Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

As for Wen Liping, ironic as it might appear, he had to acknowledge that wherever she was, it would probably not be much worse than in Feng’s company.

Party Secretary Li was right about one thing. Inspector Rohn’s safety was a matter of top priority, for which Chen felt immensely responsible. The gangster had said at any cost -that made him shudder. If anything happened to her, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Not merely because of politics.

He had sensed her sympathy earlier in the day. Particularly by his father’s grave. No one else had ever accompanied him there. The gesture had a meaning for him. He realized that despite their differences Inspector Rohn had come to mean more to him than a temporary partner.

But it was absurd of him to be contemplating such things with his investigation bogged down in a mire of unanswered questions, inexplicable complications, unpredictable hazards, and with Wen Liping still missing.

Could he really quit now, with what he saw as the national interest at stake, and risk Feng failing to testify against Jia? With the possibility of “eighteen axes” looming for Wen-a pregnant woman, helpless, with no money or job?

The cigarette burned his fingers.

He was seized with an urge. To forget those contradictory thoughts, about Wen, about politics, about himself. He longed for an evening at the Cold Mountains Temple, by the Maple River, with the moon rising, the crow calling, the frosty sky enfolding, the riverside maples swaying, the fishing lights glittering, and the arrival of a guest boat at the stroke of midnight… To lose himself in the world of Tang poetry, for however brief a moment.

As he stepped out of his room, he saw the light still on in Catherine’s. But he continued down the stairs to the front desk. There he picked up the phone, then hesitated. Several; people were standing around idly. Not far away, another group of people sat in front of a color TV. He put down the receiver and walked into the street.

The city of Suzhou seemed not to have changed much in spite of China’s Open Door Policy. Here and there, new apartment buildings appeared amidst old-styled houses, but he failed to find a public phone booth. Walking, he came to the arch of an ancient white stone bridge. He crossed, coming unexpectedly into a brightly lit thoroughfare with a variety of shops. It was like a juxtaposition of different times.

At one corner of the thoroughfare, he saw a post office open. In its spacious hall several people waited by a row of phone booths with glass doors, above each of which a strip showed the relevant city name and phone number. A middle-aged woman looked up, pushed open the door, and picked up the phone inside.

He started to fill out a request form to call Gu. Once more he hesitated. He’d better not reveal his whereabouts to someone like Gu. So he put down Mr. Ma’s phone number. Gu might I have contacted the old doctor.

After ten minutes, the number he had requested showed up on the screen. He stepped into the booth, closed the door behind him, and picked up the phone.

“It’s me, Chen Cao, Mr. Ma. Has Gu contacted you?”

“Yes, he did. I called the bureau. They told me you were in Hangzhou.”

“What did Gu tell you?”

“Gu seemed to be really concerned about you, saying that some people, powerful people, are opposing you.”

“Who are they?”

“I asked him, but he did not tell me. Instead he asked me whether I had heard anything about a Hong Kong triad called Green Bamboo.”

“Green Bamboo?”

“Yes. I asked several people about them this afternoon. It’s an international organization with its headquarters in Hong Kong.”

“Anything about its activity in Shanghai?”

“No, nothing so far. I will keep asking. You take care, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“I will. You too, Mr. Ma.”

As he left the post office, his steps were dragging. Various things appeared to be entangled like bamboo roots under the ground. The Green Bamboo. Chief Inspector Chen had not even heard of them until now.

And he lost his way in the unfamiliar city. After having made a few wrong turns, he came to the Bausu Pagoda Garden. He bought an entrance ticket, though it was too late for him to go into the pagoda.

Strolling aimlessly in the garden, in the hope that some ideas might come to him, he saw a young girl reading on a wooden bench. No more than eighteen or nineteen, she sat quietly with a book in one hand, a pen in the other, and a newspaper spread on the bench. Her lips touched the shining top of the pen, and the bow on her pony tail fluttered like a butterfly on a breath of air. This scene reminded him of his days in Bund Park, years earlier.

What could she be reading there? A poetry collection? He took a step toward the bench before he realized how deluded he was. He saw the title of book: Market Strategy. For years, the stock markets had been closed, but now “stock madness” was sweeping the country, even this corner of the ancient garden.

He climbed a small hill and stood on top of it for several minutes. Not far away, he seemed to hear the murmur of a cascade. He glimpsed, in the distance, a faint flickering light. On this April night, the stars appeared high, bright, whispering to him through memories…

Such stars, but not that night, long ago, lost,

For whom I stand tonight, against the wind and frost.

But tonight it was not as bad as in Huang Chongzhe’s lines, not as cold. He whistled, trying to pull himself out of his mood. He was not meant to be a poet. Nor was he cut out to be an overseas Chinese making a “grave-sweeping” trip with an American girlfriend-as those old women had imagined. Nor a tourist, wandering about in the city of Suzhou at leisure.

He was a police officer, incognito, conducting an investigation, unable to make a decision until after the next day’s interview.

Early the next morning, they arrived at Liu’s residence in a suburb of Suzhou.

Inspector Rohn was amazed at its Western-style grandeur. Liu lived in a magnificent mansion behind substantial walls, forming a sharp contrast to the general image of the city. The iron gate was not locked, so they walked in. The lawn looked as well-kept as a golf course. Beside the driveway stood a marble sculpture of a girl, sitting after a bath, bending her head in thought, her long hair cascading like a waterfall over her breasts.

Chief Inspector Chen pressed the bell; a middle-aged woman came to the door.

Catherine took her to be in the late thirties or early forties, judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes, though they did not detract from her fine features. She was dressed in a purple silk tunic and matching pants, over which she had tied a white embroidered apron. She wore her hair in an old-fashioned bun, but she could still be considered attractive.

It was difficult for Catherine to guess the woman’s status in the house. Not a maid, nor the hostess. Liu’s wife was in Shanghai.

Ambiguity also appeared in the way she treated her guests. “Please take a seat. General Manager Liu will be back in half an hour. He’s just called me from his car. Did you telephone him yesterday?”

“Yes, I did. I’m Chen Cao. Catherine is my American friend.”

“Would you like something to drink, tea or coffee?”

“Tea will be fine. Here is my card. Liu and I are both members of the Chinese Writers’ Association.”

What was up his sleeve, Catherine wondered.

Anything was possible from the enigmatic chief inspector. She decided to let him talk, and she would provide a little echo, as an American friend of his might.

“You have a distinct Shanghai accent,” Chen said.

“I was born in Shanghai. I have only come to Suzhou recently.”