Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

Chen went over to the stall and sat at a rough wood table. He noticed there were two or three beers in an almost empty crate nearby.

“A bottle of beer, the roast duck as a cross-bridge dish first, and then the noodles.”

“We don’t serve beer at lunchtime. Those are for myself. But if you really want one, twenty yuan. It’s normally served Hong Kong style, but I’ll make an exception for you and serve the topping separately.”

“That’s great. That you serve cross-bridge, I mean,” Chen said.

“Do you know the story about it?” the proprietor asked good-naturedly and went on without waiting for an answer. “In the old days, a scholar was preparing for the civil service examination on a secluded island in Yunnan. His capable wife had to carry his meals across the bridge to him. Among his favorite foods was a bowl of rice noodle soup with assorted toppings. But because of the time it took to deliver them, the noodles lost their flavor, having sat too long in the soup. So she put the steaming hot chicken soup in a special container, the toppings and noodles in two others, and then mixed them after arriving at her husband’s place. That way, the noodles and the toppings still tasted fresh. Revitalized by the delicious noodles, the scholar threw himself back into his preparations and eventually passed the examination. So it’s called cross-bridge-”

“How interesting!” Chen nodded, though he already knew the story.

“And here is my modification. Instead of putting the toppings on the noodles, I serve them separately, so the customer can have the topping as a cross-bridge dish.”

“Good idea,” Chen said, producing a pack and handing the chef a cigarette.

“Wow-Panda.”

Chen wanted to talk with him or, failing that, to sit and observe from the stall. A bowl of noodles wouldn’t give him much time, but a bottle of beer could make the difference.

“So business is pretty good here,” Chen said, slowly pouring himself a cup from the beer bottle.

“Not at this time of day. But during lunchtime, quite a number of journalists come here from across the street. Or in a couple of hours, it’s kindergarten time. It’s not the rich parents who wait in the cars for their kids, but drivers and maids.”

“I see. The roast duck is really fresh and nice. I’d love to have another portion, but I’m full today.” The compliment was true. The duck tasted delectable, its succulent skin crisp, its meat juicy. It wasn’t placed on top of the noodles but in a separate white saucer, its scarlet color making a pleasant contrast to the green vegetable in the soup. “So, are you here all day?”

“Seven in the morning to eight or nine at night. I live in the lane just behind this street. My wife prepares all the toppings at home and delivers them here every two or three hours. They are guaranteed fresh. Those young journalist girls can be fastidious, and they won’t come back if they’re even slightly unsatisfied.”

Chen noticed that several people were now walking around the scene of the accident near that intersection, pointing, commenting, and shooting pictures. They could be journalists, or maybe cops in plainclothes. Chen turned to the proprietor.

“What are they doing over there?”

“There was a hit-and-run accident yesterday.”

“There?”

“Yes, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“That’s something. Tell me about it. And another bottle of Qingdao, please.”

The proprietor eyed him in mild surprise. Presumably he thought Chen was one of those eccentric Big Bucks who would choose to hang out and talk at a plain sidewalk noodle stall, passing out Panda cigarettes, willing to pay twenty yuan for a bottle of Qingdao, which he promptly knocked open on the edge of the table.

“It happened shortly after lunchtime, I remember. The street was relatively quiet. But all of a sudden, I heard a car roaring down the street. It was a brown SUV, and it hit the man right on the corner-”

“Hold on a minute,” Chen said. “The man was walking on the same side as the Wenhui Office Building, right?”

“Yes, it’s the driver’s fault. He must have been dead drunk.”

“Didn’t he stop?”

“He slowed down and reached out, but he saw the victim was beyond hope. So he fled the scene like a wisp of smoke.”

“So the driver can’t have been that drunk.”

“Now that you mention it, there was something strange about it. The brown car was parked not too far away. No more than a hundred meters or so. It was the only car in the neighborhood at the time, of that much I’m sure. I don’t know how long it had been parked there, but at least a couple of hours. I first noticed it when I took a break around ten thirty. It was an expensive SUV, and the driver appeared to be dozing inside. So how could he be that dead drunk after dozing there for a couple of hours?”

A group of young people walked up and interrupted their talk.

Chen took out his wallet and counted sixty yuan. “Keep the change. I’ll be back. The noodles are excellent.”

“My name is Xiahou. I’m here, seven days a week.”

“Thanks.”

As Chen headed back to the corner where the accident occurred, he dialed the number for Party Secretary Li. He didn’t have to report in to the Party boss daily, but he decided to do so that afternoon.

“Any new discoveries, Chen?” Li asked, after he picked up.

“Nothing from me. How about Wei?” he said. “Did Wei talk to you yesterday?”

“He may have called me that day or the day before, but he didn’t have anything important to say. Wei was a good comrade.”

“Did he talk to you about taking a special approach to his investigation?”

“Not that I remember. It was just a routine briefing.”

“Did he mention his plans for the day?”

“No, nothing like that. He was just bringing me up to date. You’re the special consultant on the investigation, not me.”

Li sounded vague, cautious, and irritated.

“This case is directly under your supervision, Party Secretary Li, just as you said that first day. Like Detective Wei, I have to report in to you regularly.”

Another thought crossed Chen’s mind. If Wei had called Li that morning, Wei must have had his cell phone with him. But in the report submitted by the hospital, there was nothing on Wei’s body to identify him. If they had found his cell on him, they could have identified him easily.

Was Wei making a call when he was run down? Was his cell phone knocked out of his hand and out of sight?

There was something else Chen had to do. He took a deep breath, then pulled the tiny jasmine blossom out of his blazer pocket and tossed it toward the accident scene.

A gray pigeon was flying by, its whistle trailing in the air. Chen looked up, but it was already out of sight.

He was reminded of a couple of lines in a Song dynasty poem, which he had thought about not too long ago, in the garden of the Writers’ Association.

But what made him think of those lines here and now was something else. Another person and another life. In the days when he’d just been assigned to the bureau, Wenhui Daily was in another building, one near the Bund. There Chen met with a journalist who later went to Japan.

How far you have traveled, / I don’t know. Whatever I see / fills my heart with melancholy. / The further you go, the fewer / your letters for me. The expanse / of the water so wide, no message-carrying / fish in sight, where and whom / can I ask for your news?

That was the first stanza of a poem composed by Ouyang Xiu in the eleventh century. At that time, people still liked the romantic legend of fish carrying messages across rivers and seas for lovers. Having to wait weeks or months for communication was something almost unimaginable now, in the age of e-mail.