"When Red is Black" - читать интересную книгу автора (Xiaolong Qiu)

Chapter 5

Chen looked out of the window at the dull gray apartment complex in the morning light, and then down at the file on his desk, the New World proposal, and started typing on his electric typewriter. The project was ambitious. The document was not easy to translate, as it contained many architectural terms interspersed throughout the text. He had done a few technical translations for money, although none had been as lucrative as this one. Normally it took him hours to become familiar with the relevant technical terms before the translation could even begin.

Chen had obtained two weeks’ leave from the Shanghai Police Bureau. Party Secretary Li had agreed, although reluctantly. The Party boss had been promising Chen a vacation for quite a long time, but, for one reason or another, his vacation had never come through. Li was hardly in a position to say no to Chen’s request now, in spite of the urgency of the Yin case.

Chen had not mentioned the translation when he requested leave. There had been other reasons for him to seek time off. He had been quite upset with the way a recent case had been concluded. He had done what he could as a cop, but all his efforts, while “in the interests of the Party,” seemed to have plunged a poor woman further into misery. Public Security Minister Huang had made a long-distance phone call to him, praising his “excellent work under the leadership of the ministry,” and encouraging him to “make larger strides as an emerging cadre of the new Chinese police force.” Party Secretary Li had not been pleased at this praise for his protégé. Minister Huang’s call to Chen, rather than to Li, might have signified something. Li was quick to read the possible message. The too-swift rise of Chen-at Li’s expense-was unacceptable. Tension rose between the two men.

There were other things in the bureau that were irritants to Chen. Mountains of political meetings and seas of Party documents. Several cops, including one in his special case squad, had been suspended because of their involvement in a smuggling case. An old Party cadre had raised issues about Chen’s poetry writing once again. It was ironic, as his literary inspiration had almost run dry over the last few months. He’d had neither the time nor the energy. All he had produced were some fragmentary lines. He did not know when he would ever be able to put them together.

On top of all that, after a long process of meetings and negotiations, had come the withdrawal of the offer to Yu of a modern apartment. Chen took the blow personally. He, too, suspected that the reneging on what had been agreed might have been more complicated than it appeared on the surface. Everybody knew that Detective Yu was Chief Inspector Chen’s man. This was a terrible loss of face for Chen. As the proverb said, You have to think about its master’s face before you kick a dog. It was Chen who had handed the apartment key over to Yu. Party Secretary Li might have been at work behind the scenes, to get back at Chen. Whatever the correct interpretation of these events might be, Chen had concluded that he did not have sufficient authority at the Shanghai Police Bureau yet.

To take his mind off police work, it would be best to do something different. He was not a man who could relax by doing nothing, as in Laozi’s Tao Te Ching. In a way, Gu’s translation job offered just what he needed, not to mention the monetary incentive.

The New World project proposal on his desk started with an introduction detailing Shanghai ’s architectural history from the beginning of the century. It did not take him long to realize that the success of the project would depend on a myth-on nostalgia for the glitter and glamour of the thirties, or, to be exact, on the recreation of that myth-blending the past into a delicious brew, a cup of cappuccino, to delight customers in the nineties.

But then, much about business success had proven mysterious to him. When Kentucky Fried Chicken had first come to Shanghai, he had laughed at the idea. The prices alone would scare away most Shanghainese, he believed, but he had been wrong. Kentucky Fried Chicken enjoyed a huge success. Several branch stores had opened in the city. Last summer, he had wanted to talk with his cousin Shan about his mother’s health problems, and Shan suggested that they meet in “ Kentucky ”: “It’s cool there. So clean and air-conditioned.”

An advantage of translating rather than writing was that he could keep working on a text mechanically even if its meaning was beyond him, putting words together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, without worrying about the whole picture for the moment. He had barely finished a half page when there was a light knock at the door. Opening it, he saw a girl standing there, her long hair hanging over her shoulders, a college badge on her scarlet jacket. He recognized her as White Cloud, the “little secretary” promised by Gu.

“Chief Inspector Chen, I am reporting for work,” she said, in a voice as tender and sweet as freshly peeled litchi.

She was a delicious girl with a watermelon-seed-shaped face, almond eyes, and cherry lips.

“General Manager Gu did not have to send you here. He shouldn’t have done so.” Chen did not know what else to say, but he felt he had to make some protest.

“He is paying me to come here,” she said in mock dismay. “You surely don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”

She could hardly help with the translation, as her major was Chinese literature, he remembered. What else was there for her to do? There might be phone calls, which a secretary could answer for him. But he thought better of this. He didn’t receive many calls at home, for one thing. And then, a female secretary in his room- what would others imagine? Afterward, he would have to spend more time making explanations than she could possibly save him.

But she seemed to be quite at ease already, almost at home. Taking off her jacket, she started to wash up the cups and the ashtray on the desk without waiting for his orders.

