Don't Cry Tai Lake (14 page)

With that thought he turned and made his way toward the gate.

NINE

AS BEFORE, HE TOOK
the small quaint road and turned to the right, instead of going into the park. Sometimes, walking helped him think, especially along a quiet road.

That afternoon, the road was still quiet, but there was something he hadn't noticed before. At the intersection before the small square, he saw a road sign indicating the direction to the Party School of Zhejiang Province. The school, though not in the park itself, was nonetheless in the same scenic area. A black Mercedes sped along in that direction, honking and kicking up a cloud of dust behind it.

Further along, a tourist attraction sign pointed to a bamboo pavilion partially visible up the hill in the woods. He might have seen an indication of the attraction on the tourist map, something with a poetic name, but that afternoon he was not in a tourist frame of mind.

Soon he arrived at the small square, but he didn't turn in the direction of Uncle Wang's place. He plodded on, thinking once again about the case.

Sergeant Huang alone couldn't help that much, in spite of all the efforts he'd been making. But Chen knew nobody else in the city except for Shanshan, to whom he was still unwilling to reveal that he was a detective. No, a sudden revelation like that would be too dramatic for their relationship. She wouldn't speak as freely to him if she knew he was a cop, of that much he was sure.

He came upon a small pub at the corner of a narrow street. The pub was a simple and shabby one, where customers might have a cup or two with a cheap dish or no dish at all, probably like the old-fashioned tavern in a story by Lu Xun. There were also a couple of rough wooden tables with wooden benches outside.

At one table sat two middle-aged men, hunched with nothing but a bottle of Erguotou between them, drinking determinedly in the middle of the day. Possibly they were two alcoholics already lost in a world of their own, Chen reflected, but he slowed down when he heard something like a drinking game between the two, each saying a sentence of repartee in response to the other, one after the other in quick succession.

“From a fairy tale told to our children long, long ago, the sky was blue—”

“The water was clear—”

“The fish and shrimp were edible—”

“The air was fresh—”

“From a fairy tale told to our children long, long ago … now I drink the cup—”

It was almost like the linked verse, a game among classical Chinese poets. The line “From a fairy tale told to our children long, long ago” sounded like a refrain. The participant could repeat it after every four or five lines, perhaps as an excuse to gain a breath. The one who failed to say a parallel line similar in content or in syntax lost the round and had to drink. The only problem with the game was when both of the drinkers wanted to drink. They could purposely lose in order to drink a cup.

Chen had no idea how long the game had been going on. Judging by the half-empty bottle, the two must have been sitting there for quite a while. It wasn't the form of the game but its contents that attracted him. Absurd as those lines might have sounded, they presented satirical, scathing comments on society. Indeed, so many things that had been taken for granted now appeared to be unrealistic and unattainable, as if in a fairy tale.

So he seated himself at a table next to theirs, tapping his finger on the liquor-stained surface, as if beating to the rhythm of the game.

He chose to sit there, however, not just because of the drinking game. The pub was located not far from the chemical company. Into their cups, people sometimes talked with loosened tongues. During another case, some time ago in Shanghai, he happened to obtain a piece of crucial information from a drunkard, an old neighbor he had known for years. Here, in another city, dealing with two strangers, he doubted he could have the same luck. Still, it was worth a try.

Aware of his interest in their game, the two appeared to be growing more energetic and effusive, popping up with proper and prompt responses to one another.

“The court was for justice—”

“The doctor helped the patient—”

“The medicine killed the bacteria—”

“From the fairy tale told to our children long, long ago … now I drink the cup—”

A crippled waiter emerged limping out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an oily gray apron like a discolored map and smiling with a wrinkled face like a dried-up winter melon in the sunlight.

Chen ordered himself a beer, a smoked fish head, and half of a rice-wine-pickled pork tongue. On impulse, he also ordered the white smelt stir-fried with egg. That was one of the celebrated “three whites” here in Wuxi, the one he had not yet tried. Going by the prices on the blackboard menu hanging on the discolored wall, none of them cost more than ten yuan.

