Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

Chief Inspector Chen turned and walked into the newspaper’s current office building, trying to pull himself together. It was a most magnificent lobby, like that of a five-star hotel. In the middle of the hall, he noticed a black and white photo exhibition, and past it, a small café, which seemed to be a convenient place for journalists to relax or meet with their visitors.

Lianping started her day with a visit to Yaqing, the literature editor of Wenhui Daily, who was on maternity leave. Yaqing lived in a high-end apartment that was about a five-minute walk from the newspaper office building.

Yaqing answered the door with a smile, standing slender, suave in a red silk robe embroidered with a golden phoenix, and in soft-heeled leather slippers. A huge diamond dazzled on her finger. She looked like an elegant, high-class lady, and Lianping didn’t immediately recognize her.

Her place was a huge two-story apartment overlooking a small man-made lake. Ji Huadong, Yaqing’s husband, was one of the “successful elites” in the city, dealing in exports and imports.

A nanny served them Dragon Well tea in the spacious living room, along with a platter of fresh lychee.

“This is this year’s new tea,” Yaqing said, breathing lightly into the cup. “Before the Rain.”

“It smells so refreshing. How is Little Ji?”

“A wet nurse is feeding him in the nursury.”

“That’s so nice. I won’t take up much of your time, Yaqing. I just wanted to catch you up on how things are going with the literature section of the newspaper.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lianping. At Wenhui, the literature section is symbolic at best. Few people read it, and that’s why our boss didn’t bother to bring in another editor to work on it while I’m out on leave. I know it has added so much to your workload. I’m sorry.” After taking a sip of tea, Yaqing resumed casually, “I may or may not come back to the newspaper after my leave. I haven’t yet told anybody at the paper, but Ji thinks it’s not worth it. He’s been so busy with his work, and when he comes home, he wants me to be there for him.”

“But what about your journalist career? It’s hard for me to imagine an intellectual like you living the life of a full-time wife. For a couple of months, perhaps, but in the long run, wouldn’t it be boring?”

“No, not at all. At least, not for me. With his business expanding, Ji has a lot of social obligations that require my attention and company,” Yaqing said, and then changed the subject. “Your boyfriend Xiang has an even bigger family business. Remember that tide and time wait for no man-or no woman.”

“There you go again.”

“I’ll tell you what. I just received the officially approved list of 170 new expressions compiled by the Beijing Education Ministry. According to it, if a girl hasn’t married by the age of twenty-six, she’ll be called a ‘leftover.’ And at age of thirty, a ‘senior leftover.’ And after thirty-five, ‘a leftover saint,’ which is a sarcastic reference to the Monkey Saint from Journey to the West .”

“That’s so cruel.”

“But so realistic. Even our Education Ministry has approved the phrases. What’s the use of saying anything against it?”

“Well, not everyone is as lucky as you,” Lianping said, trying to change the subject again.

“You can say that again. On the day of our son’s birth, Ji bought me a Lexus SUV. But you aren’t doing so bad, either. You got a Volvo from Xiang, right? You definitely deserve it. You’ll make a perfect match for him. You’re pretty, highly educated, and intelligent.”

“Come on, Yaqing. Xiang just loaned me the down payment. I have to pay all the installments and repay the loan from him as well.”

Actually, Xiang had tried to insist on buying the car for her, but he wasn’t exactly her boyfriend, and she declined his offer. She hadn’t made up her mind about the relationship. Neither had he, apparently. He was traveling with his father on business in Guangdong. She’d been expecting a phone call from him but hadn’t heard anything so far.

Because of his family background, she’d been keeping the budding affair secret, except among close friends like Yaqing. She was concerned what people might say in this materialistic age. Perhaps, as a newly popular saying went, finding a good husband was far more important than finding a good job.

She did not consider hers a good job, though it was secure, with a decent salary, and extra income when her writing was reprinted elsewhere. Wenhui had a contract with Xinhua Agency, syndicating news articles to foreign agencies, with the only requirement being that everything had to be politically acceptable. That requirement was what bothered her.

For a girl from outside of Shanghai, she was considered to be doing fine for herself in the city. Thanks to a down payment made by her entrepreneur father, she’d been able to buy an apartment just a couple of blocks behind Great World, a well-known entertainment center in the middle of the city on Yan’an Road. Still, she was feeling the increasing pressure of the mortgage payments. It was the same with her car, not to mention the other necessary expenses required for her to maintain a “successful” image in her professional circle.

“Come on, I know he offered to buy the car for you,” Yaqing said, “but you insisted on accepting the down payment only as a loan. Actually, that was so clever of you-”

Lianping’s phone rang, which prevented her from explaining, though she wondered why Yaqing thought she’d been clever. She picked up the call.

“Hello, this is Lianping.”

“Hi, I’m Chen Cao. We met at a meeting of the Shanghai Writers’ Association not long ago. You later called about some poems for your section in Wenhui . Do you remember?”

“Oh, yes, of course I remember, Chief Inspector Chen. Do you have your poems ready for me?”

“Well, I haven’t forgotten your request.”

“I knew you would write for us.”

The fact was, however, she hadn’t thought he would. The high-ranking cop was far too busy, and she’d asked for his poetry perfunctorily, only because of her temporary position.

But she’d heard about him, as far back as her college years-not about him as a professional writer but as the legendary chief inspector. When she started working for Wenhui , she heard even more about him, particularly from her colleagues covering crime or politics in Shanghai. When she met him at the Writers’ Association, though, she wasn’t exactly impressed. He seemed to be a bit too reserved, not at all like the romantic poet she’d once imagined. For an emerging Party cadre, however, such a pose made sense, and she thought she could understand it.

“I tried to dig out some of my old poems.”

“Please send them to me. You have my e-mail address. I can’t wait to read them.”

“Actually, I’m in the lobby of your office building right now. I’d like to discuss with you-”

“Really, Chief Inspector Chen! I’ll meet you there in five minutes,” she said. “How about meeting me in the café on the fifteenth floor? It’ll be more comfortable for us to sit talking there.”

As she flipped the phone closed, she saw Yaqing eyeing her incredulously.

“No wonder,” Yaqing commented. “You have Chief Chen Cao waiting for you in the lobby-no, in the café.”

“I saw him the other day at a meeting of the Writers’ Association. It was all just to cover your section, you know.” She stood up in a hurry, “Sorry, I have to get back to the office.”

“He’s surely a character! A rising Party official with several major investigations to his credit, and connections to the top echelon in the Forbidden City. Not to mention that he’s a poet in his own right at the same time. We’ve published his work in the Pen column. Believe it or not, he’s said to have dated one of our journalists years ago, written poems for her, which she then published in the newspaper.”