Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

Absurd, and hypocritical too, but such hypocrisy might have accounted for his rapid rise.

The librarian stepped into the reading room with a new magazine. “Here is a recent interview with Chen Cao.”

There was a color picture of him in a black suit with a conservative tie, looking like an academic. In the interview, using T. S. Eliot as an example, Chen claimed that poetry should be written without the pressure of having to be a poet. He mentioned Louis MacNeice, who had to earn a living at another job. Chen acknowledged their influence on his poetry and mentioned the title of a poem suffused with melancholy. She found “The Sunlight on the Garden,” read it, and made copies. The CIA’s purpose was political, but Chen’s essay might throw more light on her Chinese partner as a human being. Eliot and MacNeice, Chen used their stories to justify his own career. She returned the material to the librarian.

As she left the library, she saw Chen waiting in front of the restaurant. Less scholarly-looking than in the magazine picture, he wore a black blazer with khaki pants. He took several steps across the street, met her halfway at the safety island, and led her into the restaurant. There, a hostess ushered them into a private room on the second floor.

She examined the bilingual menu. After reading a few lines, she pushed it over to him. She understood each of the characters, but not their combination. The English translation, or rather the transliteration, did not help much.

A waiter carried over a long-billed brass kettle and poured a graceful arc of water into her cup. In addition to the green tea leaves, there were also tiny pieces of red and yellow herbs at the bottom of the cup.

“Eight Treasure Tea,” Chen said. “Supposed to be potent for boosting your energy.”

She listened in amusement as he discussed the house specials with the waiter. He turned to ask her approval at intervals. A perfect escort, this chosen representative of the Shanghai Police Bureau.

“The name of the restaurant comes from a line of a Song dynasty poem, There’s a home deep in the verdant willows. I’ve forgotten the author.”

“But you remember the name of the restaurant.”

“Yes, that’s more important. As Confucius tells us, ‘You cannot be too fastidious in choosing your food.’ That’s the first lesson for a sinologist.”

“I guess you are a regular customer here,” she said.

“I’ve been here two or three times.” He ordered a South Sea bird’s nest soup with tree ears, oysters fried in spiced egg batter, a duck stuffed with a mixture of sticky rice, dates, and lotus seeds, a fish steamed live with fresh ginger, green onions, and dried pepper, and an exotic-sounding special whose name she did not catch.

After the waiter had withdrawn, she rested her eyes on him. “I’m just wondering-”

“Yes?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.” Several cold dishes appeared on the table, which gave her an excuse not to continue. She was curious as to how he had acquired all his epicurean knowledge. An ordinary Chinese chief inspector could not have afforded it. She realized she was already carrying out the CIA’s task, yet this did not spoil her appetite.

“I’m just wondering,” she said, “if our interviews here can lead anywhere. Wen seems to have totally cut herself off from her past. I can hardly see any possibility of her coming back to Shanghai after so many years.”

“We have just started. In the meantime, my temporary assistant Qian has been checking hotels as well as neighborhood committees.” He picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “We may hear something soon.”

“Do you think Wen could have afforded to stay in a hotel?”

“No. I think you’re right, Inspector Rohn. Feng has not sent any money home. His wife does not even have a bank account. So I have had Old Hunter look into cheap, unlicensed hotels as well.”

“Isn’t Old Hunter engaged with another case?”

“Yes, but I asked him to help with this case, too.”

“Any breakthrough in the other case?”

“Not much progress there either. It involves a body found in the park. Old Hunter has just identified the dead man’s pajama brand by the V pattern woven into the fabric.”

“Mmm, Valentino.” she said. “Now in our case, there’s another thing that troubles me. As far as we can tell, Wen has not yet made any effort to contact her husband. This does not make sense. Feng wanted her to run for her life, but not out of his life. She knows about the trial date, so if she didn’t know how to contact him she should have gotten in touch with the police. With each passing day, the possibility of her rejoining Feng before the trial becomes fainter. It’s the seventh day that she’s been missing.”

“That’s true. Things may be more complicated than we originally imagined.”

“What else can we do here?”

“This afternoon, we are going to interview another schoolmate of Wen’s, Su Shengyi.”

“The secret admirer in high school. A red guard cadre, now down and out, right?” She could not help being suspicious. This seemed a total waste of time.

“Yes, you’re right. One never forgets his first love. Su may know something.”

“After the visit, what? Am I supposed to remain at the hotel as a distinguished guest, shopping, sightseeing, and sharing these fantastic meals with you?”

“I’ll discuss it with Party Secretary Li.”

“Another straightforward answer?”

“Cheers.” He raised his teacup in a toast.

“Cheers,” Catherine said, raising her teacup. The tiny dried fruit, Chinese wolfberry, rose to the surface like a scarlet period. There was not much she could do with this Chinese partner, who responded to her sarcasm with an unruffled air. It amused her to toast with tea, though.

Another course arrived, bubbling in an earthenware pot. It looked different from American Chinatown specials. Its creamy gravy tasted like chicken broth, but the meat was unlike chicken. It had a jellied texture.

“What’s that?”

“Soft shell turtle.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ask first.” She caught the spark of amusement in his eyes. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? It’s the most expensive item on the menu.”

“And is a turtle also a fabled aphrodisiac in China?”

“That depends.” Chen helped himself to a substantial portion.

“Chief Inspector Chen!” She feigned shock.

“Today’s special.” The waiter was back with a white bowl containing what seemed to be large snails immersed in brownish juice, and a glass bowl of water.

Chen put his fingers into the bowl of water, wiped them with a napkin, and picked up one of the shells. She watched him sucking the meat out with an effort.

“It is luscious,” he said. “River spiral shells. Often translated as river snail. You eat it like a snail.”

“I have never had snails.”

“Really!” He took a bamboo toothpick, picked the meat out, and offered it to her on the end of the toothpick.

She should have refused. Instead, she leaned over the table and let him put it into her mouth. It tasted good, but the experience was slightly disquieting.

The Chinese cop was turning into a challenge. He seemed to fancy himself as a charmer.

“It tastes better if you suck the meat out yourself,” he said.

So she did. The meat came out together with the juice. It did taste better that way.

When the bill came, she tried to pay it, or at least her share. He refused. She protested, “I cannot let the Shanghai Police Bureau pay all the time.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He crumpled the receipt. “Can’t I buy a lunch for an attractive American partner?”

He seemed to be a man to whom compliments came easily. Perhaps it was cultural. Perhaps he had his orders.