The two customers at the neighboring table must have been paying close attention to the discussion between Chen and the waiter. They even halted their game for two or three minutes. At this place, Chen must seem like a Big Buck customer. The moment the waiter limped away with his order, the two started their drinking game again, evidently with even greater gusto.

“An actress did not have to sleep with the director for a role—”

“A child's father did not have to be tested for fatherhood—”

“People did not have to take off their clothes when taking pictures—”

“An idiot could not be a professor—”

“A married man could not keep little sisters—”

“Sex could not be bargained or sold—”

“Embezzlement was not encouraged—”

“Bad guys were punished—”

“Stealing was prohibited—”

“Rats were still in awe of cats—”

“A barbershop only cut hair—”

This time the game went on longer but was also more disorderly, no longer strictly following the parallel structure and without either of them stopping for a cup.

The waiter brought back Chen's order and put it on the table without saying a word, then retreated back into the kitchen.

Raising his cup, Chen noticed that the bottle on the other table was empty and the two were looking at the “feast” on Chen's table. One blinked his eyes obsequiously, and the other raised his thumb in exaggeration. The message was clear: they were waiting for his invitation. Chen couldn't help wondering whether people in their cups were eventually all alike, too addicted to have much self-esteem or dignity left.

He nodded and said, “I happen to have overheard some of your brilliant maxims. Very impressive.”

“Thank you, sir. You are one who really appreciates the music,” the taller and thinner of the two said, grinning, smacking his lips. “My name is Zhang.”

“When the world turns upside down, you cannot but suffer when staying sober,” the short and stout one said, with his red pointed nose even redder in excitement. “My name is Li.”

Chen raised his cup in a friendly gesture of invitation. Sure enough, they moved over in a hurry, holding their two empty cups.

“I'm from another city and all alone here. As an ancient poet said, ‘
How to deal with all the worries? / Nothing but the Dukang wine
.'”

“Well said, young man.”

Chen pulled out two pairs of chopsticks for them and they didn't wait for a second invitation, attacking the dishes as if they were at home.

“The pork tongue is delicious,” Zhang said, pouring beer into his cup, “but the beer tastes like water.”

Indeed, their cups were the tiny porcelain cups for liquor. So Chen ordered a bottle of Erguotou, the same as the empty bottle on their table. He also talked to the waiter about a salted yellow croaker pot, which Chen wanted to be sure wasn't from the lake.

“No, just the Erguotou,” Li cut in like an old friend. “No more dishes.”

Before the waiter came back with the liquor, Li added in a hurried whisper, “You know how salted croaker is made. People spray DDT all over the fish to preserve it longer and cheaper. The other day I saw a fly landing on a salted fish here. Guess what? The fly died instantly. How poisonous!”

“Wow!”

“You're an extraordinary man,” Zhang said, pouring himself a cup from the new bottle. “I could tell that with one glance.”

“Having listened to your extraordinary wine game, I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Those comments were deep. But what about ‘Fish and shrimp were edible'? Let's not talk about salted croaker. People relish fresh lake delicacies and especially so here.”

“Let me tell you something about the fish and shrimp in the lake. You can see how white the smelt looks, can't you?”

“Yes.”

“Almost transparent, right?” Zhang said, taking a slow drink from his cup. “Now, let me tell you what. The smelt have long, long been immersed in formalin, so that they look dazzlingly white.”

“What? Aren't they naturally white?” Chen said. “The three whites of the lake are widely celebrated.”

“In such a dirty, polluted lake, how can the smelt grow to be white and pure? If anything, they are now ghastly green or black, and no matter how long you put them in clean water, they remain discolored. That's where the formalin comes in.”

“However contaminated the fish are, people still have to eat,” Li said with a dramatic sigh, resolutely chopsticking a smelt into his mouth. “To tell you the truth, I've not tasted it for months, tainted or not. How can a poor, down-and-out man like me afford to pick and choose?”

