Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

“Good, I’m on my way.”

There was nothing surprising about the property being registered under her name. Either Zhou was cautious, having purchased it for himself but put it under her name, or he was really smitten and bought it for her.

The subdivision was about two blocks behind Lu Xun’s home. From a distance, he glimpsed a stretch of new roofs shining in the sunlight.

There was no ruling out the possibility that she was kept under surveillance in that subdivision. If he was able to track her down there, so could others. Still, he had to approach her. He turned a corner on the street, looking over his shoulder one more time.

Turning around, Chen caught sight of Kong Yiji Restaurant.

Kong Yiji was the protagonist in one of Lu Xun’s stories. He was a scholar, totally down and out because of his having failed the civil service examination, his quixotic insistence on the old ways at the end of the Qing dynasty, and his inability to adjust to the changing society. Consequently a helpless drunkard, Kong spent his money-whenever he had any-in a small tavern, where he postured and lectured in an impossibly bookish way.

In that story, the tavern was shabby. It was frequented by short-coated, poor customers who could only afford to drink standing at the counter with just a one-copper plate of aniseed-flavored peas. The relatively better-off, long-gowned customers would sit sipping their wine and relaxing in an adjacent room.

The new restaurant was huge, even though its façade sported some decorations depicted in the story, such as a hot water container for wine warming; a row of dented, ancient-looking bowls and saucers; and a signboard on the wall with a chalk inscription declaring, “Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers.” Chen walked over and stepped inside.

“Give me a private room,” Chen said to the young waitress who came up to greet him, “a small one.”

“Just for two?”

“Yes, just for two. You know what I want.”

“Sure, we have one for you.”

The waitress led him to a cozy room lined with pink floral wallpaper. It was furnished with a dining table and chair, a long couch, and a coffee table sporting a statuette of a naked Venus, none of which had anything to do with the original story or its protagonist. That bookish archetype would have never dreamed of a romantic rendezvous in a room like this. The waitress handed Chen a pink-covered menu.

“These are specialties of your restaurant?” Chen asked.

“Yes. There is a minimum charge of seven hundred yuan for the private room. I can recommend some-”

“That’s fine. Bring me whatever you recommend, but make sure to include the local specials.”

He then took out his notebook and scribbled on a page:

Don’t worry about who I am. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help. Come to the restaurant. Private room 101. I’ll be waiting for you.

He tore out the page, put it into an envelope, and addressed it before handing it to the waitress.

“Deliver it to the address on the envelope. Make sure she herself gets it. Here’s ten yuan for delivering it. When she comes over, I’ll have another twenty for you.”

The waitress eyed him up and down slowly before she nodded, like one waking from a dream. Her face lit up with an arch smile.

“I see, sir. She’ll be here.”

He wondered what the waitress saw, but that hardly mattered.

A middle-aged man wearing a long, worn-out blue gown appeared in the doorway, gesticulating, mumbling literary quotations that ended invariably with the refrain, “forsooth, little left, indeed, little left.” Originally, it referred to the peas in the impoverished character’s hand, Chen recalled. He waved “Kong Yiji” away, closed the door, and wondered what Lu Xun would have thought of that.

Twenty minutes later, there was a light knock on the door.

“Come in, Fang.”

A woman in a plain white blouse and black pants stepped in, a suggestion of hesitation in her timid movements. She appeared to be in her early or mid thirties. Thin, slender, she had a slightly long face, almond-shaped eyes, and a black mole on her forehead.

He stood up and signaled her to a seat, raising his finger to his lips like an old friend. The two sat in silence, waiting, as the waitress came in to serve the cold dishes and then pour the rice wine in two bowls in front of them.

Chen took a slow sip from the bowl. The wine was surprisingly sweet and mellow. The dishes of food in front of them appeared interesting. Smoked duck, white fish fried with green onions, stinking tofu, salt-water-boiled river shrimp, fermented winter melon, and dried bamboo shoots. Thanks to Lu Xun, the special dishes all appeared to reflect the traditional local flavor, even though it was done for a strictly commercial purpose.

“Don’t hurry with the hot dishes. We’d like to talk first,” he said to the waitress. “And please make sure to knock before entering.”

“Of course.”

The moment the waitress stepped out, Chen produced his business card and placed it on the table before Fang.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Fang. I’m Chief Inspector Chen Cao, Deputy Party Secretary of the Shanghai Police Bureau, and also a member of Shanghai Party Committee.”

He didn’t like to use the titles printed on his business card, but they might help in the present situation.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you, Chief Inspector Chen, but-”

“Let’s open the door to the view of the mountains. I told others that I’m here for the literary festival, but that’s only a smokescreen.”

“A smokescreen? For somebody like you?” She gave him an incredulous look and said nothing else.

“I’m here because of the Zhou case.”

“That’s what I guessed.”

“Do you believe Zhou committed suicide?”

“Does it matter what I believe?”

“It matters to me. You might remember Detective Wei, a close colleague of mine.”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear that he died? The day before he died, he interviewed you.”

“Died? How?” she said, her face blanching.

“Killed by a car. I don’t believe he died in a simple traffic accident-not while he was in the middle of investigating Zhou’s death. I’m here because of that investigation but also because of Detective Wei’s death.”

She made no response.

“Detective Wei wasn’t in charge of the shuanggui investigation-the Party investigation into Zhou’s corruption-but I believe that his investigation into the cause of Zhou’s death led to his fatal accident. I want justice for Wei. And I believe you want justice for Zhou, if Zhou was murdered.”

She nodded, her fingers touching the wine cup without lifting it.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” she said, making a visible effort to pull herself together. “Yes, I want justice done if he was murdered, but I’m only the office secretary. People have put a lot of pressure on me, trying to force me to say things I don’t know. I couldn’t do that, so I wanted to get away from it all for a few days. That’s all I can tell you.”

“If you were really just enjoying a vacation here, I don’t think people would be frantically looking for you everywhere. You’ve only worked in that office for two years. How did you come to have a luxurious villa bought for you? I’ve already talked to your parents. They’ve told me what happened after you returned from overseas. We may go over all this, and, if need be, the transaction records for the property will prove everything.”

She kept her head hanging low, her lips sealed tight.

“Let me assure you that you’re not a suspect in my investigation, and I will do nothing to harm you. But I can’t say the same about the others who are looking for you.” Taking another sip of the deceptively sweet wine, Chen went on, adopting a different tone, “I’m not just a cop; I’m also a poet. As the proverb says, even my heart goes out to beauty-like you. If anything, I’m trying to get you out of trouble.”