Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

“What do you mean, Inspector Rohn?”

“When you are a woman and also a cop, it is difficult to maintain a relationship with a man unless he’s also a cop. Women often quit their jobs. Now, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Enough about my career. It’s only fair for you to tell me about yours, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“I majored in English and American literature,” he said, with a trace of reluctance. “One month before graduation, I was told that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had requested my file. In the early eighties, the government was responsible for college graduates’ job assignments. A diplomatic career was considered great for an English major, but at the last minute, during the routine family background check, one of my uncles was found to have been a ‘counterrevolutionary,’ executed in the early fifties. He was an uncle I had never seen. This connection nonetheless disqualified me for the foreign service. Instead, I was assigned to the Shanghai Police Bureau.

“I had no preparation for police work but I had to be given a job-the so-called benefits of the socialist system at the time. No college student had to worry about finding a job. So I reported to the bureau. Existentialists talk about making choices for yourself, but choices are more often made for you rather than by you.”

“Still, you have had an excellent career. Chief Inspector Chen.”

“Well, that’s another story. I’d better spare you the sordid details of bureau politics. Suffice to say that I’ve been lucky so far.”

“It’s interesting to think about a parallel between us. Two cops in Bund Park, neither one of us having set out to become one. As you said, life is like a chain of unpredictable events- seemingly irrelevant links.”

“One more example. The very day I took over Wen’s case, just a few hours earlier, I had been shown the body in the park. The way it came to my attention was coincidence. I happened to have received a ci collection from a friend of mine. So I went to the park that morning to read a few pages.” With the coffee cup in his hand, he began to tell her about the Bund Park case.

At the end of his account, she said, “Maybe the victim was connected to Wen in some way.”

“I don’t see how. Besides, if the Flying Axes had killed the man, they would not have left so many ax wounds on the body. It’s like putting their signature on it.”

“I don’t have an answer to that,” she said, “but it reminds me of something I read about the Italian Mafia. They killed in imitation of another organization, in order to muddy the water, to confuse the police.”

He put down his coffee to consider this. It was possible, he conceded, that the park victim had been killed by somebody purposely copying the methods of the Flying Axes.

“If so, there must be a reason for it.”

“A third party who would benefit?”

“A third party-” He had not yet considered a third party in connection with the Bund Park corpse.

What would a third party gain by transporting a body with multiple ax wounds to the park and leaving it there?

He was disturbed by elusive yet confusing ideas, like the sparkle of the candlelight, which could not be caught before it dissolved in the darkness.

The candle on the table before them was burning low, flickering. Draining her drink, she sighed. “I wish I were here on vacation.”

But she was not and they had work to do. There were so many unanswered questions.

They rose slowly, descended the stairs and left the cafe.

Walking toward the corner, he found one answer. Behind the bush that had seemed to move, a young couple sat on a yellow plastic sheet, their arms locked around each other, shutting out the world. They had no idea that a body had been discovered on the spot a few days earlier.

So his thought about one aspect of the case was reconfirmed. The body could not have been left there before the closing time. Park security would have easily noticed anyone hiding behind the bushes, even at night.

“A romantic image?” she asked, noticing his abstraction.

“Oh no, I’m not thinking about poetry.” He did not want her to associate this romantic scene with a corpse.

They left the park.

People stood in a line along the bank, shoulder to shoulder, talking to each other without regard for those standing next to them. After a few steps, Catherine noticed a young couple vacating a small space by the embankment wall.

“I would like to stand here for a while.” She added, mischievously, “Stuck on the wall like a snail, to use your simile.”

“Whatever our distinguished guest prefers,” Chen said. “Perhaps more like a brick in the wall. A brick in the socialist wall. As a metaphor, that was more popular during the socialist education movement.”

They stood there, leaning on the railing. To their left, the park gleamed like a “night-brightening pearl,” a phrase she had read in a Chinese legend.

“How do you find time for literary pursuits in your present job?” she asked.

“Politics aside, I like my job because, in a way, it helps my writing. It gives me a different perspective.”

“What perspective?”

“In my college days, to write a poem meant such a lot to me, it seemed there was nothing else worth doing. Now I doubt that. In China ’s transitional period, there are many things more important to the people, at least of more immediate, practical value.”

“You put it defensively, as if you had to keep on convincing yourself,” she said.

“You may be right,” he said. He took a white paper fan out of his pants pocket. “How much I’ve changed since then.”

“Changed into a chief inspector. A rising star in the Shanghai Police Bureau, I believe.” She saw that there were lines in brush calligraphy on the folding fan. “Can I have a look?”

“Sure.”

She took the fan. There was a couplet on it. The writing was difficult to read in the flickering illumination provided by the ever-changing neon lights.

Drunk. I whipped a precious horse; / I do not want to weigh down a beauty with passion.

“Your lines, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“No, Daifu’s. A confessional Chinese poet, like Robert Lowell.”

“Why the parallel between a horse and a beauty?”

“A friend of mine copied the couplet for me.”

“Why those two lines?” She waved the fan lightly.

“His favorite couplet, perhaps.”

“Or a message for you.”

He laughed.

The ringing of his phone took them by surprise.

“What’s up, Uncle Yu?” he said, one hand cupped over the phone. He then took her by the elbow, and they began to walk as he listened.

She understood why he had to resume their stroll. Wedged between people along the wall, confidential conversation was out of the question. And the use of a cell phone was still rare and attracted attention. They encountered covetous glances from the milling crowd.

There was no change of expression as he listened. He spoke little. At the end of the conversation, he said. “Thank you. It is very important, Uncle Yu.”

“What’s up?” she said.

“It was Old Hunter. Something about Gu,” he said, turning off the phone. “I asked him to keep an eye on the karaoke owner. He has been tapping Gu’s telephone lines. It seems Gu is an honorary member of the Blue. He made several phone calls after we left the Dynasty. A couple of them were about a missing Fujianese. A man. Gu used a nickname.”

“A missing Fujianese,” she repeated. “Did he mention Wen?”

“No. The Fujianese seemed to have a mission, but they were speaking in triad code. Old Hunter needs to do some research tonight.”