“Confucius says,
Rites collapsed, music broken
. That's what happens in China today. When Chairman Mao led our country, there was no gap between the rich and the poor. A company boss earned about the same as a janitor. People all had secure jobs that were nonbreakable, like iron bowls.”

“You're wrong, Zhang,” Li said, putting down his cup. “The gap was there under Mao as well, but you didn't see it, not that easily. Not far away, for instance, is the high-ranking cadre center where Party officials can enjoy all the privileges for free. Could you have ever stepped into it?”

“Yes, this used to be one of the best resorts for high cadres, and they would come here from all over the country. But with the lake now so polluted, they aren't so interested in it anymore.”

Was that the reason for Comrade Secretary Zhao's refusal to come here? Possibly. In his position, Zhao could afford to pick and choose. Not so for Chief Inspector Chen. In fact, it was an amazing stroke of luck for him to be chosen to come here. Or was it?

“Wrong again. Do you think those high cadres will have to eat the fish and shrimp from the lake here? No way. Theirs are shipped in specially.”

Chen nodded. That was exactly what he had heard earlier at the banquet table in the center.

“What a crying lake! More and more people around here get cancer and other mysterious diseases. My old friend was rushed to the hospital with so much arsenic accumulated in his body that the doctors were all amazed.”

“What toxic air people breathe every day! More and more babies are born disfigured. My next-door neighbor had a son who was born looking like a toad, all covered with green hair.”

It began to sound like another round of the drinking game, except it was with more horrible, concrete examples. Chen listened without interrupting, or eating, or drinking. He hadn't been hungry and was now even less so, while the other two had kept themselves busy devouring, then discussing, as if anxious to pay him back that way.

“It's all for the sake of profit. But you can't blame those factories alone. What else can people really grasp in their hands? Nothing but money. My grandfather believed in the Nationalists, but Chiang Kai-shek shipped all the gold to Taiwan in 1949. My father believed in the Communists, but Mao's Red Guard beat him into a cripple in 1969. I believed in the reform under Deng for the first few years, but then the state-run company where I had worked all my life went bankrupt overnight.”

“Talking about Mao, do you remember the picture of Mao swimming in the Yangtze River?” Zhang said, vehemently poking the eye of the smoked fish head with a chopstick as he changed the topic.

“Yes, I remember it. Mao took that picture before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution as an evidence of his health,” Chen said, glad to comment on something he knew. “It was meant to reassure people that he could still vigorously lead China forward.”

“Well, with China's rivers and lakes so polluted now, Mao jumping into the river would be seen as a suicide attempt.”

“Eat, drink, and leave Mao alone,” Li cut in, with a surly tone. “At least the lake wasn't that bad under Mao. Nor were there so many unscrupulous plants dumping industrial waste into the Tai water. Now it's a country overrun by wolves and jackals.”

“Don't be such a sore loser, Li. You lost your job because your factory went bankrupt competing with Liu's. But it's just the way of the brave new world.”

“No, that shouldn't be the way. Our plant was run in accordance with the environmental regulations. It was run with conscience, you might say. How much is a pound of conscience worth in today's market? Liu had none at all, but look how much he profited.”

“Excuse me,” Chen cut in. “I heard that a chemical company head named Liu was recently murdered. Are you talking about him?”

“Yes. Now that's really retribution. Karma.” Li poured himself a full cup and screwed the bottle cap on tightly, as if that meant something. But it was of no use because the cap was being unscrewed almost immediately by Zhang.

“Liu's chemical company is damned,” Li went on. “Irrecoverably cursed.”

“How?”

“A couple of months ago, thousands and thousands of fish died in the water near that company, turning up their white bellies like so many angry eyes staring at the black night. It was all because of the damned poisonous pollution. The Wuxi Number One Chemical Company is one of the biggest enterprises in the city, and it's also the worst polluter. In Buddhism, a life is a life, whether an ant or a fish. For inhuman deeds, there's no escaping retribution. No one escapes.”