Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

“What would you like to have today, Mr. Ouyang?” the waitress said.

“Steamed ribs with bean sauce, chicken with sticky rice, steamed beef tripe, mini-bun of pork, and a pot of chrysanthemum tea with sugar,” Ouyang said, turning to Chen with a smile. “These are my favorites here, but choose for yourself.”

“We’re having too much, I’m afraid,” he said. “It’s just morning tea.”

“According to my research, morning tea originated in Guangzhou, where people used to have a cup of good tea the first thing in the morning,” Ouyang said. “‘Better to have something that goes along with the tea,’ somebody must have thought. Not a full meal, but a delicious bite. So these tiny appetizers were invented. Soon people became more interested in the variety of the small dishes. Tea’s secondary now.”

The room was abuzz with people talking, drinking tea, discussing business, and eating appetizers, carts of which were continuously wheeled around. Young waitresses kept introducing the new dishes. It was not an ideal place for a poetry discussion.

“People are so busy in Guangzhou,” Chen said, “so how can they afford the time for the morning tea?”

“Morning tea is a must.” Ouyang smiled expansively. “It’s easier for people to talk business over their tea. To cultivate the feeling before they cut the deal. But we can just talk poetry to our hearts’ content.”

Chen was a bit disturbed, however, when he was not allowed to pay. Ouyang stopped him with a passionate speech: “I have made some money. But what then? In twenty or thirty years, what will be left? Nothing. My money will be somebody else’s. Dog-eared, worn-out, and torn in half. What did our dear Old Master Du Fu say? ‘Nothing but your writing lasts forever.’ Yes, you are a nationally known poet, so let me be your student for a couple of days, Chen, if you do not consider me below your standard. In ancient times, a student was also supposed to offer a whole Jinhua ham to his teacher.”

“I’m not a teacher, nor a well-known poet.”

“Well, let me tell you something. Last night I did a little research in the library of the Writers’ Home-that’s one of the advantages there, open shelf, all night. You know what? I’ve found no less than six essays about you, all praising your poems highly.”

“Six! I did not know there were so many.”

“Indeed, I was so excited, as it says in the Book of Songs, ‘Turning and turning in bed, I cannot fall asleep’.”

Ouyang’s allusion to the Book of Songs was not exactly right.

It was actually a love poem. Still, there was no doubting his sincerity.

After morning tea, Chen went to the hotel where Xie had stayed. The hotel had a run-down facade, a likely choice for job-hunting girls. The desk clerk looked stoically through the register until he found the name. He pushed the book across the desk so that Chen could read it himself. Xie had left there on July 2. Where she went, no one knew.

“So she left no forwarding addresses?”

“No. Those young girls don’t leave any forwarding address.”

So Chen had to resort to his door-knocking technique, going from one hotel to another, holding a picture in one hand and a city map in another. In an unfamiliar and fast-changing city, it was a much tougher job than he had expected, even though he had a list of the names of the possible hotels.

The answer came, invariably, with a head-shaking.

“No, we don’t really remember…”

“No, you should try the Metropolitan Security Bureau…”

“No, I am sorry, we have so many guests here…”

In short, no one recognized her.

In the afternoon, Chen went into a small snack bar tucked away in a side street and asked for a bowl of shrimp dumplings with several steamed buns. Sitting there, he became more aware of something characteristic of Guangzhou. It was not one of the main streets in the city, but business was good. People were moving in and out all the time, picking up plastic boxes of various lunch combinations, and starting to eat with disposable chopsticks on their way out. Chen was the only one sitting there, waiting. Time seemed to be more important here. Whatever might be said about the changes in the city, Guangzhou was alive with a spirit that could hardly be called socialist, in spite of the slogan “Build a socialist new Guangzhou” seen everywhere, even on the gray wall of the small restaurant.

Guangzhou was indeed turning into a second Hong Kong. Money was pouring in. From Hong Kong, and from other countries, too. So young girls came there. Some came to find jobs, but some came to walk the streets. It was not easy for the local authorities to keep close control of them. They became part of the attraction of the city for the people from Hong Kong or abroad.

So what could Xie Rong be doing in this city, a young girl all by herself? He understood why Professor Xie was so worried.

He called the Guangzhou Bureau, but there was no new information. The local police were none too enthusiastic in their cooperation. They had their problems, Inspector Hua explained, with insufficient manpower to take care of their own cases.

At the end of the third futile day, Chen went back to the Writers’ Home, totally exhausted, and Ouyang offered to take him to the Snake King Restaurant for a “special dinner.” Chen had almost despaired of completing his mission in Guangzhou. The last few days had been too frustrating. Holding a picture in his hand and asking the same question, like a displaced Don Quixote, moving from one hotel to another, attempting the impossible, knowing it, but still going on. So he thought, not without a touch of self-deprecatory irony, that a great meal might be able to bolster up a battered chief inspector.

They were led into a private room with white walls and a flight of cherubim painted in blue tones across the high ceiling, which struck him as a direct import from Hong Kong. The delicacies printed in the menu included roast suckling pig and bear paws, but the chef’s special was Tiger-Dragon Battle. According to the waitress, it was an enormous platter of assorted snake and cat meats. At Ouyang’s request, she started listing the wonderful effects of the snake. “The snake is good for blood circulation. As a medicine, it is useful in treating anemia, rheumatism, arthritis, and asthenia. Snake gall bladder proves especially effective in dissolving phlegm and improving vision.”

Chen’s mind was not on the chef’s special. Holding the menu in his hands, he was having second thoughts about the trip. A wild goose chase? But Xie was the only lead. Giving up on her might well mean giving up the whole investigation.

Ouyang put a spoonful of the snake soup onto Chen’s plate, saying, “It’s definitely a must. The Tiger-Dragon Battle.”

The waitress brought a bottle of wine for their inspection.

“Maotai,” she said, turning it so that they could see the label.

Ouyang sipped the sample, and nodded to indicate that it was drinkable. The liquor was strong. Chen, too, drained his in one sip.

As a man of the world, Ouyang must have noticed Chen’s mood, but he did not ask about it directly. It was not until after a few cups that Ouyang started to talk about his own business in Guangzhou. “Believe it or not, you’re my lucky star, Literature Star. I’ve just received a huge purchase order. So this is a celebration.”

And it was a wonderful meal. The Tiger-Dragon Battle proved to be as fantastic as its name. Between the “dragon” and the “tiger” was a boiled egg-symbolic of a huge pearl.

“By the way, what’s your business here, I mean, apart from poetry?” Ouyang asked as he placed the cat meat in Chen’s saucer with his chopsticks. “If there is something you want to do in Guangzhou, I may be able to help.”