Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

“How many Master Mas are there in American literature?” Bao asked back. “Of course, the master who wrote about-em, the corruption of the American election system.”

“The election system-” The interpreter remained puzzled as before.

“Oh, ‘Running for Governor’,” Chen said, turning to Huang. “I have read the story. Let me interpret for Mr. Bao.”

In the sixties, translation of Western literature into Chinese had been subject to the political criterion. Mark Twain was one of the few chosen because of his “anticapitalist stance,” and the hilarious “Running for Governor” was included in Chinese textbooks as a lampoon against hypocritical American democracy. Bao must have read the story, but the interpreter, born in the seventies, had used different textbooks.

Chen took over the interpretation. Bao’s idea was not bad, and his constant unhappiness would be appeased by Chen’s choosing to second the proposal and even to interpret it for him.

“According to Mr. Bao, the hometown of Mark Twain will be a point of interest to us.” Chen continued. “He has been very popular in China.”

“Yes, Hannibal. That’s not far away from St. Louis. You might spend a day or two there, too.”

“ St. Louis,” Chen responded. “T. S. Eliot was born in the city.”

“Great. So it’s decided,” Reed said. “You’ve translated ‘The Waste Land.’”

Not merely for this reason did the city interest Chen, but he saw no point elaborating on it there. He was glad that Reed made the suggestion, which was readily accepted.

It was not lines of Eliot but those of Feng Yanshi, a tenth-century Chinese poet, that came to his mind as he left Professor Reed’s room with Bao.

Recalling Chinese poetry was perhaps more becoming to the head of a Chinese writers’ delegation, more culturally correct, he reflected with a wry smile, when his cell phone rang again. The number on the screen showed that it was Tian, who spoke with urgency in his voice.

“Can you come out? You are leaving, I know, but I’ve got something important for you. I’m in the café across the street.”

“I’ll be there,” Chen said simply.

In the café, Tian was waiting at a table against the window, and he rose as Chen stepped in.

“Remember the white mansion I pointed out to you the other day?” Tian said before Chen was seated.

“It belongs to the politburo member’s son, Little Tiger, right?”

“Exactly. As a matter of fact, it was Little Tiger that arranged for Xing’s arrival in L.A. He made the down payment for Xing’s house months earlier.”

“How did you learn all that?”

“Mimi has been talking about buying a new house in a better area, like Roland Height. It prompted me to talk to Shan, a real estate agent. He happens to be the one who arranged the deal for Xing’s house. Little Tiger put down two hundred thousand dollars. Shan gave me all the detailed information.”

“That’s incredible!” Chen said. “But why tell you his business secret?”

“Well, most of the houses there are in the range of one and a half million dollars. So at six percent, the agent gets around ninety thousand dollars. He would do anything for that fee. Indeed, he’d sell his soul to get me to buy in Roland Height-except he’s no Dr. Faust.”

“You know a lot about real estate business, Tian.”

“Well, my ex-wife’s present husband is a real estate agent. A man with only a middle-school education, who doesn’t even need that for his business. He simply drives his clients around, with a smile heaped on his face, but he earns more than a professor. Little wonder my ex-wife dumped me for him.”

“You have proven to be far more successful,” Chen said, understanding why Tian would have a grudge against real estate agents.

“So Xing and Little Tiger must have been in the same boat for a long time. Partners in their common smuggling business. Xing must have connected at the top in Beijing.”

“Xing may have lots to do with Little Tiger, but not necessarily with his father.”

“Come on, Chen. It’s such a notorious case-a teenaged son would not have the guts to keep his involvement from his father.”

Chen nodded, as the politburo link also accounted for Xing’s flight in the last minutes. The information came from the very top because people at the top had their own interests at stake. Chief Inspector Chen was not simply dealing with a corrupt official with connections, but with the very connections that made the country what it was.

“And there was something else,” Tian went on, “something I can’t understand.”

“What?”

“Xing has talked to Shan about selling his house. Shan asked him why. Xing said that he can hardly pay his legal fees.”

“That’s impossible! With so much stolen money in his hands, that doesn’t make sense.”

Xing’s plan to sell the house was a surprise, though of course, he would not have told the true reasons to a real estate agent. So could there be other possibilities?

The information Chen had gathered here led him to believe it was a huge gamble that Xing would be granted political asylum in the United States. He might be able to afford the exorbitant attorney fees, but the evidence he had produced so far was hardly convincing. Several experts considered the odds of his being granted asylum extremely slim. The American government was also under pressure from the Chinese. Once deported, Xing knew his fate would be sealed. So what did that mean?

“I’ve been busy with Shan, looking for houses,” Tian went on. “I almost forgot to choose a present for you. So Mimi has wrapped a case of fish oil for you. And I have just dug out a scroll I bought last year. Allegedly the work of Zhu Sishan, a calligrapher at the beginning of the twentieth century,” Tian said, taking the scroll out of the box. “Possibly a fake, but at least not one of those mass-produced imitations you buy in China.”

The calligraphy was angular and spirited, as if subtly animated with the qi of the calligrapher. What impressed Chen was the poem copied on the scroll. The poem was entitled “Fisherman,” written by the eighth-century Tang dynasty poet Liu Zongyuan.

A reminder of the “River Snow” his father had copied. By the same Liu Zongyuan. Whether the scroll was genuine or not, what mattered for Chen was the spirit of the poem, lonely yet uncompromising. It would make an excellent present for his mother. Possibly a message to her as well. Her son might not have followed her husband’s academic path, but there was still something in common between the two.