Perhaps Gu had given her his orders.

“What about your schoolwork?”

“I have only one class this evening.”

“I cannot think of anything for you to do at this moment. There are magazines on the shelf. You may pick one to read if you like.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

He did not feel comfortable with someone moving about in back of him. She had started to straighten the books on the shelf. It was hard to drive the associations he had with the phrase a little secretary out of his subconscious. She had on a white sweater with an extraordinarily large collar and sleeves. Very fashionable. He wondered whether there was a special name for the style. Then an idea came to him. He was not that familiar with the architectural styles of the thirties. If she could take a few pictures of a shikumen house, of a lane from the thirties, in the former concession area, it would help him visualize. He asked if she could do that for him.

“Sure. Can I have your door key?” She added, “In case you are out when I come back.”

“Okay.”

She left with a key ring dangling from her finger, apparently quite clear as to where she would take those pictures he had requested. Her retreating figure reminded him of “a traveling cloud,” an image with various connotations in Chinese poetry, but at this moment, he thought of A traveling cloud / that forgets to come back I unaware of the spring drawing to an end, from a poem by Feng Yansi that he had read not too long ago.

In classical literature, more often than not, the word “cloud” was accompanied by “rain,” evoking sexual love.

Once again he tried to settle down to his work.

It was not easy. He had to use a Chinese-English dictionary, and a picture dictionary as well. After an hour or so, he had another idea. Instead of typing on, doggedly, he took out an extra copy of the proposal, and, with a highlighter, underlined the words he was not sure about. That was not difficult, but it was time-consuming, requiring a close reading. Still, he was getting a more general-yet at the same time more concrete-picture of the New World.

He stopped only once, to make himself a cup of instant coffee, which he drank absentmindedly.

White Cloud came back around one thirty, with a dozen color pictures she had taken and had developed. One-hour service, perhaps. She also carried a plastic bag in her other hand filled with boxes of barbequed pork, and smoked eel, and a bag of mini-soup buns.

“Have you had your lunch, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“No, I haven’t been hungry.”

“I’m so sorry, I had no time to prepare lunch for you today. This is something I bought from a restaurant.”

“Thank you! How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Mr. Gu will reimburse me.”

He did not really like it, the way Gu had given her instructions-and money too.

“He does not have to pay for my lunch.”

“Mr. Gu pays me quite handsomely, as you know. Please, help me keep my job.”

He examined the pictures with approval. They appeared clear, well focused. He picked up the first soup bun. “Well, I can’t complain.”

“Please eat now,” she said. “The buns are warm.”

They looked as dainty as quail eggs, almost transparent, the minced pork stuffing mixed with minced crab meat, combining the flavors of land and river. The soup inside burst out at the touch of his lips, hot, and delicious.

“Be careful,” she said with a giggle, hastily wiping his chin with a pink paper napkin.

Her fingers wiping the soup from his chin embarrassed him, and he felt obliged to say something. “According to a recipe book I read, the soup bun is special because its stuffing is mixed with pork skin jelly. When steamed, the jelly turns into hot liquid. You have to bite into it very carefully, or the soup will splash out, or even scald your tongue.”

In spite of his book knowledge, he had made a small soup mess on the desk, and she brought a towel to clean it up with.

He changed the subject. “You are really helping a lot. But you are a college student, White Cloud. I do not think-”

“I have to earn my college tuition. Both my parents have been laid off. I have to work, if not as a little secretary for you, then as a K girl at the Dynasty Club, or somewhere else.”

“It takes somebody like Gu to invent such a position,” he said as he put a chunk of smoked eel into his mouth. The eel was at once crisp and juicy.

“He can’t get credit for this invention,” she said, as she sucked the soup out of a dainty bun. “Little secretary or xiaomi. Surely you’ve heard the term? Those Mr. Big Bucks must have little secretaries; we are symbols, just like a Mercedes.”

He was surprised that she spoke so casually, as if the words had no relevance to herself.

“There’s another new job invention: ‘passion companion.’ A full-page advertisement for this work appeared in Wenhui Daily. I don’t need to explain what it means. Believe it or not, there are high qualifications required for the position. At least a university degree. Able to talk intelligently. Presentable for social occasions, and, of course, for private occasions, too.”

“I’m too old-fashioned, I’m afraid.”

“You are special.” She stood up and began to put the leftovers into the refrigerator. “Well, I’d better do something to make sure Mr. Gu gets his money’s worth.”

“I do have something for you to do: Can you check the definitions of these words for me? It will save me a lot of time. You don’t have to do it right now. In the evening, if you have time, after your class, will be fine. “

“Sure. I can learn quite a few new words for myself.”

The telephone started ringing. She picked it up instantly like a secretary. “Chen Residence.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “I’m Detective Yu. I want to speak to Chief Inspector Chen.”

