group to visit the restaurant, initially as a gesture of support for the traditional art. He was in a position to make decisions for the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office, and he arranged for several groups to come in quick succession.

In S., she saw “someone who understands the music,” an echo from the traditional romantic stories celebrated in Suzhou opera. And S. saw her as “the youthful, vivacious embodiment of the ancient art,” as he told her one evening after her performance. In him, she thought she'd discovered hope for a revival of Suzhou opera. He had the power to make impossible things possible. Because of the groups of foreign tourists who came to the Suzhou opera at the restaurant, and the coverage of it in the media, the opera started to attract some younger people.