Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

The morning brought with it consciousness of the scent of toasted bread, of fresh coffee, the sound of the telephone ringing, and then of a slender hand reaching for the receiver on the nightstand-

“No!” Chen jumped out of bed, snatching the receiver as he rubbed his sleepy eyes. “I’ll take it.”

It was Party Secretary Li. But for his quick reaction, Chen might have had some explanations to make to his Party boss. White Cloud must have arrived and prepared breakfast while he was still asleep.

Li wanted Chen to take a look at the Yin case.

“I’m on vacation,” he said. “Why am I needed, Party Secretary Li?”

“Some people claim it is a political case, saying that our government has gotten rid of a dissident writer in an underhanded way. That’s just bullshit, you know.”

“Yes, of course. People may make irresponsible remarks, but we do not have to pay attention to them.”

“Foreign correspondents have also joined in the vicious chorus. The government held a memorial service for her, but one American newspaper described it as a cover-up,” Li said indignantly. “The mayor has spoken to me about it. We have to solve the case in the shortest time possible.”

“Detective Yu is an experienced police officer. I discussed the matter with him over the phone yesterday. He is doing all that can be done. I don’t think I can make any difference.”

“This is an extremely complicated, sensitive matter,” Li said. “We have to employ our best people.”

“But this is my first vacation in three years. I’ve already made my plans,” Chen said, having decided not to mention the translation project he had undertaken. “It may not be a good idea for Detective Yu, or for the special squad’s morale, for me to have a finger in every pie.”

“Come on. Everybody knows Detective Yu is your man,” Li said. “Moreover, you are a writer yourself and, as such, you may understand Yin better. Some aspects of the case will be familiar to you, but not to Detective Yu.”

“Well, I wish I could help,” Chen said. That part of Li’s argument made sense. Had it not been for the lucrative translation project Chen might have been willing to cut short his vacation.

“The mayor will call me again next week, Chief Inspector Chen,” Party Secretary Li went on. “If the case remains unsolved, what shall I tell him? He understands the case is being investigated by your special case squad.”

Chief Inspector Chen bristled at the implication. “Don’t worry so much, Party Secretary Li. Surely the case will be solved under your leadership.”

“We cannot overestimate the political significance of the case. You have to help Detective Yu in whatever way you can, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“You are right, Party Secretary Li.” It was not unusual for Li to harp on the political significance of a case and Chen decided to compromise. “I’ll go there to take a look as soon as I have time. Today or tomorrow.”

Putting down the phone, he saw a sly smile on White Cloud’s lips. Then he observed something like a briefcase on the desk.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“A laptop. It may save you some time. You won’t have to type and retype on your typewriter. I told Gu about your work and he asked me to bring this computer to you today.”

“Thank you. I have a PC in the office but it’s too heavy for me to bring home.”

“I know. I have also installed the software for a Chinese/English dictionary. It will be quicker for you to look up words on the computer.”

She also took out the list of words he had given her. She had printed it out both in English and Chinese.

A clever girl. Gu had been right in sending her to help him. As Confucius said, You tell her one thing, she will know three things, Chen thought. But then he grew unsure if Confucius had really said that.

“You are helping a lot, White Cloud.”

“It’s a pleasure working with you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

She started toward the kitchen area. She was wearing a pair of soft-soled cotton slippers which she must have brought with her. Quite a considerate girl too: she’d realized it would be best to walk about without making noise.

He started working on the laptop. The keyboard action was much lighter than the typewriter’s, like her soft-footed step.

Every movement of hers seemed still to be registering on his subconscious, even when she was busy in the kitchen area. It was hard for him not to think of her as the K girl he had met in the private karaoke room at the Dynasty Club, or to remember the way Gu had referred to her as a little secretary-though, in a different environment, people could appear to be very different.

She’s a temporary assistant for a project, he reminded himself.

In one of the Zen lessons he had read, the master said solemnly, It is not the banner moving, nor the wind blowing, but your own heart jumping.

As he reentered into the computer what he had previously translated on the typewriter, he took a sip of the coffee, which was fragrant, strong, though now lukewarm. She brought over the coffee pot again to refill his cup.

“I have something else for you to do today,” he said, giving her the list he had prepared the previous night. “Please go to the Shanghai Library and borrow these books for me.”

It was not exactly an excuse to send her away. These books should be able to tell him something about the splendors of old Shanghai. He needed to know more about the history of the city.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she said, “just in time to make lunch for you.”

“I’m afraid you are doing too much for me. It reminds me of a line by Daifu,” he said, trying to be ironic since he did not know what other pose to strike. “It’s the hardest thing to receive favors from a beauty.”

“Oh, Chief Inspector Chen, you are as romantic as Daifu!”

“I’m joking,” he said. “A pack of Chef Kang instant noodles will do for me.”

“No, that won’t do,” she said, pulling on her street shoes. “Not for Mr. Gu. He will fire me.”

There appeared to be a small tattoo, like a colorful butterfly, above her slender ankle. He did not remember having seen that in the Dynasty Club. He tried to get back to his translation work. After Li’s phone call, however, there was something else on his mind. He did not agree with Li, yet he kept thinking of the fact that Detective Yu, alone, was handling the murder case of a dissident writer. It seemed to Chen that a number of Chinese writers had been labeled as “dissidents” for reasons that were hardly plausible.

For example, there were the so-called “misty” poets, a group of young people that had come to the fore in the late seventies. They did not really write about politics; what made them different from the others was their preference for difficult or “misty” images. For one reason or another, they had a hard time having their poems published in the official magazines, so they started publishing an underground magazine. That got the attention of Western sinologists, who praised their works to the skies, focusing on any conceivable political interpretation. Soon the misty poets became internationally known, which was a slap in the face for the Chinese government. As a result, the misty poets were labeled “dissident” poets.

Might he himself have become a dissident writer had he not been assigned, upon graduation from Beijing Foreign Language University, to a job in the Shanghai Police Bureau? At that time, he had published some poems, and a few critics even described his work as modernist. Police work was a career he had never dreamed of. His mother had termed it fate although, in the Buddhist religion she believed in, there was no particular deity in charge of fate.