Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

It was almost like a surrealistic poem he had read, in which a boy picked up a stone at random and threw it carelessly into the valley of red dust. There the stone had turned into… Chief Inspector Chen?

Around one o’clock, he received a phone call from Detective Yu.

“What’s the news?”

“We have found her safe deposit box. Two thousand Yuan, and about the same amount in American dollars, were all that was in it.”

“Well, that’s not very much for a lockbox.”

“And a manuscript,” Yu said, “that is, something like a manuscript.”

“What do you mean? Another book?”

“Perhaps. It is in English.”

“Is it the translation of her novel?” Chen went on, after a pause, “I don’t see the point of locking it up when the book has already been published.”

“I don’t know what it is for sure. You know that my command of English is not good. It appears to me to be a poetry translation.”

“That’s interesting. Had she done any translations from Chinese into English?”

“I really don’t know. Do you want to take a look at it?” Yu said. “The only words I understand in it are some names, like Li Bai or Du Fu. I don’t think Li Bai and Du Fu are related to the case.”

“There might be something in it,” Chen said. “You never know.” Poetry had once given him some insight into the complexities of a case involving a missing person.

“The bank is not far from your place. Let me buy you lunch, Chief. You need to take a break. How about meeting me at the restaurant across the street? Small Family-that’s its name.”

“Fine,” Chen said. “I know the restaurant.”

As he had promised Party Secretary Li, he was going to take a look at the Yin investigation.

Would White Cloud, who had offered to make lunch for him, be disappointed? She’s only here for business reasons, Chen reflected as he got ready to go out. He left a note for her.

The restaurant opposite the bank seemed to enjoy good business. Yu was in his uniform, so they were able to get a table in the corner that offered some privacy. They each had a bowl of noodles covered with soy-sauce-braised tripe. At the suggestion of the amiable hostess, they also had two appetizers, one of river shrimp fried with red pepper and bread crumbs, and one of soya beans boiled in salt water, plus a bottle of Qingdao beer each, which the hostess offered them with the compliments of the house.

There were a couple of young waitresses flitting around like butterflies. From their accents, Chen judged them to be non-Shanghainese. During the ongoing economic reform, provincial girls too had come pouring into the city. Private entrepreneurs hired them at low wages. Shanghai had been a city of immigrants as early as the turn of the twentieth century. History was repeating itself.

The manuscript Yu brought to the restaurant consisted of two folders. In one the manuscript was handwritten; in the other, it was neatly typed. There were no signs of whiteout corrections or of mistakes in the typed manuscript. Apparently it had been done by a computer. The two were practically identical in their content.

Detective Yu was right. The manuscript consisted of a selection of classical Chinese love poems, including poets like Li Bai, Du Fu, Li Shangyin, Liu Yong, Su Shi, and Li Yu, with focus on the Tang and Song dynasties. The translation appeared fluent as Chen glanced through the first few pages.

Something else was noticeable: the original form-either a four- or eight-line stanza-disappeared in the English renditions, some of which were informed with a surprisingly modern sensibility:

A spring silkworm may not stop spinning

silk until death. A candle’s tears dry

only when it is burned down to ashes.

In the Chinese original, Chen remembered, this was a well-known couplet about a lover’s self-consuming passion. This was not the time, however, for him to study the manuscript at length. Nevertheless, he did not think this translation could have been Yin’s work.

“Yes, it’s a poetry translation.”

“I don’t know why she valued it so much.”

“It must have been done by somebody else-by Yang, probably,” Chen said. “Hold on-yes, I have found an Afterword here, written by Yin. Yes, it is Yang’s work, it says. She only edited the collection.”

“Please take it. Read it when you have time. Maybe you will spot something. Please, boss?”

Chen agreed, then asked “Have any new leads turned up in your interviews?”

“No, not really. I have been interviewing the residents of the building all morning. That hypothesis is not very convincing.”

“You mean the theory that she was murdered by one of the shikumen residents?”

“Yes. I’ve studied the list of suspects prepared by Old Liang. Yin was not popular there, either because of some trivial dispute in some cases, or because of her conduct long ago in the Cultural Revolution, but neither of these is a strong enough motive for murder.”

“Alternatively, the murderer could have intended to burglarize her room, but panicked when she came back early and interrupted him. You discussed this with Old Liang, I remember.”

“That’s possible. But was she a likely burglary target? Everybody knew she was not a rich businesswoman. And the contents of her safe deposit box have proven that.”

“Well, she had made a trip to Hong Kong. Someone might have imagined she was wealthy just on the basis of that.”

“As for her Hong Kong visit,” Yu said, “I contacted Internal Security, hoping they could give me some information. You know what? They shut the door right in my face.”

“Well, Internal Security. What can I possibly say?” Chen commented as he peeled the shrimp with his fingers. “It’s not easy for anyone to get them to cooperate. “

“They are the cops of the cops. I understand. But in such a case, they should help-in the interests of the Party or whatever. Their attitude does not make sense,” Yu said, as he put a green soya bean into his mouth, “unless they have something to hide from us.”

“I hope not, but what they do often makes sense only to themselves. You never know; they may have their own interests in the case,” Chen said. “Have I ever told you about my earliest encounter with them?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“It was in my college years in Beijing. I published a few poems, and made several pen pals. One day, one of them invited me to his home, and a guest there brought an American poet with him. On that day we talked of nothing but poetry, but the next day Party Secretary Fuyan of the English department summoned me to his office.”

“What did he say to you, Chief?”

‘“You are young and inexperienced, and we trust you, but you have to be more careful. Don’t be so naive as to believe that the Americans like our literature for literature’s sake,’” Chen repeated. “I was confounded. Then I realized he must be referring to the poetry discussion the day before. How could people have reported it so quickly? Years later, I found out that it was the work of Internal Security. I was lucky because the university dean did not want the image of the university tarnished by having one of his students put on the blacklist, so he worked out a deal with Internal Security.”

“That’s outrageous! Their arms reach everywhere.”

“So don’t worry about their refusal to cooperate. We may still be able to find out something indirectly. Let me make a couple of phone calls.”

“That would be great.”

The noodles arrived, the soup almost red with dried pepper, strewn with chopped green onion, the tripe done to just the right degree, quite chewy, a welcome contrast to the crisp texture of the noodles. It was a pleasant surprise for such a small family restaurant. The hostess stood beside their table, beaming, as if waiting for their approval.