A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (33 page)

“You are capable of lecturing on a lot of things, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

“For a lot of things in this transitional period, I do not have an answer, let alone a lecture. I’m just trying to come to terms with them myself.” Without conscious thought, he had built a tiny edifice of sugar cubes, which was now crumbling by his coffee mug. Why had he been so willing—even eager to discuss all these things with her?

It was then he heard a commotion sweeping down on the street like thunder rolling in from a distance, and people shouting and screaming in chorus: “They are coming!”

He saw street peddlers gathering up their displays in a frenzy, store owners closing their doors helter-skelter, several people running with big plastic bags on their backs. In Oriole’s store, the girl jumped out from behind the counter, plunged the store into semi-darkness by turning off a switch, and tried to pull down the aluminum door. But it was too late. Plainclothes police were already rushing in.

What he had suspected was confirmed.

They had been followed. By someone with inside contacts. Otherwise, the police would not have come so quickly, nor rushed directly to that store. A tip had been given, perhaps via that light green cell phone. The informer must have supposed that Chen and his American companion were inside. But for his wariness, they would have been apprehended, together with Oriole. Catherine’s status as a U.S. Marshal would have caused serious complications. As for Chen, he had committed a serious violation of the foreign liaison regulations. The existence of such a street market was a political disgrace. He should not have brought an American here, let alone an American officer in the middle of a sensitive investigation. He would have been suspended, at the least.

Had the Flying Axes orchestrated all this—in addition to other “accidents”? He wondered how a Fujian gang, which had never before made its impact felt out of its province, could be so resourceful in Shanghai.

Another possibility suggested itself to him. Some people within the system had long planned to get rid of him. Internal Security’s report about his fastening Inspector Rohn’s necklace, for instance, must have found its way into his dossier because of this. This very assignment might have been a trap, set so he would commit a blunder in the company of an attractive American woman officer. It could backfire, however, if it was discovered that the attempt to entrap him was being made at the expense of an internationally important case. He was not without his ally at the highest level—

Catherine touched his hand lightly. “Look.”

Oriole was being marched out of the store. She was a changed girl, her hands handcuffed behind her back, her hair disheveled, and her face scratched, no longer young and vivacious. Her top was wrinkled, one strap dangled from her shoulder, and she must have lost her slippers in the scuffle, so she walked barefoot into the street.

“Did you know the police would come?” Catherine asked.

“No, but while you were examining the watches, I saw a plainclothes man outside.”

“Did they come for us?”

“It’s possible. If an American were caught here with a heap of purchases, it might be played as a political card.”

He was in no position to tell her what else he suspected, though he saw the clouds of suspicion gathering in her eyes.

“But we could have left the store in a normal way,” she said skeptically. “Why all the drama—moving behind the fitting curtain, leaving through the back door, and running across the alley in the rain.”

“I wanted them to believe we were still behind the curtain.”

“For such a long time,” she said, blushing slightly in spite of herself.

Suddenly, he thought he saw a familiar figure in the crowd, a short cop with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Then he found that it was not Qian. Yet the man with the light green cell phone had appeared outside Moscow Suburb after Qian’s call.

A middle-aged customer at the next table, pointing his fingers at the salesgirl, burst out, “What a worn-out shoe!”

Oriole must have stepped into a puddle. She left a line of wet footprints behind her.

“What does he mean?” Catherine appeared puzzled. “She is barefoot.”

“It’s slang, meaning ‘hussy’ or ‘prostitute.’ A worn-out shoe in the sense that it has been worn by so many people, and so many times.”

“Is she engaged in prostitution?”

“I don’t know. The business of this street is not legitimate. So people imagine things.”

“Will she get into serious trouble?”

“A few months or a few years. It depends on the political climate. If our government finds it politically necessary to highlight the action taken against those fakes, she will suffer. Perhaps it’s the same with your government’s emphasis on Feng’s case?”

“There’s nothing you can do about it?” she said.

“Nothing,” he echoed, though he was sorry for Oriole. The raid had been intended to catch them, he was sure of it. The girl had been caught instead. She should be punished for her business practices, but not like this.

A war had been declared, and there were casualties already. First Qiao, now Oriole. The chief inspector was still in the dark, however, with no certainty as to whom he was fighting.

Oriole was already near the end of the street.

Behind her, the line of her wet footprints was already disappearing.

