A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (34 page)

her fingers
—
tough as a grinder,

but a revolutionary one, polishing up

the spirit of our society, speaking

volumes for our socialism’s superiority.’

So came a central metaphor

for my report.

An emerald snail

crawls along the white wall.

“A sad poem,” she murmured.

“A good poem, but the translation fails to do justice to the original.”

“The language is clear, and the story is poignant. I don’t see anything wrong with the English. It’s very touching indeed.”

“ ‘Touching’ is the very word. I had a hard time finding English equivalents. It is Liu Qing’s poem.”

“Who? Liu Qing?”

“That classmate of Wen’s—her brother Lihua mentioned him—the upstart who sponsored the reunion?”

“Yes. ‘The wheel of fortune turns so quickly.’ Zhu also mentioned him, saying he was a nobody in high school. Why is his poem suddenly so important to us?”

“Well, a poetry anthology was found in Wen’s house. I think I mentioned it to you.”

“It is mentioned in the file. Hold on, the revolutionary grinder, the commune factory, the workers polishing the parts with their fingers, and Lili—”

“Now you see. That’s why I want to discuss the poem with you tonight,” he said. “After parting with you, I called Yu. Liu Qing’s poem is in that anthology, and Yu faxed me a copy of it. The poem was first published five years ago in a magazine called
Stars.
Liu worked as a reporter for
Wenhui Daily
then. Like the speaker in the poem, he wrote about a model commune factory in Changle County, Fujian Province. Here is a copy of the newspaper report.” He produced a newspaper out of his briefcase. “Propaganda stuff. I had no time to translate it.

“Few bookstores—except in large cities—sell poetry now. It’s unimaginable that a poor peasant woman would go all the way from her village to buy a poetry collection.”

“Do you believe the poem tells a true story?”

“It’s difficult to say how much is true. The visit to Wen’s factory, as described in the poem, was coincidental. But Liu used the same metaphor in his newspaper story—
a revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of the socialist society.
It could have been part of the reason he quit his job.”

“Why? Liu did nothing wrong.”

“He should not have written such political baloney, but he did not have the guts to refuse. In addition, he must have felt guilty for having done nothing to help her.”

“I think I see your point now.” She perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. “If the story in the poem is a true one, Liu did not reveal his identity to her at the time, let alone offer help to her. That’s the meaning of the image of the emerald snail crawling at the end. It’s Liu’s guilt, a symbol of Liu’s regret.”

“Yes, a snail carries a burden forever. So the moment I finished translating the poem I hurried over.”

“What do you intend to do now?” she said.

“We must interview Liu. He may not have spoken to Wen then, but later he must have sent her a copy of the anthology, which she kept. And possibly there were other contacts between them, too.”

“Yes, possibly.”

“I’ve talked to people at the
Wenhui Daily,”
Chen said. “When Liu quit his job about five years ago and started a construction material company in Shanghai, he got several contracts from the Singapore government for the Suzhou New Industry Zone. Now he has two construction material factories and a timber yard in Suzhou, in addition to his company in Shanghai. I called Liu’s home this afternoon. His wife said that he was in Beijing negotiating a deal and would return to Suzhou tomorrow.”

“Are we going to Suzhou?”

“Yes. It’s a long shot. Party Secretary Li will have the train tickets delivered to the hotel tomorrow morning.”

“Party Secretary Li can be so efficient,” she said. “How early do we leave?”

“The train leaves at eight. We arrive in Suzhou about nine thirty. Li suggests that we spend a day or two there.”

He proposed vacationing as camouflage for their investigation. Li had readily approved of the plan.

“So we will be tourists,” she said. “Now, how did it occur to you to connect the poem with our investigation? I’ll make you a cup of coffee if you’ll tell me. Special coffee beans, from Brazil. A treat.”

“You’re learning the Chinese way fast. To exchange favors. The very essence of
guanxi.
But it’s late. We are leaving early tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. We can nap on the train.” She took a coffee grinder with a small bag of coffee beans from the closet, and looked for an outlet. “I know you like strong coffee.”

“Did you bring this coffee from America?”

“No, I bought it in the hotel. They provide every convenience. Look at the grinder. Krups.”

“Things are expensive in the hotel.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret of mine,” she said “We have a traveling allowance, the amount of which depends on the location. For Shanghai, I get ninety dollars a day. I do not consider myself extravagant if I use half a day’s allowance to entertain my host.”

She found an outlet behind the sofa. The cord was not long enough. She put the grinder on the carpet, plugged it in, and poured the beans into the grinder. Kneeling, she ground the coffee, revealing her shapely legs and feet.

