Finally Detective Yu arrived home for dinner.
Peiqin had already finished cooking several main dishes in the public kitchen area.
“Can I help?”
“No, just go inside. Qinqin is much better today, so you may assist him with his homework.”
“Yes, it’s been two days since I took him to the hospital. He must have missed a number of classes.”
But Yu did not move immediately. He felt guilty at the sight of Peiqin busy working there, her white short-sleeved shirt molded to her sweating body. Squatting at the foot of a concrete sink, she was binding a live crab with a straw. Several Yangchen crabs were crawling noisily on the sesame-covered bottom of a wooden pail.
“You have to bind them, or the crab will shed its legs in the steaming pot,” Peiqin explained, noticing his puzzled look.
“Then why is all the sesame in the pail?”
“To keep the crabs from losing weight. Nutritious food for them. We got the crabs early in the morning.”
“So special nowadays.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector Chen is your special guest.”
The decision to invite Chen over for dinner had been Peiqin’s, but Yu had seconded it, of course. She had made it for his sake, since it was she who had to prepare everything in their single room of eleven square meters. Still, she had insisted.
Last night, he had told Peiqin about the bureau Party Committee meeting the previous day. Commissar Zhang had grumbled about his lackluster attitude, which was not something new. At the meeting, however, Zhang went so far as to suggest to the Party Committee that Yu be replaced. Zhang’s suggestion was discussed in earnest. Yu was not a committee member, so not in the position to defend himself. With the investigation bogged down, switching horses might help, or at least shift responsibility. Party Secretary Li seemed ready to agree. Yu did not have his heart in the case, but his removal would have caused a domino effect. His fate would have been sealed- according to Lieutenant Lao, who had attended the meeting- but for Chief Inspector Chen’s intervention. Chen surprised the committee members by making a speech on Yu’s behalf, arguing that different opinions regarding a case were normal, reflecting the democracy of our Party, and that it did not detract at all from Detective Yu’s worth as a capable police officer, “if people are not happy with the way the investigation is going,” Chen had concluded, “I’m the one to take responsibility. Fire me.” So it had been due to Chen’s emotional plea that Yu remained in the special case group.
Lao’s information came as a surprise to Yu, who had not expected such staunch support from his superior.
“Your chief inspector knows how to speak the Party language,” Peiqin said quietly.
“Yes, he does. Luckily, this time on my behalf,” he said.
“What about inviting him to dinner? The restaurant is going to have two bushels of live crabs, Yangchen Lake crabs, at the state price. I can bring a dozen home, and I will just need to add several side dishes.”
“That’s a good idea. But it will be too much work for you.”
“No. It’s fun to have a guest once in a while. I’ll make a meal that your chief inspector won’t forget.”
And more or less to his surprise, Chen had accepted his invitation readily, adding that he would like to discuss something with Yu afterward.
It was really turning out to be too much work for Peiqin, Yu stood there thinking somberly, watching her moving busily around in the confined space. Their portion of the public kitchen area contained no more than a coal stove and a small table with a makeshift bamboo cabinet hung on the wall. There was hardly room for her to put down all the bowls and plates.
“Go into our room,” she repeated. “Don’t stand here watching me.”
The table in their room, set for dinner, presented an impressive sight. Chopsticks, spoons, and small plates were aligned with folded paper napkins. A tiny brass hammer and a glass bowl of water stood in the middle. It was not exactly a dining table though, for it was also the table on which Peiqin made clothes for the family, where Qinqin did his homework, and where Yu examined bureau files.
He made himself a cup of green tea, perched on the arm of the sofa, and took a small sip.
They lived in an old-fashioned two storied shikumen house-an architectural style popular in the early thirties, when such a house had been built for one family. Now, sixty years later, it was inhabited by more than a dozen, with all the rooms subdivided to accommodate more and more people. Only the black-painted front door remained the same, opening into a small courtyard littered with odds and ends, a sort of common junk yard, which led to a high-ceilinged hall flanked by the eastern and western wings. This once spacious hall had long since been converted to a public kitchen and storage area. The two rows of coal stoves with piles of coal briquettes indicated that seven families lived on the first floor.
Yu’s room was on the southern end of the eastern wing on the first floor. Old Hunter had been assigned to that wing in the early fifties with the luxury of having one extra room as a guest room. Now in the nineties, the four rooms accommodated no fewer than four families: Old Hunter with his wife; his two daughters, one married, living with her husband and daughter; the other thirty-five, still single; and his son, Detective Yu living with Peiqin and Qinqin. As a result, each room functioned as bedroom, dining room, living room, and bathroom.
Yu’s room had originally been the dining room, about eleven square meters in size. It had not been ideal since the northern wall had only a window no bigger than a paper lantern, but it was worse as an all-purpose room, and especially inconvenient for visitors, for the room next to it was Old Hunter’s, which had originally served as a living room, with the door opening into the hall. Thus a visitor had to walk through Old Hunter’s room first. That was why the Yus had seldom had a guest.
