Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

So saying, he leaned toward the burner. Among the sacrifices being consumed in the roaring flame, he was astonished to see a carton of imitation cigarettes.

“What? 95 Supreme Majesty!”

“You know, there’s a new picture of cigarettes online,” she said, her face flushed with the heat.

“Another photo related to Zhou?”

“No. Not directly. It’s of some other Party officials in a conference room. For a conference, drinks and cigarettes on the dais are a given. The expensive ones are provided for free as a necessary government expense. In this new picture, however, the cigarettes have been taken out of the pack and placed on a small saucer. Why? So that people can’t recognize the top brands. The conference organizers must have been nervous about causing another scandal. But they were foolish. No smoker ever dumps their cigarettes out of the pack like that, so the cover-up effort only drew more attention to it. It resulted in another avalanche of sarcastic comments from netizens about the picture.”

She had a point. He himself would never have dumped the cigarettes out into a saucer, and he was no stranger to such things being provided at the government’s expense. Fortunately, she was changing the topic.

“By the way, I’ve just heard that there will be a new bronze Confucius statue erected soon in Tiananmen Square. I wonder whether people will burn incense there as well.”

“That’s impossible,” Chen said. “Think about the May Fourth movement, and Mao’s denunciation of Confucianism.”

“Nothing is impossible in today’s miraculous China. Remember the old saying? When one is seriously sick, one can’t afford to choose a doctor. But do you think resurrecting such an ancient idol will really solve the ideological crisis in our country?”

Her brows were arched. She was sharp. He saw the cynical humor in her eyes, and he liked that.

Whatever sacrifice was still burning in the containers in the temple courtyard, it was dying out.

Monday morning came, and it was back to the office routine for Chief Inspector Chen. His work was interrupted by a number of expected and unexpected calls, making his day more fragmented than usual. In the midst of all that, he managed to spend some time working on various theories about the Zhou case. However, none of them seemed to be leading anywhere.

Party Secretary Li returned Chen’s call regarding Wei’s death.

“I have no objection to you looking into the cause of Detective Wei’s death. Wei was a good comrade. But policy is policy. Unless you can prove that he was pursuing his investigation at that particular intersection, there’s nothing we can do about providing compensation.”

Chen could guess why the Party boss was so adamant. There was no use arguing with Li.

Later, an unexpected call came from Shan Xing, a Wenhui journalist who covered the crime beat. He, too, had heard of something about Wei’s death and was trying to establish a possible connection to Zhou’s death. Chen didn’t say anything in response. Shan Xing went so far as to speculate about the timing of the arrival of the Beijing team in Moller Hotel. Again, Chen refused to make any comment.

Hanging up, Chen turned on his computer. Among the incoming e-mails was one from Lianping with a number of pictures of the temple service. Her message was a short one: “I’ve not yet decided which one to use for the profile. My boss approved the idea.”

Instead of going through the pictures, however, Chen decided to compose an e-mail to Comrade Zhao in Beijing. The tone he intended to take was that of a very respectful long-time-no-report letter to the ex-secretary of the Party Central Discipline Committee. In fact, there was very little Chen could really report. He didn’t mention the Zhou case in any detail, but he did express his concern about absolute corruption coming out of the absolute power of the one-party system. In passing, he touched upon the Beijing team now at the Moller Hotel. He hoped that Comrade Zhao would write back, throwing him some hints about what was going on at the top or the true reason for the Beijing team’s having been sent.

To his surprise, Lieutenant Sheng of Internal Security gave Chen a call just as he was about to send the e-mail. Sheng was some sort of computer expert dispatched from Beijing, but he seemed to have bogged down in his assignment in Shanghai. Sheng didn’t discuss his work in any detail; it was just a polite, base-touching phone call. Could Sheng’s work or the call have something to do with the Zhou case? Chen didn’t push for clarification. He hadn’t been on too-friendly terms with Internal Security.

Shortly after noon, Detective Yu popped into his office with a brown paper bag containing some of the sacrifice cakes from the previous day.

“According to Peiqin, it’s a time-honored convention that anyone present at the service must have some of the cakes from the sacrifice table. It’s called heart-comforting cake. In our hurry, we forgot all about it. If it’s convenient, Peiqin also wants you to take some to your journalist girlfriend.”

“Peiqin never gives up, does she?” Chen said. “I only met Lianping a week ago-as an author meeting his editor.”

“I simply repeat what Peiqin told me to say, Chief,” Yu said, “but the cake isn’t too bad. It’s made of sticky rice. According to her, you can eat it as it is, but if you prefer, you can also steam or warm it first, and it will taste better.”

After Yu left, Chen took out a cake shaped like a silver ingot with a red imprint in the center. He might as well have it for lunch.

He had hardly taken one bite of the slightly sweet cake when he got a call from Lianping. It turned out to be an invitation to a concert at the new Oriental Art Center in Pudong.

“A ticket for a concert there costs more than a thousand yuan, but they gave me two for free. It would be too much of a waste if I were to go by myself.”

It was a tempting invitation. A trip to the concert hall would be an acceptable excuse for him to take a break. He’d worn himself out thinking and speculating about all the possibilities, but to no avail. A change of scene might help to clear his mind.

Besides, considering her willingness to come over to the temple last Saturday and her promptness in delivering the pictures to him and Peiqin, he wasn’t in a position to say no.

“That’s nice. I’ll be there.”

When he put down the phone, he noticed that it had started raining outside, a slow drizzle. He wondered at the promptness with which he had accepted her invitation. A siren was sounding in the distance.

He went back to the unfinished e-mail. It took longer than he expected to compose one to Comrade Zhao. He experienced a sense of relief when he finally sent it out.

Then he settled back to concentrate on the paperwork on his desk.

It was near four o’clock when he looked up again. The drizzle seemed to have continued off and on.

It could be a headache getting hold of a taxi on a rainy day, especially during rush hour. The Oriental Concert Hall was in Pudong, an area relatively new to him. He wasn’t sure if he could get there by subway or how bad the traffic would be. It would be better to leave early, he concluded, putting a paperback and a paper-wrapped heart-comforting cake into his shoulder bag.

He decided not to take the bureau car. It would be too much to have the driver wait there until the end of the concert, and he might also tell stories afterward. It took Chen more than forty minutes to get there by the subway, but it was still faster than he’d expected. When he emerged from the subway, the rain was finally easing off, with a suggestion of a rainbow stretching out against the dismal horizon.