“Hold on.” She turned toward Chen, the receiver covered by her hand, whispering in his ear, “Detective Yu. Do you want to speak to him?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Sorry to bother you, boss,” Yu said in a hesitant voice.

“Come on, Yu. What can I do for you?” He said to White Cloud in a low voice, “You may leave now. I will call you tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be here to make breakfast for you,” she said. “See you.”

“See you. Don’t worry about breakfast.”

“You’ve got company?” Yu asked, delicately.

“A little secretary.” Chen added, “I’m working on a difficult translation. She will help me.”

“A xiaomi!” Yu did not try to disguise the surprise in his voice.

“Gu insisted on sending her over to help,” he said. Yu might be the only one for whom he did not have to go into detail. “Have you examined the murder scene?”

“Yes, I did. But there was not much I could see, as I told you. Judging from the time of the murder and the fact that no stranger was seen entering or leaving the building around that time, it looks like the murderer might be one of the shikumen residents. That’s Old Liang’s opinion too.”

“Have you ruled out every other possibility?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, regarding the residents of the building, what possible motives are there?”

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Yu said. “I have checked with Shanghai Literature Publishing House. She did not earn much from her novel. I found a little money in her desk drawers, but also some correspondence with people abroad. I’m not sure whether she was working on another project. Perhaps another controversial book.”

That would really make this a political case. Was she working on something the government-or someone in the government- might have tried to keep from coming out?

“As for her contacts abroad, Internal Security must have a file. They can be quite effective in their own way.” Chen would not say more over the phone.

“They surely can. They beat me to the crime scene and searched her room, but they haven’t told us what they were looking for.”

“It could be just routine practice for Internal Security if a dissident has been killed. If they left those letters in the drawer, there probably was nothing in them to worry about.”

“Another thing. I did not find a checkbook in her room,” Yu said. “If the murderer took it, he would have withdrawn the money from her account immediately. So far, there’s no report of an account in her name from which there have been withdrawals.”

“The murderer might have been too scared to go to the bank, or Yin may have kept all her valuables in a safe deposit box.”

“Safe deposit?” Yu said. “I’ve only read about them in one of the English mysteries you translated.”

“Well, you can find everything in Shanghai now. Pay a certain amount, and the bank will keep valuables in a small safe for you.”

“I’ll check into it. But first I will go to her college this afternoon; there is nothing unusual in her college file though.” Yu added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything. Thanks, Chief.”

The rest of Chen’s afternoon was uneventful except for several more phone calls. The first was from Gu.

“How is everything, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“It’s going slowly, but steadily. I mean the progress of the translation, if that’s what you are asking about.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. The project is in good hands, I know.” Gu said with a chuckle, “What about White Cloud?”

“Quite helpful,” Chen said, “but she should concentrate on her studies. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to come here every day.”

“If you don’t need her, send her back. I just thought it might be a good idea for her to help you. As for her, she should consider herself lucky to have the opportunity to work with you. There’s a lot she can learn.”

It was not such a bad idea to have a temporary assistant, Chen thought, in spite of his protestations. A young pretty one too. There was no point in his being too prudish about it. If the water is too clear, there will he no fish left in the pond.

“By the way, what about having dinner with me at the Dynasty this weekend?” Gu asked. “You may have heard of our sauna room. Now we have a new dish-sauna shrimp. Live river shrimp, of course.”

“Sauna shrimp! My food finger is already throbbing, but let’s wait until I’ve finished the translation.” For some minutes after Gu’s phone call, Chen tried but failed to figure out what kind of dish sauna shrimp might be.

The next caller was a surprise. It was Peiqin, Yu’s wife, a wonderful hostess with excellent cooking skills, and equally good taste in classical Chinese literature. Chen had not spoken to her since the apartment had been denied to them. He felt he had let the couple down terribly.

“Yu is working on the Yin case, as you know. He does not have much time for reading. So I am going to read Death of a Chinese Professor on his behalf. Not just the novel, but other material related to it as well, like interviews or reviews. It may take time to find these things in libraries. I’m wondering whether you know of a shortcut to getting that material.”

“I have not read Death of a Chinese Professor.” He had heard of it, but, after reading a review, he had not bothered to obtain the book. Those stories of persecuted intellectuals were nothing new. Chen’s father, a Neo-Confucian scholar, had also died a miserable death during the Cultural Revolution. “I’m afraid I cannot help.”

“Yin, too, belonged to the Chinese Writers’ Association, Shanghai Branch. Were you ever introduced to her at one of those meetings?”

“I don’t remember having met her there.” He said, after considering further, “There’s a small library at the Shanghai Writers’ Association. It’s on Julu Road. Members are supposed to bring their works and related reviews to the library. Sometimes the writers forget to do so, and the librarian has to collect them. At the least, there should be a catalog of her publications. The librarian’s name is Kuang Ming. I’ll give him a call. He should be able to help.”