Soon, the room was full of a pleasant fragrance. She poured a cup for him, put a small spoon for sugar, and milk, on the coffee table, and produced a piece of cake out of the refrigerator.

“What about yourself?” he said.

“I don’t drink coffee in the evening. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

She poured white wine for herself. Instead of sitting beside him on the couch, she returned to her position on the carpet.

Sipping at his coffee, he wondered if he should have declined, her offer. It was late. They were alone in her room. But the events of the day had been too much for him. He needed to talk. Not just as a police officer, but as a man—with a woman whose company he enjoyed.

He had conducted a thorough search of her hotel room. There had been no secret audio or video or taping equipment hidden. They should be safe. He was not so sure about this, however, after the day’s events, after Party Secretary Li’s information about Internal Security.

“The best coffee I’ve ever had,” he said.

She raised her glass. “To our success.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, clinking his mug against her glass. “About the poem. Oriole’s wet footprints disappearing along the street reminded me of a Song dynasty poem.”

“A Song dynasty poem?”

“It’s about the transience of one’s existence in this world— like the footprints left by a crane in the snow, visible only for one moment. Looking at her footprints, I tried to work out some lines. Then I thought of Wen. Among the people in her life, there is also a poet, Liu Qing.”

“It might be an important lead,” she said.

“At the moment we haven’t any others.”

“A fresh pot of coffee?”

“I’d rather have a glass of wine,” he said.

“Yes. You should not drink too much coffee in the evening.”

The fax machine in the room abruptly started emitting a long roll of paper, four or five pages. She took a look at the slightly tacky scroll without tearing it out of the machine.

“Just background information about the smuggling of immigrants. Ed Spencer did some research for me.”

“Oh, I learned something from Detective Yu,” he said. “The Flying Axes have requested assistance from other triads. One of them may be active in Shanghai.”

“No wonder,” she said simply.

That might account for the accidents here, perhaps even the raid on the market, but there was still a lot left unanswered.

She took a long drink, emptying her glass. His still remained half full. As she bent to pour herself more wine, he thought he glimpsed the swell of her breasts through the opening of her robe.

“We’re leaving early. It is such a long way for you to go back home—”

“Yes, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning.” He got to his feet.

Instead of moving to the door, he took a couple of steps toward the window. The night breeze was sweet. The reflection of the neon signs lining the Bund rippled on the river. The scene seemed to lie before them like the world in a dream.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, coming to his side at the window.

A short spell of silence ensued. Neither said anything. It was enough for him to feel her closeness, looking out to the Bund.

And then he caught sight of the park and the darkling riverfront—
swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight
/
where ignorant armies clash by night
—a scene experienced by another poet, at another time, in another place, with someone standing by him.

The thought of the unsolved case of the park victim sobered him.

He had not talked to Gu, or to Old Hunter that day.

“I really have to go,” he said.

* * * *

Chapter 26

he train arrived on time. At nine thirty it pulled into Suzhou.

In a side street a few blocks from the railway station, Inspector Rohn took a fancy to a small hotel. With its latticed windows, vermilion-painted verandah, and a pair of stone lions guarding the gate, it gave the appearance of antiquity.

“I do not want to stay in a Hilton here,” she said.

Chen agreed. He did not want to notify the Suzhou Police Bureau of their arrival. For a stay of a couple of days, one place was as good as another. And a hotel tucked away in the old section of the city would be a less likely destination for them, should anyone try to trace them. He had exchanged tickets for Hangzhou provided by Party Secretary Li at the station without telling anyone that they were headed for Suzhou.

The hotel was originally a large Shiku-style house, whose facade was covered with old-fashioned designs. A short line of flat colored stones were laid across the minuscule front yard as a walkway. The manager hemmed and hawed, showing no eagerness for their company, and finally admitted, shamefacedly, that the hotel was not meant for foreigners.

“Why?” Catherine asked.

“In accordance with the city tourism regulations, only hotels with three stars can accommodate foreigners.”

“Don’t worry.” Chen produced his I.D. “It’s a special situation.”

Still, there was only one “high-class room” available, which was assigned to Catherine. Chen had to stay in an ordinary room.

The manager kept apologizing as he led them upstairs to Chen’s room first. It had space only for a single hard-board bed. There was nothing else in it. Outside, along the corridor, the manager showed them a couple of public bathrooms: one for men, one for women. Chen would have to make his phone calls from the front desk in the lobby downstairs. Catherine’s room was equipped with air-conditioning, telephone, and an adjoining bathroom. There was also a desk with a chair, but both were so small that they looked like they had come from an elementary school. The room was carpeted though.

After the manager excused himself amid profuse apologies, they seated themselves, Chen on the only chair, and Catherine on the bed.