Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (60 page)

Once, she even led him into the rare book section, which had been closed for restoration. It was a dust-covered room, but there were so many wonderful books. Some were in exquisite cloth cases from the Ming and Qing dynasties. He started leafing through the books, but she, too, stayed. There must have been a library rule about it, he thought. It was hot. There was no air conditioning in the room. She kicked off her shoes, and he felt a violent wonder at her bare feet beating a bolero on the filmy dust of the ancient floor.

Soon he had to resist the temptation to look at her over his books. In spite of his effort to concentrate by turning his chair sideways, his thoughts wandered away. The discovery disturbed him.

Most of the time he read till quite late and soon he found himself leaving the library with her. The first couple of times, it looked like coincidence. Then he saw that she was standing by her bike, under the ancient arch of the library gate, waiting for him.

Together, they would ride through the maze of quaint winding lanes at dusk. Past the old white and black
sihe
style houses, and an old man selling colorful paper wheels, the sound of their bike bells spilling into the tranquil air, the pigeons’ whistles trailing high in the clear Beijing sky, till they reached the intersection at Xisi, where she would park her bike, and change to the subway. He would watch her turn back at the subway entrance, to wave to him. She lived quite far away.

One early morning as he was riding toward the library, he stopped at Xisi subway station, where he knew she would emerge to find her bike. He bought a ticket and went down to the platform. There were so many people milling about. Waiting there, he lost himself gazing at a mural of Uighur girl carrying grapes in her bare arms. The Uighur girl appeared to be moving toward him, the bangle on her ankle shining, infinite light steps, moving. . . Then he saw
her
moving toward him, out of the train, out of the crowd. . . .

They talked a lot. Their conversation ranged from politics to poetry and they discovered remarkable coincidences in their views, though she seemed a bit more pessimistic about the future of China. He attributed the difference to her long working hours in that ancient palace of a library.

And then came that Saturday afternoon.

The library closed early. They decided, instead of going home, to visit the North Sea Park in the Forbidden City. There they rented a sampan and started paddling on the lake. There were not many other people there.

She was leaving for Australia; she had just told him the news. It was a special arrangement between the Beijing Library and the Canberra Library. She was going there to work as a visiting librarian for six months, a rare opportunity in those years.

“We’ll not see each other for six months.” She put down her oar.

“Time flies,” he said. “It’s only half a year.”

“But time can change a lot, I’m afraid.”

“No, not necessarily. Have you read Qin Shaoyou’s ‘Bridge of Magpies’? It’s based on the legend of the celestial weaving-girl and the earthly cowherd.”

“I’ve heard of the legend, but that was such a long time ago.”

“The weaving girl and the cowherd fell in love. It was against the heavenly rule—a match between the celestial and the mundane. For their punishment, they’re allowed to meet only once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, walking over the bridge made of sympathetic magpies lining up across the River of the Milky Way. The poem is about their meeting on that night.”

“Recite it for me, please.”

And he did, seeing himself in her eyes:
“The varying shapes of the clouds, / The missing message of the stars, / The silent journey across the Milky Way, / In the golden autumn wind and the fade-like dew, their meeting eclipses / The countless meetings in the mundane world. / The feeling soft as water, / The time insubstantial as a dream, / how can one have the heart to go back on the bridge of magpies? / If two hearts are united forever,
/
What matters the separation
—
day after day, night after night?”

“Fantastic. Thank you for reciting the poem to me,” she said.

They did not have to say more. There was a tacit understanding between them. The reflection of the White Pagoda shimmered in the water.

“There’s something else I have to tell you,” she said, hesitantly.

“What’s that?”

“It’s about my family—”

It turned out that her father was a politburo member of the Party Central Committee, who was rising fast to the top.

For a moment, he was at a loss for words. That was not at all what he had expected.

Upon graduation, T.S. Eliot could have led an easy life by obtaining a job through the connections of his family, or those of his wife Vivien’s family, but he chose not to. He took a different road. Through “The Waste Land,” through his own efforts, Eliot came to be recognized as an innovative modernist poet.

Looking over her shoulder, he gazed at the red walls of the Forbidden City resplendent in the late afternoon light. Across the White Stone Bridge loomed the huge Central South Sea complex, where a group of the Party politburo members lived. Her father was going to move there soon, she had just told him.

Her family was much more powerful than Vivien’s.

Such a family background could make a world of difference in China.

What could he possibly offer her? A couple of poems. Romantic enough for a Saturday afternoon. But not enough for the life of a politburo member’s daughter.

Whatever she might see in him at the moment, on the North Sea Lake, he was not going to be the man for her, he concluded.

“Before I leave,” she said, “shall we talk about our future plans?”

“I don’t know,
^-
’ he said. “Maybe—since you will be back in half a year, maybe we’ll see each other then—if I’m still in Beijing.”

She did not say anything in response.

“I’m sorry,” he added, “I did not know anything about your family background.”

