Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

It was a majestic mansion looming through the dusk, with a marble arch towering over its door, and a couple of stone lions squatting in front of the entrance, which reminded Chen of the celebrated bronze ones on the Bund.

“Four or five million dollars at least,” Tian said, estimating in his businessman’s way, “Xing’s house.”

They saw a stolid man in black sitting on a rattan chair on the porch, resting his feet on a white plastic chair, drinking from a bottle of beer. It was not Xing. That Chen could tell.

“Possibly a bodyguard,” Tian said, slowing down as he made a show of looking for the house number.

The guard looked up in alert, putting the beer down, but the car did not stop, rolling out of sight.

“We’ll come back,” Tian said. “Xing has connection with local triads. Those tangs and bangs are capable of doing anything.”

“Do you mean Xing belongs to the secret society in Los Angeles?”

“I’m not sure, but with his money, he could have easily rented those thugs for protection.”

“Money can make devils pull round the mill like blindfolded mules,” Chen said. “Is Xing still doing business here?”

“No, not that I’ve heard of. He’d better stay low. The money he has plundered will let his next three generations wallow in obscene luxury.”

“Has his case made a big buzz here?”

“It did, but Chinese people here don’t care much about the politics back home-thousands of miles away in the Forbidden City. Look at this white five-storied mansion next to Xing’s. It belongs to the son of a politburo member. Little Tiger, that’s his nickname, I think.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He’s barely in his twenties. Instead of studying, he’s been partying everywhere, drinking, dancing, and mah-jonging night and day. He has a large import and export company-at least under his name.”

“You know a lot of people.”

“The Chinese community here is like a small world. Folks keep bumping against one another.”

In the midst of gathering dusk, they were driving round to Xing’s house again.

“I’ll ask for directions,” Tian said, pulling up before Chen could stop him. “You stay in the car.”

Tian apparently knew some residents here. The black-clothed guard stood up and pointed in one direction. Tian went on with his questioning, as if still lost. The door behind them opened. A white-haired woman appeared with a string of large beads in her hand. The guard said something to her, and the door closed again. But in swift glance, Chen saw the hallway inside enveloped in incense. Then the door of the white mansion opened again, and a young man came out. The guard bowed to the young man respectfully as Tian moved back to the car.

“Sorry, I’ve got nothing for you,” Tian said, sitting beside Chen. “The guy would not even say whether Xing is at home. I didn’t want to sound too inquisitive. No point stirring a sleeping snake.”

“No,” Chen said. “I really appreciate all your effort. So the old woman must be Xing’s mother.”

“Yes, Xing is a filial son. When he first came here, he often appeared in his mother’s company. I have seen her picture in the local Chinese newspapers too.”

“Is the old woman a Buddhist?”

“I think so. I have read something about it, but I’m not sure.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Oh, my mother also believes in Buddhism,” Chen said. “Is that young man Little Tiger-the next-door neighbor to Xing?”

“Yes. Perhaps more than a next-door neighbor. Tell you what. I may be able to find out more. My company has ads in most of the Chinese newspapers here. The editors owe me some favors.”

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to contact those people. Xing may be well connected here.”

Warmed with his first detective experience, however, Tian continued to make suggestions on the way back. Some of his ideas might be worth trying; others were totally impracticable. Chen listened and then glanced at his watch.

“How far is it from the hotel?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Let me down here. You’d best not be seen too much in my company. Now about Xing, don’t do anything without consulting me first.”

“I’ll be careful. No one will ever suspect me.”

“Don’t call the hotel. I bought a new cell phone here. Call this number only,” Chen said, writing the number down on a scrap of paper. “Better call me only from a public phone.”

“That sounds more and more exciting, like in a thriller movie, Chen. Any special directions for me to follow?”

“I don’t know. Little Tiger, his next-door neighbor, might be someone worth checking into. As a cop, I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“What do you mean by coincidence?”

“Xing’s connected at the very top,” Chen said. “Drop me here. I’ll take a taxi the rest of the way.”

IN THE HOTEL ROOM, Bao found himself unable to fall asleep. It was only eight-thirty. He should not have gone to bed so early, but there was nothing else for him to do. Shasha and Zhong were out of the hotel, following Chen’s example. The political study was canceled without anyone consulting Bao. No one paid much attention to him.

He tossed about on the mattress. How could a human body feel comfortable on the steel springs? In Beijing, he slept on zhongbeng, a sort of a mattress woven of twisted palm fiber-hard, airy, reliable-and he fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

What kind of a bed was provided in Chen’s suite? he wondered. Nominally, Bao was the Party secretary. Only it did not work here. His Party position was not mentioned. Thanks to the first letter of his name in the Chinese phonetics, he was put directly under Chen. Other than that, he was treated exactly like other members. It was an unacceptable yet undeniable fact that Bao had to move in this young man’s shadow.

He took out from under the pillow a book of his poems from the seventies. He had intended to give it to an American writer. So far, no one seemed to have read him. Unbelievable. He got up, turned on the TV, and cursed in spite of himself. All the channels were in English. He tried to use the coffeepot for hot water, without success. Chen had shown him how, but it was a different pot, with the instructions in English. He did not want to ask again. Even the interpreter seemed to take him as an old fool.

Everything was weird here: the windows could not be opened. What’s the point? The carpet exotic, sweaty under his bare feet, almost slimy in a sultry evening. In several rooms, smoking was not allowed-in a country of so-called freedom. Absurd to suffer the restrictions in a hotel room that cost more than a hundred dollars a day. More than his monthly income, come to think about it. He ignored the rules. Lighting a cigarette, he dashed the ash into a plastic cup as he slumped into a chair close to the window, resting his foot on the windowsill. In the spiraling smoke, he watched the fragments of his life moving around to form a new, meaningful whole.

Bao’s literary career had started in the early fifties during the nationwide Red Flag Folk Song Campaign, which pushed workers and peasants to the fore as “proletarian writers.” Following Chairman Mao’s doctrines about literature and art serving politics, it was a matter of necessity that proletarian writers should play a principal role. So an old editor of Shanghai Literature came to the Beijing Number One Steel factory, where Bao, a young apprentice then, was cracking a handful of soy-sauce-fried watermelon seeds. As the editor explained the purpose of his visit, Bao burst out laughing.

“What can I say? Nothing an uneducated worker says will ever interest you,” he responded, spitting the husk into his palm. “Look, such a small seed can only grow into a tiny watermelon. There’s nothing you can do about it.”