Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

The local police had searched the neighboring villages, as well as hotels within the radius of a hundred miles. They also made inquiries at the bus depot. Only one bus had passed the village that night. So far, all their efforts had yielded nothing.

“It’s beyond us,” Zhao concluded. “Her disappearance is a mystery.”

“What about the possibility of the Flying Axes kidnapping her?”

“That’s not likely. Nothing unusual was noted in the village that night. She would have shouted or struggled, and someone would have heard. You will see for yourself in a minute.”

It took them another fifteen minutes, however, before the village came in view. There was a striking discrepancy between the kinds of houses clustered there. Some were new, modern, substantial, like mansions in the best area of Shanghai, but others were old, shabby, and small.

“It’s like two different worlds here,” Yu observed.

“Exactly,” Zhao said. “There’s a huge gap between households with people abroad and those without. All these new houses have been built with money sent from overseas.”

“It’s amazing. These new houses would be worth millions in Shanghai.”

“Let me give you some numbers, Detective Yu. A peasant’s yearly income here is around three thousand Yuan, and that depends on the weather. Someone in New York can earn that sum in a week-living, eating, sleeping in a restaurant, and getting paid all in cash. One year’s savings there is enough to pay for a two-story house here, full of new furniture and appliances, too. How can families without people abroad compete? They have to remain huddled in those ancient huts, in the shadow of the upstarts.”

“Yes, you cannot do everything with money,” Yu said, echoing the line from a new movie, “but you cannot do anything without it.”

“The only way for the poor to turn the tables is to go abroad, too. Otherwise, they will be viewed as foolish, lazy, or incompetent. It’s a vicious cycle. So more and more people leave.”

“Did Feng leave for the same reason?”

“That must have been one of his reasons.”

They came to Wen’s house. An old one, probably built as early as the turn of century, though not small, with a front yard, a backyard, and a pigsty. It looked extremely shabby compared to the improved standard of the village housing. The door was locked from the outside with a brass padlock. Zhao opened it by inserting a small knife into the lock. In the deserted front yard, Yu saw two baskets of empty wine bottles in a corner.

“Feng drank a lot,” Zhao said. “Wen collected the bottles to sell.”

They examined the yard walls, the tops of which were covered in dust, but found no traces of anyone having climbed over.

“Have you found anything suspicious among the things she left behind?” Yu asked as they moved inside.

“Well, there’s not much left behind.”

Not much in the way of furniture anyway, Yu observed, taking out his notebook. The living room appeared inconsolably bare. A ramshackle table with two wooden benches were all he could see. There was, however, a basket of cans and plastic packages under the table. One of the packages bore a danger-inflammable notice. Whatever it was, it did not appear to be something people would normally keep in the living room.

“What’s that?”

“The material Wen used for her work,” Zhao explained.

“What sort of work did she do at home?”

“What she did at the commune factory was simple. She worked with a sort of chemical abrasive. She dipped her fingers in it and rubbed the precision parts until they were smooth, like a human grinder. Folks here earn according to the number of products completed, piecework. To earn a few more Yuan in the evenings, she brought the chemicals and parts home.”

They went into the bedroom. The bed was huge and old with a carved design on the headboard. There was also a chest displaying the same craftsmanship. Most of the drawers contained rags, old clothes, and other useless stuff. One drawer was packed with a child’s clothes and shoes, probably her dead son’s. In another, Yu found a photo album with some pictures of Wen taken in high school.

One showed Wen at the Shanghai railway station, leaning out of the train window, waving her hand at the people on the platform who were undoubtedly singing and shouting revolutionary slogans. This was a familiar scene to Yu, who had seen Peiqin reaching out, waving to her family on the same platform. He put several pictures in his notebook. “Did Wen have any recent photos?”

“The only recent one is her passport picture.”

“Not even a wedding picture?”

“No.”

That was strange, Yu thought. In Yunnan, though they had not applied for their marriage certificate for fear of jeopardizing their chances of being allowed to return to Shanghai, Peiqin had made a point of having their picture taken in a standard bride-and-bridegroom pose. Now, years later, Peiqin would still refer to it as their wedding picture.

The bottom drawer of the chest contained a few children’s books, a dictionary, a piece of old newspaper dated several months earlier, a copy of The Dream of the Red Chamber reprinted before the Cultural Revolution, an anthology of the best poems of 1988-

“A 1988 poetry collection,” Yu said, turning toward Zhao. “Isn’t this out of place here?”

“Oh, I thought so too,” Zhao took it. “But do you see the paper embroidery designs kept between the pages? Village folks use books for that purpose.”

“Yes, my mother used to do that too. So the designs would not get crumpled.” Yu leafed through the volume. No signature. Nor was Wen’s name mentioned in the table of contents.

“Do you want to send it to your poetic chief inspector?”

“No, I don’t think he has time for poetry right now.” Nevertheless, Yu made a note of it. “Oh, you mentioned her work in a commune factory. The commune system was abolished several years ago.”

“That’s true. People are just used to calling it the commune factory.”

“Can we go there today?”

“The manager is away in Guangzhou. I will arrange a meeting for you as soon as he comes back.”

After they finished examining Wen’s house, they went to the village committee office. The village head was not in. An old woman in her eighties recognized Zhao and made tea for them. Yu telephoned the Shanghai Police Bureau but Chief Inspector Chen was not in either.

It was about lunchtime. Zhao did not refer to his reception plan again. They walked over to a noodles booth-a coal stove and several pots in front of a shabby house. While waiting for their fish ball noodles, Yu turned around to look at the rice paddy behind them.

Most of the farmers in the rice paddy were young or middle-aged women, working with their hair bundled up in white towels and their trouser bottoms rolled up high.

“This is another sign,” Zhao said, as if reading Yu’s thoughts. “This village is typical of the area. About two-thirds of the families have their men abroad. If not, it is like a stigma for that family. So there are practically no young or middle-aged men, and only their wives are left to work in the fields.”

“But how long will those wives be left behind?”

“At least seven or eight years, until their husbands get legal status abroad.”

After lunch, Zhao suggested a few families to start interviewing. Three hours later, however, Yu realized they would probably not get anything new or useful. Whenever they touched on the topics of human smuggling or gang activities, inevitably their questions were met with silence.

As for Wen, her neighbors shared an unexplained antipathy. According to them, Wen had kept to herself all those years. They still referred to her as the city woman or the educated youth, though she worked harder than most of the local wives. Normally Wen went to the commune factory in the morning, took care of the family plot in the late afternoon, and then finger-polished those parts she’d brought home at night. Always on the run, her head lowered, Wen had little time or desire to talk to others. As interpreted by Lou, her next-door neighbor, Wen must have been ashamed of Feng, the evil embodiment of the Cultural Revolution. Due to her lack of contacts with others, no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual about her on April fifth.