In the eleventh century, Su Dongpo had come up with the famous image:
Life is like the footprint left by a solitary crane in the snow, visible for one moment, and then gone.

Lines sometimes came to Chen in the most difficult situations. He did not know how he was able to feel poetic when gangsters were closing in on him. At that instant something else flashed through his mind.

“Let’s go, Catherine.” He stood up, took her hand, and dragged her downstairs.

“Where?”

“I have to hurry back to the bureau. Something urgent. I’ve had an idea. Sorry, I’ll call you later.”

* * * *

Chapter 25

everal hours later, Chen tried to reach Catherine by phone without success. Nevertheless, he went up to her room hoping to find her.

At his first knock, the door opened. She was wearing the scarlet silk robe embroidered with the golden dragon, barelegged and barefoot. She was drying her hair with a towel.

He was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

“Come on in.”

“Sorry to arrive so late,” he said. “I called you several times. I wasn’t sure you were in.”

“Don’t keep on apologizing. I was taking a shower. You are a welcome guest here, just as I am a distinguished guest of your bureau,” she said, motioning him to sit on the couch. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water, please.”

She went to the small refrigerator and came back with a bottle of spring water for him. “Something important has come up, I guess?”

“Yes.” He produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase.

“What’s that?” She took a quick look at the first few lines.

“A poem from Wen’s past.” He took a gulp from the bottle. “Sorry, it’s difficult to read my handwriting. I did not have the time to type it.”

She seated herself beside him on the couch. “Could you read it for me.”

As she leaned over to look at the poem, he thought he smelled the scent of the soap on her skin, still wet from the shower. Taking a breath, he started to read, in English:

“Fingertip Touching

We are talking in a jammed workshop

picking our way, and our words,

amid all the prizes, gold-plated statuettes

staring at the circling flies. ‘The stuff

for your newspaper report: miracles made

by Chinese workers,’ the manager says.

‘In Europe, special grinders alone

can do the job, but our workers’ finger-

polish the precision parts.’

Beside us, women bending over the work,

their fingers

shuttling under the fluorescent light,

My camera focusing on a middle-aged one,

pallid in her black homespun blouse

soaked in sweat. Summer heat overwhelms.

Zooming in, I’m shocked to see myself

galvanized into the steel part

touched by Lili’s fingertips,

soft yet solid

as an exotic grinder.

“Who is the reporter in the first stanza?” she asked with a puzzled expression.

“Let me explain after I finish.

Not that

Lili really touched me. Not she, the prettiest

leftist at the station, July, 1970.

We were leaving, the first group

of ‘educated youths,’

leaving for the countryside,

‘Oh, to be re-re-re-educated by

the po-or and lo-lo-wer middle class peasants!’

Chairman Mao’s voice screeched

from a scratched record at the station.

By the locomotive Lili

burst into a dance, flourishing

a red paper heart she had cut, a miracle

in the design of a girl and a boy

holding the Chinese character
—
loyal’

to Chairman Mao. Spring

of the Cultural Revolution wafted

through her fingers. Her hair streamed

into the dark eye of the sun.

A
leap, her skirt

like a blossom, and the heart

jumped out of her hand, fluttering

like a flushed pheasant. A slip
—

I
rushed to its rescue, when she

caught it
—
a finishing touch

to her performance. The people

roared. I froze. She took my hand,

waving, our fingers branching

into each other, as if my blunder

were a much rehearsed act, as if

the curtain fell on the world

in a piece of white paper

to set off the red heart, in which

I was the boy, she, the girl.

‘The best fingers,’

the manager keeps me nodding. It’s she.

No mistake. But what can I say,

I say, of course, the convenient thing

to myself, that things change, as

a Chinese saying goes, as dramatically

as azure seas into mulberry fields,

or that all these years vanish
—
in a flick of your cigar.

Here she is, changed

and unchanged, her fingers

lathered in the greenish abrasive,

new bamboo shoots long immersed

in icy water, peeling, but

perfecting. She raises her hand, only

once, to wipe the sweat

from her forehead, leaving

a phosphorescent trail. She

does not know me
—
not even

with the
Wenhui Daily
’s reporter

name label on my bosom

‘No story,’

the manager says.

‘One of the millions

of educated youths, she has become

“a poor-lower-middle class peasant” herself,