Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (59 page)

“Yes, that is something worth observing. Tell him to keep an eye out for the license plate number,” Chen said.

“Nothing is too difficult for him. He’s eager to do something, Peiqin tells me. And so is Peiqin, willing to do anything. A wonderful wife.” Lu added, “Another thing. Don’t forget to give Wang a call. She has made several calls to me—she’s worried about you. You know why she does not contact you herself, she says.”

“Yes, I know. I will call her today.”

Chen telephoned Wang, but she was out on an assignment. He left no message. He felt relieved that she was not there. What could he tell her?

Then he checked his messages at home. There was only one— from Ouyang in Guangzhou:

“Sorry I cannot reach you today. How I miss our poetry discussion over morning tea! I have just bought two volumes. One is a collection of Li Shangyin.

“When, when can we snuff the candle by the western window again, / and talk about the moment of Mount Ba in the rain?”

“The other one is Yan Rui’s. I particularly like the poem from which our great leader Chairman Mao borrowed the image:
“What will leave leaves, / What will stay stays.
/
When mountain flowers adorn my hair, / Don’t ask where my home will be.”

This was so characteristic of Ouyang, who never forgot to adorn his speech with poetic quotes. Chen listened to the message for a second time. Ouyang surely knew him well, quoting Li Shangyin—but why Yan Rui? The poem had survived in classical anthologies mainly because of a romantic story behind it. The poet was said to be a beautiful courtesan in love with General Yue Zhong. She was thrown into jail by Yue’s political opponent, but she refused to incriminate her lover by admitting their relationship. The poem was said to be about her unyielding spirit in the midst of her trouble. Could that be a hint about Xie Rong to let him know she would not incriminate him?

Of course, Ouyang was wrong about one thing. There had not been anything between Xie and Chief Inspector Chen. But Ouyang’s message confirmed Little Zhou’s information. Xie Rong had gotten into trouble—she was in custody. Not because of her massage business, but because of him, with Internal Security behind it.

Was it possible that Ouyang had also found himself in trouble? Perhaps not. At least Ouyang was still out there, with enough money to make the long distance call, and enough composure to cite Tang and Song dynasty poetry, though the way the message was delivered suggested he was in a difficult situation.

Chief Inspector Chen decided to ask Lu to call Ouyang for him, and to cite another poem for caution’s sake.

When he got back to the office, he thought of a couplet by Wang Changling:
If my folks and friends in Luoyang ask about me, / Tell them: an ice-pure heart, a crystal vase.

That would do. He then settled down to work.

* * * *

Chapter 34

t seven o’clock, Chief Inspector Chen was about to leave the bureau. The doorman, Comrade Liang, leaned out of his cubicle by the gate, saying, “Wait a minute, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve got something for you.”

It was a large express envelope that had been lying on the top shelf.

“It came two days ago,” Liang said apologetically, “but I could not get hold of you.”

Express mail from Beijing. It might be critical. Comrade Liang should have called him. There had been no message at his office; Chen had checked his voice mail everyday. Perhaps the old man, like everybody else, had heard that Chen had ruffled feathers high up. Since the chief inspector was going to be removed soon, why bother?

He signed for the envelope without saying a word.

“Comrade Chief Inspector,” Comrade Liang said in a low voice, “Some people have been looking over others’ mail. So I wanted to give this to you personally.”

“I see,” Chen said, “Thank you.”

Chen took the envelope, but he did not open it. Instead, he returned to his office, closing the door after him. He had recognized the handwriting on the cover.

Inside the express packaging was a small stamped envelope, which bore the letterhead—The Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. The same handwriting was on this envelope.

He took out the letter.

Dear Chen Cao:

I’m glad you have written to me.

On receiving your letter, I went to Comrade Wen Jiezi, the head of the Public Security Ministry. He was aware of your investigation. He said he trusted you wholeheartedly, but there were some people in high positions—not only those you have crossed in Shanghai—very much concerned about the case. Wen promised that he would do whatever possible to keep you from harm. These are his words: “don’t push on with the investigation until further signal, be assured that something will be happening shortly.”

I think he is right. Time can make the difference. And time flies.

How long since we last met in the North Sea Park? Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed? It seems like ages.

I have remained the same. Busy, always busy, with the routine business of the library. Nowadays I work at the foreign liaison department; I think I’ve told you about it. In June, there will be a chance of accompanying an American library delegation to the southern provinces. Then we may see each other again.

There is a new phone installed at home—a direct line for my father. In an emergency, you can use this number: 987-5324.

Yours

Ling

PS. I told Minister Wen I was your girlfriend because he asked about our relationship. You know why I had to tell him this.

Chen put the letter back into the envelope, and then into his briefcase. He stood up, gazing out at the traffic along Fuzhou Road. In the distance, he saw the neon Volkswagen signs shining with a halo of violet color in the night: the “violet hour.” He must have read the phrase somewhere. It was the time when people hurry back home, throbbing taxis wait in the street, and the city becomes unreal.

He took out Guan’s file and started writing a more detailed report, compiling all the information. He was trying to confirm the next step he was going to take. He would not turn in the report; he was making a commitment to himself.

