Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

“What’s wrong with that, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“It’s sentimental.”

“So you have turned into a hermit crab retreating into a rationalist shell.”

Instantaneously she knew she had gone too far. Why had she burst out with this? Was it because she was upset with the outcome of the investigation, because neither he nor she could possibly do anything that would really help Wen? Or was it because of a subconscious parallel rising to the surface of her mind? Soon she, too, would be leaving China.

He made no response.

She bent over to rub her aching ankle.

“Finish the last piece,” he said, handing the cake to her.

“It’s a strange name, Bamboo Leaf Green Cake,” she said, studying the box.

“Bamboo leaves may have been used in the cake. Bamboo used to be a very important part of traditional Chinese culture. There must be a bamboo grove in a Chinese garden landscape, and a bamboo shoot dish in a Chinese banquet.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Even Chinese gangsters use the word bamboo in the name of their organizations.”

“What are you referring to, Inspector Rohn?”

“Remember the fax I got at the hotel last Sunday? It contained some background information about international triads involved in human smuggling. One of them is called Green Bamboo.”

“Do you have the fax with you?”

“No, I left it at the Peace Hotel.

“But you’re sure?”

“Yes, I remember the name,” she said.

She changed her position. Turning toward him, she reclined against the post. He removed the cups. She slipped off her shoes and put her feet on the bench, her knees doubled against her chin, her bare soles resting on the cold marble bench top.

“Your ankle has not completely recovered,” he said. “The bench top is too cold.”

And she felt her feet being placed in his lap, the arch of her sole cradled in his hand, which warmed it before rubbing her ankle.

“Thank you,” she said, her toes curling against his fingers involuntarily.

“Let me recite a poem for you, Inspector Rohn. It came in fragments to me during the last few days.”

“Your own poem?”

“Not really. More like an imitation of MacNeice’s The Sunlight on the Garden.’ It is a poem about people being grateful for the time they share, even though the moment is fleeting.”

He started to speak, his hand on her ankle.

“The sunlight burning gold, / we cannot collect the day / from the ancient garden / into an album of old. / Let’s pick our play, / or time will not pardon.”

“The sunlight on the garden,” she said.

“Actually, the central image of the first stanza came to me in Moscow Suburb.

“Then after I got Liu’s poem about the loyal character dance, especially after we met Wen and Liu, some more lines appeared,” he explained. “When all is told, / we cannot tell / the question from the answer. / Which is to hold / us under a spell, / the dance or the dancer?”

“The dance and the dancer, I understand,” she said, nodding, “For Liu, it’s Wen that turned the loyal character dance into a miracle.”

“MacNeice’s poem is about how helpless people are.”

“Yes, MacNeice is another of your favorite modernist poets.”

“How do you know?”

“I have done some research on you, Chief Inspector Chen. In a recent interview, you talked about his melancholy because his job did not allow him to write as much as he wanted, but you felt sorry for yourself, for missing your chance as a poet. People say in poetry what is impossible for them to say in life.”

“I don’t know what to say-”

“You don’t have to say anything, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m going back in a couple of days. Our mission is finished.”

A mist enveloped the garden.

“Let me recite the last stanza for you,” he said. “Sad it’s no longer sad, / the heart hardened anew, / not expecting pardon / but grateful and glad / to have been with you, / the sunlight lost on the garden.”

She thought she knew why he had chosen to recite the poem.

Not just for Wen and Liu.

They sat there, quietly, the last rays of the sunlight silhouetting them against the garden, but she experienced, indelibly, a moment of gratitude.

The evening spread out like the scroll of a traditional Chinese landscape painting: A changing yet unchanging panorama against the horizon, cool and fresh, a light haze softening hills in the distance.

The same poetic garden, the same creaking Ming dynasty bridge, the same dying Qing dynasty sun.

Hundreds of years earlier.

Hundreds of years later.

It was so tranquil that they were able to hear the bursting bubbles of wrigglers in the green water.

The train arrived at the Fuzhou Station at 11:32 a.m., on time.

The station was alive with waiting people, some waving their hands, some running alongside the train, and some holding up cardboard placards bearing the passengers’ names. However, there was no one from the Fujian Police Bureau waiting for them on the crowded platform.

Chen did not say a single word about this. Some acts of negligence on the part of the local police might be understandable, but not in this case. It did not make sense. A premonition gripped him.

“Let’s wait here,” Catherine suggested. “They may have been delayed.”

Wen looked on in silence, her expression unchanged, as if their arrival meant nothing to her. Throughout the train ride, she had said little.

“No, we are too pressed for time,” he said, unwilling to voice his fears. “I’ll rent a car.”

“Do you have the directions?”

“Detective Yu made a map for me. The directions are marked on it. Wait here with Wen.”

When he drove back in a Dazhong van, only the two women were still standing there.

Opening the door for Wen, he said, “Sit in the front with me, Wen. You may be able to help with the directions.”

“I’ll try.” Wen spoke to him for the first time. “Sorry for this trouble.”

Catherine tried to comfort her from the backseat. “This is not your fault.”

Consulting Wen and the map, Chen was able to find the right road. “Now the map is serving a purpose Detective Yu did not expect.”

“I’ve only spoken to Detective Yu on the phone.” Catherine said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“He must be on his way back to Shanghai already. You will meet him there. Both Yu and his wife Peiqin are wonderful people. She is also a marvelous cook.”

“She must be some cook to earn a compliment from a gourmet like you.”

“We may go to his home for a genuine Chinese meal,” he said. “My place is too messy.”

“I will look forward to it.”

They chose not to talk about work with Wen sitting in the car, clasping her hands over her belly.

It was a long drive. He stopped only once at a village market, where he bought a bag of lichee.

“Good nutrition. Now you have this fruit in big cities, too. It’s shipped by air,” he said, “but still it’s not as good as in the countryside.”

“It tastes wonderful,” Catherine said, nibbling at a transparent white lichee.

“Freshness makes all the difference,” he said, peeling one for himself.

Before they finished half of the lichee in the paper bag, Changle Village came into view. For the first time he noticed a change in Wen. She rubbed her eyes, as if dust had blown into them.

Inside the village, the road became a lane, wide enough only for a light tractor. “Do you have a lot to pack, Wen?”

“No, not a lot.”

“Then let’s park here.”

So they got out of the car. Wen led the way.