Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

He didn’t have to announce the decision immediately. The delegation was having a meeting with a group of local Chinese writers with a Chinese dinner afterward. They all knew he had a meeting with the embassy people. A meeting no one would try to question. Not even Bao.

So Chen had the late afternoon for himself. He had done what he could, he kept telling himself, and further speculation would not help. Because things were beyond his control. Because he knew his limits. Because it depressed him to think. He did not have to be a cop or a delegation head every minute-at least not toward the end of his last day in the city.

For him, it remained an unfamiliar city, tall buildings looming up along the way like indecipherable signs against the horizon, ebbing to stunted slums before rising up again. He saw a Budweiser billboard of an eagle ceaselessly flapping its neon wings. The brewery had its successful joint ventures in China, its beer so cool and refreshing in Chinese TV commercials, and promoted everywhere by those scantily-clad Bud girls. The company already made a huge profit in only a few years after its entry into China ’s market, he had read. He thought of Tian and his ex-Bud-girl wife, whistling softly. Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out the address book, and read out a street name to the driver.

“So that’s where you want to go now?” the driver said without looking over his shoulder.

“Yes. Sorry about the change.”

“No problem. It’s not far away. In University City.”

He had not made any plan with Catherine for the evening, for he’d had no clue how long his meeting with the embassy official would last. So he’d told her he would be busy that afternoon, and perhaps that evening too. As most of the local writers at the afternoon meeting were bilingual, her services were not needed. She’d mentioned that instead of staying with them, she might go home.

As the taxi reached the intersection of Delmar and Skinker, he told the driver to stop. Handing the man a twenty-dollar bill, he didn’t ask for a receipt, which might reveal his whereabouts. Everybody knew about his “important” meeting this afternoon.

“Let us go,” he murmured to himself.

That section of Delmar was lined with bars and restaurants. He strolled past a café. A number of customers sat outside. A young girl was singing with an electric guitar near the entrance, her bare feet beating out the rhythm on the sidewalk, as if in correspondence to what had been already lost in his memory, distantly, with a string and a peg. Next to the neon sign was a secondhand bookstore. He resisted the temptation to step in.

Her apartment building was an old brownstone near the beginning of a quaint side street. One of the second-floor windows was decorated with a spreading cluster of dark green ivy underneath. He thought he recognized it from a picture she had once shown him.

He believed he had learned some things during the trip. Among others, people had to make appointments to visit here. No one simply dropped by, like in Shanghai. It wouldn’t do for him to knock on her door like this.

He pulled out his cell phone and called her home number. No one answered. Then he tried her cell phone, which was turned off, unfortunately. It was about four-thirty. She would probably come back soon. He thought he might as well wait awhile here. A nice surprise for her. And he found himself quite contented with the anticipation of it.

For the moment, he didn’t want to think about his responsibilities- being a government delegation head or being a chief inspector. Simply being a man waiting for a woman.

He turned into a street corner bar. Instead of sitting outside, he chose a table inside, leaning against the window, keeping her building in sight. It was a small, cozy bar; its walls presented an impressive array of old trophies and posters in a nostalgic statement against time. There was also a stuffed deer head gazing down, forever forlorn. A young waitress in high-heeled slippers came over, blowing out a gum bubble, and put a menu on the table. He wasn’t hungry so he had a glass of Chardonnay, and started sipping, watching out. He saw a bald man in shirtsleeves leaning out the window above hers, with a curl of smoke rising peacefully from a pipe.

Raising his glass, he became aware of the other customers there watching him. A Chinese sitting alone in an American bar, he didn’t feel comfortable. He wondered whether it was appropriate for him to sit here drinking without any appetizer. The bar was not as hilarious as in the TV show he had watched. No one said anything to him here.

He decided to think over the latest development in the Xing case. Sipping at the wine, he took out a notebook and drew several connected lines across a page. He tried to figure out what had really happened between Xing and the Beijing government.

Apparently, Beijing ’s agents had been working behind the scenes in the States before Chen’s arrival. Xing was a calculating businessman, everything being negotiable. However sordid the bargain, it would be justified as being in the interest of the Party. After all, it was a case concerning the very top, or the very basis, of the Beijing government. Its full consequences would be comprehensible, as Comrade Zhao had suggested, only if viewed from a higher position. That was probably why Zhao had copied out that Tang poem for him.

But if so, why send Chief Inspector Chen to the United States? To get him out of the way for one or two weeks? He didn’t think so. It would have been much easier to do that in China, one way or another. Nor did he believe he had been chosen for the delegation on his merit. So here was the heart of the matter. Why all the bother? To the agents working here, the presence of Chen could only prove to be obstructive.

For the first time another possibility occurred to him. He might have been dispatched for a different reason. To attract the attention of the Americans, who had long known about his law enforcement background, and to whom his last-minute delegation appointment must have appeared suspicious. Now it made sense that Party Secretary Li had talked about his investigation at a press conference-so the Americans would learn about it through the Chinese media. Then the agents could work on Xing without being noticed or discovered.

As Detective Yu had guessed from the beginning, it was a show investigation, perhaps never meant to be taken seriously. But Chen had thrown himself headlong into the role, like an earnest yet effective Don Quixote, flourishing his lance, to the annoyance of some people in the Forbidden City. First in China, then on the trip abroad. Literally following Comrade Zhao’s talk about a general’s free decisions, the chief inspector proved to be a serious threat to the red rats, especially through his exploration into Xing’s connection with Little Tiger, leading to the very top. That had triggered the pursuit of his mother in Shanghai, and the attempt against him in St. Louis. Unfortunately, Little Huang fell instead.

Now as for Xing’s return to China, it might be another ironic casualty of misplaced yin and yang. Chen’s effort here, while unpleasant to the secret agents, brought about some surprising results. Through unforeseeable circumstances, Chen and his partners managed to arrest Ming, which, at least on the surface, appeared to be the last straw for Xing. Chen knew better, though; far more complicated factors had been working behind the scene.

But Chen still had no clue how Xing and his associates had learned that Chen had suspicions about Little Tiger. One possibility pointed to Tian. Not that Tian would have talked to anyone, but Bao and his mysterious L.A. man knew Chen had spent an afternoon with Tian. Still, two friends’ unexpected reunion wouldn’t have appeared so suspicious. The fact that nothing had happened to Tian spoke for itself. Other than Tian, Catherine was the only one aware of his secret work. He didn’t have to consider the possibility. Some of the most crucial information had come from her.