Chen arrived at six thirty, carrying in one hand a small urn of Shaoxing sticky rice wine-Maiden Red. The perfect wine for crabs. Chen had his black leather briefcase, as usual, in his other hand.
“Welcome, Chief Inspector,” Peiqin said, a perfect Shanghai hostess, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “As an old Chinese saying goes, ‘Your company lights up our shabby room.’“
“We have to squeeze a bit,” Yu added. “Please take your seat at the table.”
“Any crab banquet room is a great room,” Chen said. “I really appreciate your kindness.”
The room was hardly large enough to hold four chairs around the table. So they were seated on three sides, and on the fourth side, their son Qinqin sat quietly on the bed.
Qinqin had long legs, large eyes, and a plump face, which he hid behind a picture book on Chen’s arrival. But he was not shy when the crabs appeared on the table.
“Where is your father, Old Hunter?” Chen asked, setting his chopsticks on the table. “I haven’t greeted him yet.”
“Oh, he’s out patrolling the market.”
“Still there?”
“Yes, it’s a long story,” Yu said, shaking his head.
Since his retirement, Old Hunter had served as a neighborhood patroller. In the early eighties, when private market peddlers were still considered illegal, or at least “capitalistic” in political terminology, the old man made himself responsible for safeguarding the holiness of the state-run market. Soon, however, the private market became legal, and was even declared a necessary supplement to the socialist market. The government no longer interfered with private businessmen as long as they were willing to pay their taxes, but the retired old cop still went there, patrolling without any specific purpose, just to enjoy a sense of being useful to the socialist system.
“Let’s talk over our meal,” Peiqin cut in. “The crabs cannot wait.”
It was an excellent meal, a crab banquet. On the cloth-covered table the crabs appeared rounded, red and white, in small bamboo steamers. The small brass hammer shone among the blue and white saucers. The rice wine was nicely warmed, displaying an amber color under the light. On the windowsill, a bouquet of chrysanthemums stood in a glass vase, perhaps two or three days old, thinner, but still exquisite.
“I should have brought my Canon to photograph the table, the crabs, and the chrysanthemums,” Chen said, rubbing his hands. “It could be an illustration torn from The Dream of the Red Chamber.”
“You’re talking about Chapter Twenty-eight, aren’t you? Baoyu and his ‘sisters’ composing poems over a crab banquet,” Peiqin said, squeezing out the leg meat for Qinqin. “Alas, this is not a room in the Grand View Garden.”
Yu was pleased that they had just visited the garden. So he knew the reference. “But our Chief Inspector Chen is a poet in his own right. He will read us his poems.”
“Don’t ask me to read anything,” Chen said. “My mouth’s full of crab. A crab beats a couplet.”
“The crab is not really in season yet,” Peiqin apologized.
“No, it’s the best.”
Apparently Chen enjoyed Peiqin’s excellent cooking, relishing the Zhisu sauce particularly, using up a small saucer of it in no time. When he finished eating the golden digestive glands of a female crab, Chen was sighing with pleasure.
“Su Dongbo, the Song dynasty poet, said on one occasion, ‘O that I could have crabs without a wine-supervisor sitting beside me.’“
“A wine-supervisor of the Song dynasty?” Qinqin spoke for the first time during the meal, showing his interest in history.
“A wine-supervisor was a low-ranking officer in the fifteenth century,” Chen said, “like a medium-rank police officer nowadays, responsible only for other officials’ behavior at formal feasts and festivals.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, Chief Inspector Chen. Drink to your heart’s content,” Peiqin said. “Our meal is informal and you are Yu’s supervisor.”
“I’m really overwhelmed by your dinner, Mrs. Yu. A crab feast is something I have been missing for a long, long time.”
“It’s all to Peiqin’s credit,” Yu said. “She managed to get all the crabs at the state price.”
It was a well-acknowledged fact that no one could be so lucky as to buy live crabs at a state-run market. Or at the official price. The so-called state price still existed, but merely in newspapers or government statistics. People paid seven or eight times more in the free markets. However, a state-run restaurant could still obtain one or two baskets of crabs at the state price during the season. Only the crabs never appeared on the restaurant’s tables. The moment they were shipped in, they were divided and taken home by the restaurant staff.
“To finish off today’s meal, we’ll have a bowl of noodles.” Peiqin was holding a huge bowl of soup with slices of pink Jinghua ham floating on the surface.
“What’s that?”
“The across-the-bridge noodles,” Yu said, helping Peiqin place a big platter of transparent rice noodles on the table, along with several side dishes of pork slivers, fish fillets, and green vegetables arranged around the steaming hot soup.
“Nothing fancy,” Peiqin said, “just something we have learned to make as educated youths in Yunnan Province.”
“Across-the-bridge-noodles-I think I’ve heard of that unusual dish.” Chen showed a gourmet’s curiosity. “Or I have read about it somewhere. Very special, but I have never tasted it.”