No future plans. He did not say it in so many words, but she understood. He promised he would keep in touch, but that, too, was no more than a varnish over their breakup. She accepted his decision without protest, as if she had anticipated it. The White Pagoda shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, in her eyes.

She, too, was proud.

Afterward, he had had his moments of doubt, but he was quick to dispel them. It was not anybody’s fault. Politics in China. A decision he had to make.

After he had gotten his job in Shanghai, he became once more convinced that he had made the right decision. Her stay in Australia was extended to one year. One afternoon, on the lowest level of the bureau mail shelf, he found a letter containing a clipping from an Australian newspaper that carried a picture of her, along with a rejection of his poetry by a local magazine. He was just one of the nameless, an entry-level cop. Nor had he much hope of success with his so-called modernist writing in China.

Then, the second year, a New Year’s card from Beijing told him that she had come back from Australia. They had not seen each other since that afternoon at North Sea Park.

But had they really parted? Was that why they had not said anything? She had never left him. Nor had he gotten over her. Could that be the cause of his writing to her on the night when he felt he was totally crushed?

It was the last thing he had wanted to do—to beg for her help. In the post office, he had kept telling himself that he was writing the letter in the name of justice.

She must have realized how desperate the situation was. She had gone out of her way, had thrown the weight of her family behind him. She had introduced herself to Minister Wen as his girlfriend, and now her family’s influence had been put into the balance of power.

One HC’s son vs. one HC’s daughter.

So it would have appeared to the minister. And to the world. But what would this mean for her? A commitment. The news that she had a cop as her lover would spread fast in her circle.

She had given him so much—and at what cost to herself!

Still, she had told the minister that she was his girlfriend. And she had remained single. There must have been a lot of young men dancing around—because of her family or just for her, no one could know for sure.

An image came to him—a lady in ancient attire on a Lantern Festival card that she had sent him, and he had kept for years— first juxtaposed with Ling, then merged with her. It was the image of a lonely woman standing under a weeping willow, with a poem by Zhu Shuzheng, a brilliant female Song dynasty poet:

At the Lantern Festival this year,

The lanterns and the moon are the same as before,

But where is the man I met last year?

My spring sleeves are soaked with tears.

Ling had chosen a rice paper Lantern Festival card, the painting exquisitely reprinted, the poem in elegant calligraphy. Without writing anything on the card herself, she simply addressed it to him and signed her own name below.

He decided not to pursue that line of thought any further. Whatever might have happened, or might happen yet, he was determined to pursue the case to the end.

When he finally got back to his apartment building, it was quite dark—like a black stamp on night’s starry envelope.

He had hardly talked to any of his neighbors, but he knew that every apartment in the building was occupied. So he unlocked his door as quietly as he could.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Images at once familiar yet unfamiliar flashed by him. Some of them had already found their way into the fragments of his poetry, some—not as yet.

She, at the subway entrance, carrying hyacinth in her arms, the mural behind her of an Uighur girl walking toward him: motionless motion, infinite, light as the summer in grateful tears; the fragrance of the jasmine wafting in her hair, and then in his teacup, with an orange pinwheel turning at the paper window, she holding the lunchbox under the ancient upturned eaves against the clear Beijing sky; she unfurling a Tang scroll in the rare book section, reading his ecstasy as empathy with the silverfish escaping the sleepy eyes of the periods, her bare feet beating a bolero on the filmy dust of the ancient floor; the afternoon light stippling her figure in the boat; she coming to him through a labyrinth of lanes on a bike creaking under the weight of books for him, a dove’s whistle against a thickening sky. . . .

In the midst of his reverie he fell asleep.

* * * *

Chapter 35

t had been three days since Chief Inspector Chen resumed work at the office.

Party Secretary Li had promised to talk to him, but he had not done so yet. Li had been avoiding him, Chen knew, to avoid discussion of the case. Any contact between them might be watched. Party Secretary Li was too cautious not to be aware of it. There was no telling when Detective Yu would come back from his “temporary” assignment. Commissar Zhang was still having the week off. His presence would make no difference, but his absence could.

No news from Beijing, though Chen was not really expecting any.

He should not have written the letter to Ling. And he was not going to write a second one. Nor was he going to dial that number she had given him. For the moment, he did not even want to think about it.

Maybe it was wise to wait, as she had said, to do nothing until “further signal.” And there was nothing he could really do, with the knowledge that Internal Security was lurking and, ready to pounce if he made a move. Nor was there any new development except, to his surprise, he learned that Wu Xiaoming had applied for a visa for America.

Once more the news came from Overseas Chinese Lu, who had obtained it from Peiqin, and Peiqin, from Old Hunter, from his connections in Beijing. Wu was applying not for a business visa, but a personal one. It was an unusual move, considering that Wu’s name was on the top-candidate list for an important position in China. If Wu was trying to get away, Chief Inspector Chen had to act promptly. Once Wu was abroad, there would be no apprehending him.