Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

“Because of your high official position, your presence adds to their collective face,” she went on, with a teasing smile. “So you are doing them a great favor. For that matter, Zhou would have been as passionately welcomed here, before his fall, of course. Ours is a society of connections-connections that are established through the exchange of favors.”

He was taken aback.

“Detective Yu is my partner, and a good friend too,” he said. “Don’t read too much into it. We’re not ‘exchanging favors.’”

“I know things are different between you two. You’re his boss, and you don’t have to come. That’s why I’m here taking pictures. But the service is beyond me. Philosophically, Buddhism is about the vanity of human passions, but this service is the very embodiment of vanity in the world of red dust, more relevant to the living than to the dead.”

“That’s true. I tried to talk to a monk about the difference between Mahayana and Hinayana. He simply stared at me as if I were an alien from another planet, gibbering in an indecipherable language.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Peiqin’s summoning all of them to a lunch at a restaurant across the street. According to a red notice on the gate of the restaurant, the meal was being held in a large room with three round tables. Yu and Peiqin were there, busily leading people to their respective tables.

Lianping was seated next to Chen at the main table. It was possibly a well-meant trick arranged by Peiqin, who was as eager for Chen to “settle down” as his own mother was. He had no objection to the seating arrangement, and Lianping smiled, playing along with whatever interpretation the host might have of her.

“The shrimp is fresh,” Lianping said, peeling a large one with her slender fingers and placing it on his saucer-almost like a little girlfriend-before whispering in his ear. “I wonder why it’s not a vegetarian meal.”

Peiqin, leaning over to pour wine into Chen’s cup, overheard her comment and responded with an approving nod.

“We checked out the menu of the vegetarian restaurant attached to the temple. It was two hundred fifty per person for the so-called vegetarian buffet, including Häagen-Dazs, as much as you can eat.”

“What’s the point of featuring Häagen-Dazs with a vegetarian meal?” Chen exclaimed.

“The meal following a service has to be expensive, or else the host-as well as the guests-will all lose face. Not to mention the ghosts of the dead. It’s difficult for a vegetarian meal to be that expensive, hence the Häagen-Dazs.”

“I think you made the right choice here, Peiqin,” he said, helping himself to a chunk of sea cucumber braised with oyster sauce and shrimp roe.

A cell phone chirped. Several people immediately checked theirs, but it was Lianping’s. She took out her phone and glanced at it without trying to answer it.

“Somebody has just forwarded me a microblog,” she said.

“Microblog?” he said, the slippery sea cucumber falling from his chopsticks into the small saucer.

“It’s just like a blog, except it’s limited to no more than 140 characters. The government hoped such a short piece wouldn’t stir up big trouble. But it’s like a small Web forum, and people can read, comment on it, or forward it on their cell phones instantaneously. As a result, it’s turning into another big headache for the ‘stability-maintaining’ officials. They’re talking about requiring that people who access this sort of microblog register with their real names.”

“So the Internet cops can easily track them down,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you write microblogs as well?”

“No, but I read those of others.” She leaned over and said in a low voice, “I’ve made some inquiries about Melong. The Web forum of his was one of the most popular in the city, appealing to a large group of readers. Because of its popularity, it attracted a lot of ads, which more than supported its operations. Melong is quite a character. He keeps his forum popular, controversial, and from time to time comes perilously close to the last ‘red line’ drawn by the authorities, but never really crosses that line that would prompt the government to take action and shut the forum down. He’s an old hand at avoiding any direct confrontation with the authorities while running the forum his way.”

“So he’s sort of independent.”

“Sort of. You could say that. At least, he doesn’t have to work another job. But he’s also an occasional hacker. There are stories that he makes real money as a hacker, but one can’t tell whether there’s any truth to those stories. He’s a cautious one. Anyway, I’ve never heard of him getting into trouble because of hacking. Within the circle, he’s known for doing things in a way that is characteristic of jianghu.”

“Jianghu-you mean he views his circle as an imagined world with its own ethical code, like those martial arts novels?”

“Yes. He’s known for one particular attribute: he holds fast to his own rules. There are things he will do, and things he won’t do. For instance, it’s said that he makes a point of protecting his sources-which in turn adds to the popularity of his site. Then again, one never really knows: according to some sources, Melong also has connections in the government, and that’s why he’s been able to run it his way all along.”

“What else?”

“What else?” she repeated, smiling, picking up a piece of beef in oyster sauce. “Like you, he’s a filial son.”

How did she know that about him?

An unexpected toast made by that aunt of Peiqin’s provided an excuse for Chen not to respond to Lianping’s comment.

“I want to thank you, Party Secretary Chen, and your beautiful journalist girlfriend. When the pictures appear in Wenhui, Peiqin’s parents will be so happy in the netherworld.”

He stood up in a hurry, cup in hand, but he didn’t know what to say in response, or whether it was even appropriate to make a toast back.

Peiqin smiled across the table apologetically. Yu scratched his head.

Lianping pulled out her cell phone again, looked something up, then picked up a pink napkin and scribbled something on it. She pushed it over to him as he sat down again awkwardly.

“Here’s Melong’s phone number. You may as well call him. You can tell him you’re my friend.”

“Thank you.”

The lunch came to an end, fortunately before someone else tried to make another toast.

Everyone walked across the street and back to the temple. Some carried boxes of food, and they didn’t forget to put the boxes in their cars before reentering the temple.

Instead of going back into the room where the service was held, they now gathered around a huge bronze burner in the courtyard. It was time for people to burn the sacrifices for the dead. They started putting into the fire the boxes of netherworld money, along with some other imitation sacrifices, including a vividly detailed paper mansion.

“Look at the address,” Lianping said, standing beside him.

“123 Binjiang Garden.”

“The most expensive subdivision in the city of Shanghai.”

“So the dead can enjoy the top luxuries in the netherworld, if not in this world. I don’t think that has a lot to do with Buddhism, the burning of symbolic sacrifices for the dead. Perhaps it has more to do with Confucianism.”

“There is something I don’t understand about Confucianism. Confucius said, ‘A gentleman doesn’t talk about ghosts or spirits,’ but at the same time, he urges people to offer sacrifices to their ancestors.”

“These days, we’re in an age of spiritual and ideological vacuum, and ours is a society with no religion to fall back on. For most people, nothing exists or matters but this present world. So this service, influenced as it is by the materialistic considerations of the here and now, provides a sort of cold comfort.”