Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

“A man asks about misfortune, not about fortune,” Xing said. “Don’t worry. Go on with your interpretation.”

“I’ll be frank. There’s another character: xing plus the plant radical. Also pronounced xing, but it means floating without a root. Now it’s unusual for somebody of your weight. In a flight of association, with the plant radical plus the character zhong, or weight, it brings in somebody surnamed Dong into the picture. He may not be helpful to your movement.”

“Dong, anybody surnamed Dong, Xing?” the old woman asked anxiously. “Dong?”

“That’s weird,” Xing said, visibly shaken. “Dong Deping. He’s in charge of the State Industry Reform Committee in Shanghai. He also helped with that land deal for our little brother.”

“Is he also in trouble?” The old woman was growing hysterical, grasping at Xing’s sleeve.

“I don’t know, but he took a big red envelope from us,” Xing said to her. “So did Jiang. The amount was large enough to lock them up for life. Their days may not be easy with the investigation going on.”

“Then my little son is really in trouble. Master Chen knows everything,” she said, sobbing. “If anything happened to him, how could I live?”

“Don’t worry too much, Mother. I don’t think they know anything about our little brother’s whereabouts.”

“Oh Buddha, protect my little son, and I’ll gild all the images in the hall.” She turned to Chen with the string of beads trembling in her hands. “Master Chen, you know everything. Please tell us what to do.”

“Again, we are talking about movement,” Chen said, facing Xing. “For a mighty man like you, your movement means something. As in the proverb, it’s like the movement of a dragon and a tiger. However, I wonder if you are associated with someone named ‘tiger.’ Someone close or staying close to you. A neighbor or something like that. Now be careful. A dragon and a tiger may eventually not go together. Needless to say, the tiger in question could come from the top.”

“Now what are you talking about?” Xing took a step back, glaring at Chen in spite of himself.

“I am talking about what I read from the character, sir. Still, things might have a turn in the near future. Both good and bad involved.”

“Can you be more specific?” the old woman cut in again.

“You may believe you have someone powerful behind you.” He paused significantly before looking at Xing. “Believe it or not, what will help you comes from your heart.”

“How? I’m totally confused.”

“The fact that both you and your mother have chosen the same character speaks for itself. The Way of Heaven is mysterious, but filial piety always comes first. Who says that the splendor / of a grass blade can prove / enough to return / the generous warmth / of the ever-returning spring sunlight?’

It was not really advice, but he’d better not push things too far. All this might sound compelling to the old woman, but after the initial shock, Xing would come back to himself. As in those stories he had read, a mediocre fortune-teller usually ended up by giving some sort of “do good things” advice.

But Xing decided it was time to leave. Perhaps he was too shaken to stay on. It was just as well. Xing would probably not reveal any more.

“You have spent a long while with us. Here is your fee,” Xing said, putting another hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Don’t say to anybody what you have said to us today.”

“Of course not.”

As the Xings walked quickly out of sight, Chen turned to Master Illusionless with a smile.

“I don’t know who you are,” Master Illusionless said, scratching his clean-shaven scalp, “but you are no ordinary man.”

“I don’t know who I am. As the scriptures say, identity is an illusion too,” Chen said. “At this moment, I am your apprentice. Now I have to go, like a tumbleweed turning and turning around the distraction of humdrum vanities.”

EARLY THE NEXT DAY, Chen had a Chinese newspaper delivered to his room.

Chen’s speech the previous day got them an article in the local newspaper entitled, “A Chinese Writers’ Delegation in Reform.” It described the conference as a “successful one, which not only deepened the understanding of two great cultures, but also strengthened the friendship of two great countries.”

And Chairman Wang of the Chinese Writers’ Association said practically the same thing, in an international phone call, speaking highly of his work as the delegation head. Wang did not know anything, of course, about his work as an investigator.

In that morning’s session about Chinese drama, Chen said little. It was not his field. Sitting in the conference room, he took the opportunity to mentally reexamine the developments in the Xing case.

Detective Yu had gotten hold of An’s cell phone record and transcripts of her calls-with the help of Old Hunter. An had talked to several men, asking about the whereabouts of Ming, but none seemed to know. So those phone calls, while valuable in tracing those possibly connected to Ming, failed to produce a breakthrough at the moment. Yu said that he would go on exploring in that direction and that there were several names he hadn’t known before. Yu didn’t exactly go into detail, and there was no point in mentioning all the names on the phone. No matter how hard they tried to keep to their weather terminology, those names had to be real names.

For the same reason, Chen did not tell Yu about his fortune-telling experience in the temple. It took too much explanation on the phone, but he did ask Yu to check into a company under Little Tiger’s name, which had its offices in Beijing.

The morning session went on. Chen rose to get himself a cup of coffee. Leaning back against the chair, he reviewed the temple scene. Xing’s talk about Jiang and Dong was crucial. So Chen had some more cards to play, though he was not in a hurry to do so. As for Little Tiger’s involvement, it was like a random harvest, and it could be a possible new direction for him.

During the intermission, he excused himself and went to the university library. He knew no one would miss him during the remaining session. Both Shasha and Bao were absent. Chen threw himself into research on the library computer. It was really convenient here.

At the Shanghai Police Bureau, there were only two computers, and many people waiting for access. What was worse, most of the search engines were blocked by the government. What information came up was that available in official newspapers, which helped little. Besides, Chen did not want to do the job in the bureau with all his colleagues moving around. Here on the campus, he worked on the computer without worrying about the possible consequences. The information gathered about Xing was far more detailed, and analytical too. He was beginning to obtain a comprehensive picture of the whole matter.

He worked on for hours, skipping his lunch.

Later in the afternoon, he had a discussion with the American host about the delegation’s activities after they left L.A. Their visits to various cities had been scheduled long in advance. According to Professor Reed, however, Perry Turner, the American playwright in charge of their activities in Chicago, had been injured in a car accident. Reed suggested that instead of going to Chicago as scheduled, they might choose a different city.

“Let’s go to that city. I have forgotten the name of it,” Bao, who made a point of presenting himself at such meetings, suggested in high spirits. “Master Ma used to draw his inspiration from it.”

“Master Ma-” Little Huang was totally lost.

“Which Master Ma?” Chen cut in.