Qiu Xiaolong - Shanghai Redemption

Was she hinting at something?

In the west, the sun was wrapped in the gathering dusk, as if it were on the wing of a black bird, sinking into the darksome water.

“They’re still in Anhui. I thought about moving them to Shanghai, but I don’t know whether they’d be happy living here with me.”

“How could they not?”

“They are very old-fashioned, and they don’t know anything at all about my business. I’m not a filial daughter,” she said, contemplatively. “Anything new about you?”

“Well, I didn’t say much on the phone the other day.”

“Yes, please tell me about it, Chen. It may help if I’m able to focus on something more specific.”

The big clock on top of the Customs House began chiming, the sound faint from across the river, as if accentuating her words in some sort of mysterious correspondence.

He made up his mind to tell her what had happened over the last few days. It wouldn’t be fair to ask for more help without giving her a true, hopefully objective picture of the situation. Only then could she decide whether she wanted to get further involved or not.

She listened quietly, without interruption. But when he mentioned what had happened to his mother earlier that day, she sat up, crossing her bare legs.

“In her old age, my mother still worries about me,” he concluded with a sigh. “Do you know why she refuses to move in with me?”

“Why?”

“She wants me to have the privacy to bring a girl to my apartment, so I can settle down and have my own family.”

“Then why don’t you?” she asked.

“There’s something I’ve never discussed with her. Even though it looks like I’m successful and well connected, I’m actually holding on to the back of a tiger. It’s just matter of time before the tiger throws me to the ground and finishes me up. The system doesn’t have room for a cop trying to seek justice when it’s not in the Party’s interest.

“It’s nothing short of miracle that I have survived this long. If it wasn’t for luck, and the help I’ve gotten from people like you, Peiqin, Yu, and others, I would have perished long ago. So I’ve kept telling myself: I can’t think only of myself. As a cop, I accept both the job and the consequences. But it wouldn’t be fair to drag anyone else into all the troubles.”

“But what if that someone doesn’t care about those troubles?”

“Still, I have a responsibility for others, both as an investigator and in my personal life.”

“You’re always a cop, before anything else,” she said, sitting up, her bare toes digging into the lush carpet.

“Now I’m a fired cop.”

A short silence fell over the room.

“What can I do for you, Chief Inspector Chen?”

It was the first time that evening she had used his former title, and in doing so, she’d made herself clear. Whatever the changes in his position or troubles in his career, she was ready to help.

“I’m glad you’ve come to me tonight,” she went on, “in the midst of your troubles. It shows that you think of me as one you can trust.”

“This afternoon, when I first learned about my mother, I felt so sick and helpless. Perhaps it’s not too late for me to throw in the towel-to forget about all the politics, to live an ordinary life, to be a filial son, at least one who doesn’t bring trouble to her.”

“You’re just tired, Chen. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be the ambitious, energetic chief inspector again,” she said, suddenly standing up to open up the blinds behind her. “Look at the river. I remember the lines in one of your poems. ‘ It’s not the river, but the moment, / the river comes flowing into your eyes. ’”

He gazed into her eyes rippling in the lambent lamplight, and behind her, the skyscrapers lit with the neon lights and signs, and vessels moving across the water.

Unexpectedly, another poem came to his mind.

The aspiration of rolling clouds and roaring wind gone, / I am leaning against the dressing table, / waiting on the ripples in your eyes. / Lest “Master Liu” grow despondent, / combing your hair, you pull up / the curtain to the view of the grand Yellow River .

It was a poem written by Gong Zizhen, a celebrated Qing dynasty poet who dreamed of making a contribution to the country. For most of his life, Gong remained down and out, unable to achieve his aspirations. During a trip to the capital, he visited a young woman named Lingxiao in Huai’an near the Yellow River. Lingxiao served in the Qing dynasty equivalent of the Heavenly World. That night, despondent and disillusioned with all the setbacks he’d encountered, Gong was about to give up and spend his life in her company, composing decadent poems in a Baudelairean fashion. Aware of his frustrations, Lingxiao encouraged him to continue pursuing his ideals. The poem was a scene between the two lovers: the first half unfolded as a monologue of Gong’s, and the second half consisted of Lingxiao’s reaction. At the time, a girl wouldn’t raise her curtains before she was finished making herself up, so Lingxiao, while preparing herself, encouraged him by directing his attention to the grand Yellow River. In classical Chinese poetry, the river was commonly seen as symbolic of the magnificent and sublime.

Nevertheless, Gong ended up a despondent poet, never achieving the political reform of which he dreamed. His personal life was also a disastrous failure.

“What’re you thinking?” White Cloud said.

“Nothing, really. Just about the Heavenly World. It’s difficult for me to find out anything more about it. I’m not a cop anymore, and it’s possible that I’m being watched day and night. Still, I have to make my move before anything else happens.”

“I’ll try to find out more for you, but can you tell me specifically what you’re trying to learn?”

“You mentioned that you know Shen, the owner of the club?”

“Not exactly,” she said, sounding vague. “We’ve met a couple of times.”

Another short silence ensued.

“The law firm that represents the nightclub very likely employs a special advisor who is connected to the city government. That might be important.”

“Yes,” she said, waiting for him to go on.

“You’ve already been able to find out for me what the people who go to the club are talking about. But why are they talking about it? And are they talking about anything new?”

“I’ll get in touch with all my connections and see what they can tell me. I’ll leave no stone unturned.”

“I really appreciate it, White Cloud,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s late now, and I think I have to go.”

“Where are you going? Oh, that’s right, you mentioned you were headed to somewhere in Pudong.”

“I’m off to see my old friend Overseas Chinese Lu, who has a new apartment near Century Park.”

“But it’s-” she started, casting a look at the clock on the wall. She didn’t finish her sentence.

She’s right, Chen thought. It’s already past eight fifteen. It could be nine by the time he got to Lu’s.

“I have something important to do in the city early tomorrow morning. It’s too much trouble to go back to Suzhou tonight, and then return to Shanghai tomorrow…”

“Well, stay here, then. You can take the bed, or the couch.”

“It’s so kind of you to offer, but-”

“Before your arrival, I was thinking of going out. Naturally, I would love to play the host, but I think I’ll go out as planned. What time I’ll make it back, I honestly don’t know. So you can stay here, and don’t wait up for me.”

He wondered why she had suddenly decided to leave. Because of something he’d said? Because she wanted him to stay there and not feel awkward about it?