It was not until several hours later that he left the bureau. Comrade Liang had gone, and the iron gate looked strangely deserted. It was too late for Chen to catch the last bus. There was still a light in the bureau garage, but he did not like the idea of requisitioning a bureau car to take him home while he was unofficially suspended.

A cool breath of summer night touched his face. A long leaf, heart-shaped, fell at his feet. Its shape reminded him of a bamboo divination slip which had fallen out of a bamboo container—years earlier, at Xuanmiao Temple in Suzhou. The message on the slip was mysterious. He had been curious, but he refused to pay ten Yuan for the Taoist fortuneteller to interpret it. There was no predicting the future in that way.

He did not know what would happen to the case.

Nor what would happen to him.

He knew, however, he would never be able to repay Ling.

He had written to her for help. But he had not expected that she would give him her help in this way.

He found himself walking toward the Bund again. Even at this late hour, the Bund was dotted with young lovers whispering to each other. It was there that he had thought of writing the letter to her, as the big clock atop the Customs Tower chimed. A new melody.

The present, even as you think about it, is already becoming the past.

That afternoon in the North Sea Park.
Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed?
He remembered, of course, but since that afternoon he had tried not to. The North Sea Park. There he had first met Ling near the Beijing Library, and there, too, he had parted from her.

He had not known anything about her family when they first met in the Beijing Library. In the early summer of 1981, he had been in his third year at the Beijing Foreign Language Institute. That summer he chose to stay in Beijing since he could hardly concentrate in his Shanghai attic room. He was writing his thesis on T. S. Eliot. So he went to the library every day.

The library building had originally been one of the numerous imperial halls in the Forbidden City. After 1949, it had been converted into the Beijing Library. It was declared in the
People’s Daily
that the Forbidden City no longer existed; now ordinary people could spend their days reading in the imperial hall. As a library, its location was excellent, adjacent to North Sea Park with the White Pagoda shimmering in the sun, and close to the Central South Sea Complex across the White Stone Bridge. It was not ideal, however, as a library. The wooden lattice windows, refitted with tinted glass, did not provide enough light. So every seat was equipped with a lamp. The library had no open-shelf system either. Readers had to write the book names on order slips, and the librarians would look for them in the basement.

She had been one of the librarians, in charge of the foreign language section, sitting with her colleagues in a recess against a bay window, separated from the rest of the room by a long curving counter. They took turns explaining the rules in whispers to new readers, handed out books, and in the interval, worked on reports. It was to her that he handed over his list of books in the morning. Waiting for her to retrieve them, he began to notice her more and more. An attractive girl in her early twenties, she had a healthy build and moved briskly in her high heels. The white blouse she wore was simple, but it looked expensive. She wore a silver charm on a thin red string. Somehow he took in a lot of details, though most of the time she sat with her back to him, speaking in a low voice with other librarians, or reading her own book. When she talked to him, smiling, her large eyes were so clear, they reminded him of the cloudless autumn sky over Beijing.

Maybe she noticed him, too. His reading list was an odd mixture: Philosophy, poetry, psychology, sociology, and mysteries. His thesis was difficult. He needed those mysteries to refresh himself. On several occasions, she had reserved books for him without his asking, including one by P.D. James. She had a tacit understanding with him. He noticed that on his order slips, which stuck out from between the pages of the books, his name was highlighted.

It was pleasant to spend the day in the library: to study under a green-shaded lamp beneath the tinted glass, to walk in the ancient courtyard lined with bronze cranes staring at the visitors, to muse while strolling along the verandah, to look at the tilted eaves of yellow dragon tiles woven with white clouds ... Or to simply wait there, watching the lovely librarian. She, too, read with complete absorption, her head tilted slightly toward her right shoulder. Occasionally she stopped to think, looked up at the poplar tree outside the window, propped her cheek on her hand and then resumed reading.

Sometimes they would exchange pleasant words, and sometimes, equally pleasant glances. One morning, as she came toward him wearing a pink blouse and white skirt, holding the pile of his reserved books in her bare arms, he was inspired with an image of a peach blossom reaching out of a white paper fan. He even started dashing down lines but the noisy arrival of several teenage readers interrupted him. The following week, he happened to have a poem published in a well-known magazine, and he gave her the usual list together with a copy of the magazine. Blushing in her profuse thanks, she seemed to like it very much. When he returned the books in the late afternoon, he mention the uncompleted poem by way of a joke. She blushed again.

Another inconvenience was that the canteen in the adjacent building was open only to the library staff. Convenient, small, inexpensive privately-run restaurants or snack booths were nonexistent in those days. So he resorted to smuggling in steamed buns in his rucksack. One afternoon he was chewing a cold bun in the courtyard when she happened to bike past him. The next morning, she handed over his reserved books along with a suggestion: She would take him to the staff canteen, where he could buy lunch in her company. He accepted her offer. The food was far more palatable, and it saved him time, too. On several occasions, when she had to attend meetings somewhere else, she managed to bring him food in her own stainless-steel lunch-box. She seemed to be quite privileged; no one said anything about it.