Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

What would be the late Neo-Confucian professor’s reaction to this sight-his son, a Chinese cop, with an American woman cop?

Closing his eyes, he tried to have a moment of silent communion with the dead. He had let the old man down terribly, at least in one aspect. The continuation of the family tree had been one of his father’s highest concerns. Standing by the grave, still a bachelor, the only defense Chief Inspector Chen could make for himself was that in Confucianism, one’s responsibility to the country was considered more important than anything else.

This was not, however, the meditative interlude he had expected. The old women started their chorus again. To make things worse, a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed around them, huge, black, monstrous mosquitoes that intensified their bloodthirsty assault to the chorus of the white-haired ones’ blessings.

In a short while, he suffered a couple of vicious bites, and noticed Catherine scratching her neck.

She produced a bottle from her handbag and sprayed it on his arms and hands, then rubbed some on his neck. The mosquito spray, an American product, did not discourage the Suzhou mosquitoes. They lingered, buzzing.

Several other old women loomed up from another direction.

They had to leave, he concluded. “Let’s go.”

“Why in such a hurry?”

“The atmosphere is mined. I don’t think I will have a moment’s peace here.”

When they reached the bottom of the hill, they ran into another problem. According to the cemetery bus schedule, they would have to wait there for another hour.

“There are several bus stops on Mudu Road, but it would take us at least twenty minutes to reach the nearest one.”

A truck pulled up beside them. The driver stuck his head out the window. “Need a lift?”

“Yes. Are you going to Mudu?”

“Come on. Twenty Yuan for you both,” the driver said, “but only one can sit inside with me.”

“You go ahead, Catherine,” he said. “I’ll sit in the back.”

“No. We’ll both sit in the back.”

Stepping onto the tire, he swung himself over into the back of the truck and pulled her up. There were several used cardboard boxes in the flatbed. He turned one inside out and offered it to her as a seat.

“It’s the first time for me,” she said, cheerfully, stretching out her legs. “When I was a kid, I wanted to sit in the back of a truck just like this. My parents never allowed it.”

She slipped off her shoes and rubbed her ankle.

“Still hurts? I’m so sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

“Here you go again. Why?”

“The mosquitoes, these old women, the trail, and now the truck ride.”

“No, this is the real China. What’s wrong?”

“These old women must have cost you a small fortune.”

“Don’t be too hard on them. There are poor people everywhere. The homeless in New York, for instance. So many of them. I’m not rich, but giving away my change won’t bankrupt me.”

Her clothes were all rumpled, sweat-soaked, and her shoes were off. Looking at her, seated on a cardboard box, he realized how much more she was than merely vivacious and attractive. She had a radiance.

“It’s so kind of you,” he said. Still, it was not appropriate for him, as a Party member, to show an American the poverty of China’s rural areas, even though she had told him about the homeless in New York. He was anxious to resume his role as a guide. “Look, the Liuhe Pagoda!”

The truck pulled up a few blocks ahead of Guanqian Road, where the Xuanmiao Temple was located. Sticking his head out of the window, the driver said, “I can’t go any farther. We’re at the center of the city now. The police will stop me for letting people sit in back. Don’t worry about catching a bus. You can walk from here to Guanqian Road.”

Chen jumped out of the truck first. Bikes were racing by him. Seeing the hesitation in her eyes, he reached out his arms. She let him lift her down.

The magnificent Taoist temple on Guanqian Road soon came in view. In front of it, they saw a bazaar consisting of food vendors as well as a variety of other booths selling local products, knickknacks, paintings, paper cutouts, and small things not readily available in general stores.

“It’s more commercialized than I expected.” She gladly accepted a bottle of Sprite he bought for her. “I suppose it’s inevitable.”

“It’s too close to Shanghai to be much different. All the tourists don’t help,” he said.

They had to purchase entrance tickets to the temple. Through the brass-trimmed red gate, they could see a corner of the flagstone-paved courtyard, packed with pilgrims and wreathed in incense smoke.

She was surprised at the turnout. “Is Taoism so popular in China?”

“If you talk about the number of Taoist temples in China, it is not. It is more influential as a life philosophy. For instance, those performing tai chi in Bund Park are Taoist followers in a secular sense, following the principle of the soft conquering the strong, and the slow beating the fast.”

“Yes, yin turning into yang, yang into yin, everything in the process of changing into something else. A chief inspector turning into a tour guide, as well as a postmodernist poet.”

“And a U.S. Marshal into a sinologist,” he said. “In terms of its religious followers’ practice, Taoism may not be that different from Buddhism. Candles and incense are burned in both.”

“If you build a temple, worshippers will come.”

“You can put it that way. In an increasingly materialistic society, some Chinese people are turning to Buddhism, Taoism, or Christianity for spiritual answers.”

“What about Communism?”

“Party members believe in it, but in this transition period, things can be difficult. People don’t know what will happen to them the next day. So it may not be too bad to have something to believe in.”

“What about you?”

“I believe that China is making progress in the right direction-”

The arrival of a yellow-satin-robed Taoist priest cut short any further statement by Chen.

“Welcome, our reverend benefactors. Would you like to draw a piece?” The Taoist held out a bamboo container, in which were several bamboo sticks, each bearing a number.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A form of fortune telling,” Chen said. “Choose a stick. It can tell you what you want to know.”

“Really!” She pulled one out. The bamboo stick bore a number: 157

The Taoist led them to a large book on a wooden stand, and turned to the page with the matching number. There was a four-line poem on the page.

Hills upon hills, there seems to be no way out;

The willows shady and flowers bright, another village appears.

Under the heart-breaking bridge, green is the spring water,

Which once reflected a wild-goose-flushing beauty.

“What does the poem mean?” she asked.

“Interesting, but it is beyond me,” Chen said. “The Taoist will interpret it for a fee.”

“How much?”

“Ten Yuan,” the Taoist said. “It will make a difference for you.”

“Fine.”

“What time period do you want to inquire about-the present or the future?”

“The present.”

“What do you want to know?”

“About a person.”

“In that case, the answer is obvious.” The Taoist broke into an obliging smile. “What you are looking for is right there for you. The first couplet suggests a sudden change at a time when things seem to be beyond help.”

“What else does the poem tell?”

“It may pertain to a romantic relationship. The second couplet makes it clear.”

“I’m confused,” she said, turning to Chen. “You’re the one right here for me.”