There was one thing Chief Inspector Chen did not say on the phone. A secret archive would certainly have been kept there with respect to a dissident writer. Peiqin should have no problems finding what she needed.

“Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen. Come to our restaurant when you have time. Now we have a new chef, Sichuan style. He is quite good.”

“Thank you, Peiqin, for helping with our work,” he said.

Afterwards, he thought about the fact that Peiqin had invited him to the restaurant, but not to their home. He had done his best as a member of the bureau housing committee, he thought, but those who had failed to get an apartment would never believe he had done enough, perhaps including Peiqin.

The third phone call he received was from Overseas Chinese Lu, who had earned his nickname in high school from his enthusiasm for foreign things. He was an old friend who called regularly from his restaurant, Moscow Suburb. Not for the first time, Chen received a passionate invitation to have dinner at the newly expanded restaurant.

“I phoned your office. They told me you are on vacation. Now you surely have time to dine at our restaurant.”

“Not this week, Lu. I have to finish a rush translation project for Mr. Gu, of the Dynasty Club, now also the founder of the New World Group. You know him, I think.”

“Oh, Mr. Gu. He asked you to do a translation for him?”

“Yes, for a business project of his,” Chen said. “How is your business?”

“Great. We have unearthed a number of old pictures and posters of Russian girls in old Shanghai. Now they are all over the walls. Impressive pictures. Crowded nightclubs with half-naked Russian girls performing on the stage. It’s like walking back in time into old Shanghai.”

“That’s exciting.”

“I’m thinking of putting a stage in our restaurant, too. Peace Hotel has a band. Old men playing jazz, you know. We’ll do much better. A young men’s band, and Russian girls on stage,” Lu added proudly. “Girls both in old pictures, and in real life.”

“So Moscow Suburb is no longer merely a restaurant, just for gourmets like you.”

“It still is. But people have money now. They want something more than food. Atmosphere. Culture. History. Added value, whatever it may mean. And only in the middle of all this do they think they are really enjoying their money’s worth.”

“It must be quite expensive, then.”

“Well, people are willing to pay the price. There’s a new term- conspicuous consumption. And there’s a new group of people- the middle class. Moscow Suburb has become a status-conscious restaurant. Some come here for that very reason.”

“Good for you, Overseas Chinese Lu.”

“So come, my Chief Inspector. I’ve just got some caviar, genuine Russian caviar. An acquired taste, I’m beginning to like it. You remember, I read about it for the first time in a Russian novel. My mouth literally watered. Black pearls indeed. Oh, vodka too. We’ll eat and drink to our hearts’ content.”

“I have to get back to my work, Overseas Chinese Lu.” Chen had to cut him short. Lu could gush on for hours whenever he spoke on the topic of food. “I will try to make it to your restaurant next week.”

These phone calls had some things in common, Chen thought afterward. Culinary delight was one. Not just that, either. Lu had also spoken about a nostalgic cultural ambiance for his restaurant. As a result of this conversation, Chen felt hungry but he decided to work on, doggedly, for two or three hours more. It seemed as if he had to prove the truth of what he had told Lu on the phone.

After a while, he looked once more at the pictures White Cloud had taken for him. He failed to see the glitter and glamour of the thirties. Perhaps that was due to the dirt and dust accumulated through the years of the construction of socialism. It might be too cynical of him, as a Party cadre, to think so, but that’s what he thought.

Finally, he took the remaining food, put it into the microwave, and finished it without really tasting it.

Perhaps he ought to consult some books about old Shanghai. Not books written in the sixties, which he had read as a child, but those from an earlier time. He took out a piece of paper and wrote something down before he brewed himself a pot of coffee. Not a good idea at this hour, he knew. Inhaling the fragrance, he realized that he had been becoming more dependent on caffeine. For the moment, however, he did not want to worry about it. He had to pull himself together.

He worked late that night.

He felt tired, yet all of a sudden, more than anything else, lonely.

Several lines a friend had once quoted to him came to mind. Trying each of the chilly boughs, / the wild goose chooses not to perch, / with the maple leaves falling, freezing, / over the Wu River. These were lines from a poem by Su Dongpo. It was said to be a political commentary, but it was often read as a metaphor about the difficulty of choosing a bough to perch upon, whatever the reason might be. In fact, the friend had quoted it in defense of her personal life.

And then his thought jumped to a familiar sound, like the wild goose amidst falling maple leaves. A cricket was screeching outside the window.

There was no accounting for a cricket scraping its wings so energetically, unless, as he had learned as a boy, the cricket was singing in triumph over a beaten opponent.

But what was the good of being a cricket, victorious or not, if you were always goaded by a golden rush in a boy’s hand, circling round and round the world of a small earthen pot?