Qiu Xiaolong - Shanghai Redemption

“The city government wanted me, I think, to put up a convincing show of investigating that whole situation.”

“Of course. You’re known as a ‘good cop,’ so assigning you to investigate would show how serious the city government was. With so many scandals breaking out in our miraculous society, people will probably soon forget about that one. But what is this case about Shang’s son? Why is it such a big deal?”

“You know who Shang is, don’t you?”

“Of course. He was very popular in his day, back during the Cultural Revolution. He was known for singing the songs for a movie called Little Red Star . He must be quite old now, perhaps even my age, and probably long retired.”

“You haven’t been keeping up, Old Hunter. In fact, he’s been making frequent appearances on TV of late.”

“Really! Why?”

“You just mentioned that song from the movie. A red song. As the original singer, Shang is seen as embodying the revolutionary spirit. He’s being used in the current political campaign that encourages ‘singing red.’ He may have been pushed back into the limelight by others, but he’s definitely profited from it. Not too long ago, he was made a general-at least, in terms of cadre rank. And the other day, he claimed that when he sings that old red song, he becomes energetic. What a shameful lie.”

“I’m sure he welcomes being used by the Party. As the proverb says, ‘The one is anxious to slap, and the other is eager to be slapped.’ But what is the case that involves him?”

“After the Cultural Revolution, Shang married a young singer-she was more than twenty years younger than he-and they had a cute son, Little Shang, just like the little revolutionary in Little Red Star . For a while, Little Shang appeared to be growing up to be the red revolutionary teenager they expected him to be. About a year ago, however, he got into a car accident, and then savagely beat up the other driver. When police arrived, he started shouting, ‘My father is General Shang.’ The police officers hesitated, afraid to do anything to the son of a high-ranking cadre, but a passerby recorded the scene with his cell phone. When he uploaded the video online, it became an instant scandal. Before even that scandal blew over, Little Shang got into more trouble. He and some of his buddies dragged a young, drunk girl out of a bar. Took her to a hotel and gang-raped her.”

“That’s outrageous. Why haven’t I read anything about it?”

“It only happened a couple of weeks ago. But you’ll never read anything about it in the newspapers. The only place it’s being discussed is on the Internet. Someone even made a playlist of all the red songs Shang had sung, and paired them with pictures of him standing on various stages, accepting congratulations from Party leaders.”

“Like a bad apple, society is really rotten to the core,” Old Hunter said, shaking his head. “In those red songs, only the Communist Party can save China. No one can ever question it. Now, corruption has been exposed as being deep-rooted in the one-party system. People can’t help but be disillusioned and cynical.”

“Right before I was removed from my position at the police bureau, Shang’s son’s case was sent on to our squad. Quite possibly it was sent to us as a public example of the Party’s propriety, or as just another damage-control job. Or both.”

“I don’t know what to say, Chief Inspector. Today’s China is beyond my understanding,” Old Hunter said, draining his tea. “Perhaps I’m meant to be just a private investigator. I’ll get Tang talking and see what I can find out for you.”

THE NEXT DAY, CHEN made his way back to Suzhou and the cemetery with his father’s grave. This time, he brought with him a hardcover book.

It was a study of neo-Confucianism written by his father and published posthumously just last year. The publication quite possibly had something to do with Chen’s then-position as chief inspector and rank as a Party cadre. Now it was his mother’s request that, once the renovation of his father’s grave was complete, the book be buried in the casket.

There had been almost a supernatural aspect to his first trip to Suzhou, Chen reflected. Because he went to visit his father’s grave, because he decided that he needed to have his father’s grave restored and renovated, and because he took pictures of the grave and sent them to his mother, he’d gotten a call from his mother while he was at the nightclub. All these things seemed to be connected through the inexplicable links of yin and yang, as if guided by an invisible hand.

Had he told his mother about what happened at the nightclub when he stepped out to return her call, she would have declared that he’d been protected by his late father. It seemed the least he could do to return the favor was to pay personal attention to the restoration. The trip might also serve as a signal to anyone who might be trying to ruin him that the ex-chief inspector had given up, and instead of trying to fight back he was simply keeping himself busy among the graves in Suzhou. Providing them with a sideshow wouldn’t hurt, whether they believed it or not.

If no one else, his mother believed in Chen’s trip to oversee the renovation of his father’s grave. She wasn’t materialistic, but the knowledge that the grave of her late husband would be properly tended to would help her sleep at night. Her request that Chen have his father’s book buried with his remains originated in a dream of hers in which the late Confucian scholar was frantically searching for his copies of the classics stored in the attic room, worrying that they had been burned. During the Cultural Revolution, one of the crimes his father had been accused of was his condemnation of the first Qing emperor’s burning books as a means to control people’s minds. Mao happened to admire the first Qing emperor.

At the cemetery, on the hillside with his father’s grave, Chen saw two farmers in their early fifties standing nearby. They were smoking and talking, but not working. These were the workers supposed to be doing the restoration job. Chen introduced himself and lit cigarettes for them. Then, as Chen stood watching, the workers picked up their tools with undisguised reluctance.

Chen decided to stay there for a while, take a look around, making a comment every now and then and pretending to supervise. At one point, Chen walked over to a moss-covered stone step, sat down, and opened the book he’d brought with him. But he couldn’t concentrate on all that Confucius said. Soon he got up and started pacing about, making a renewed effort to visualize the details of the renovation.

Around eleven, the farmers declared they had to leave for lunch, tossing down their tools. It was still early, but Chen chose to say nothing.

With the workers gone, Chen, too, walked down the trail, casting a look around and wondering if he was being followed. So far, he hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. It was more than possible, however, that somebody would check with the cemetery office. Chen might as well stop in and let the office confirm that Chen was in Suzhou.

Manager Hong welcomed Chen to the office with open arms, leading him to the same sofa as the last time.

“Let’s talk about the project,” Chen started, moving straight to the point.

“We’re doing our best, Director Chen. You can be assured that progress is being made. And that the work is of good quality, too.”

“I have a week before I must get back to work in Shanghai. So I plan to spend some of that time here in Suzhou.” Chen showed Hong the book he was carrying. “This book was written by my father. It’s my mother’s request that I place this copy of the book in my father’s casket myself.”