“Well, here’s the story about it.” Yu found himself explaining. “In the Qing Dynasty, a bookish husband studied in an isolated island cottage, preparing for the civil service examination. His wife made one of his favorite dishes, chicken soup with noodles. To bring the noodles there, his wife had to cross a long wooden bridge. When she got there, the noodles were cold, and had lost their fresh, crisp taste. So the next time she carried two separate bowls, one bowl of hot soup with surface layer of oil to keep the heat in, and one bowl of rinsed noodles. She did not mix the noodles with the soup until she was in the cottage. Sure enough, it tasted wonderful, and the husband, feeling energetic after finishing the noodles, did a good job of preparation, and succeeded in the examination.”
“What a lucky husband,” Chen said.
“And Peiqin’s an even better chef,” Yu chuckled.
Yu, too, had enjoyed the noodles, the soup rippling with the memories of their days in Yunnan.
Afterward, Peiqin served tea from a purple sand pot on a black-lacquered tray. The cups were as dainty as lichee. It was the very set for the special Dark Dragon tea. Everything was as wonderful as Peiqin had promised.
Over the tea, Yu did not say anything to his guest about the Party committee meeting. Nor did Peiqin make any reference to their work. They just talked about trivial things. Chief Inspector Chen did not seem to be a status-conscious boss.
The tea leaves were unfolding like satisfaction in his small purple sand cup.
“What a wonderful meal!” Chen declared. “I almost forget I’m a cop.”
It was time to talk about something else-a subtle signal- Detective Yu got it. That was probably why Chief Inspector Chen had come. But it might be inconvenient to have the subject brought up in the presence of Peiqin.
“I left quite early yesterday,” Yu said. “Did something come up at the office?”
“Oh, I’ve just received some information-about the case.”
“Peiqin, can you excuse us for a minute?”
“That’s all right. I’m going out with Qinqin. He needs to buy a pencil sharpener.”
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Yu,” Chen said. “Yu and I can take a walk outside. It may not be a bad idea-after a full meal.”
“How can you think of it, Chief Inspector? You’re our guest for the first time. Have a few more cups of wine, and talk with Yu here. I’ll be back in about an hour-to serve you our home-made dessert.”
She put on a blue denim vest, and walked out with Qinqin.
“So what’s up?” Yu said after he heard the door close after Peiqin.
“You talked to Wu Xiaoming,” Chen said, “didn’t you?”
“Wu Xiaoming-yes, I remember, the photographer of the Red Star. Just one of the people who had known Guan. A routine checkup at the time.” Yu took out a notebook, thumbing through a few pages. “I made two phone calls to him. He said he had taken a few pictures of Guan. The pictures appeared in the People’s Daily. A political assignment. Anything suspicious about him?”
“Quite a lot,” Chen sipped at his tea, while summing up the new development in his investigation.
“That’s really something!” Yu said. “Wu lied to me. Let’s get hold of him.”
“Do you know anything about Wu’s family background?”
“Family background?”
“His father is Wu Bing.”
“What are you saying?”
“Yes, no other than Wu Bing, the Shanghai Minister of Propaganda. Wu Xiaoming is his only son. Also the son-in-law of Liang Guoren, former governor of Jiangsu Province. That’s why I want to talk to you here.”
“That bastard of an HCC!” Yu burst out, his fist banging on the table.
“What?” Chen seemed surprised at his reaction.
“These HCC.” Yu was making an effort to calm himself down. “They think they can get away with anything. Not this time. Let’s issue a warrant.”
“At present, we only know there was a close relationship between Guan and Wu. That isn’t enough.”
“No, I don’t agree. So many things fit. Let’s see,” Yu said, draining his tea, “Wu had a car, his father’s car. So he was capable of dumping her body in the canal. The plastic bag makes sense, too. Not to mention the caviar. And as a married man, Wu had to keep their affair a secret, and for the same reason, so did Guan. That’s why Guan made such a point of concealing her personal life.”
“But all this is not legally sufficient proof that Wu Xiaoming committed the murder. What we have so far is just circumstantial evidence.”
“But Wu has been withholding information. That’s enough for us to interrogate him.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. A lot of politics will be involved if we are going to confront Wu Bing’s son.”
“Have you discussed it with Party Secretary Li?”
“No, not yet,” Chen said. “Li’s still in Beijing.”
“Then we can go ahead without having to report to him.”
“Yes, we can, but we have to move carefully.”
“Is there anything else you know about Wu?”
“Just these official files.” Chen produced a folder out of his brief case. “Not much, general background information. If you want, you can read it tomorrow.”
“I would like to read a few pages now if you don’t mind,” Yu said, lighting a cigarette for Chen and then one for himself.
So Yu began to read the documents enclosed in the folder. The most comprehensive one was an official dossier Chen had obtained from the Shanghai Archives Bureau. The dossier did not offer much of immediate interest, but it was more thoroughly compiled than what Yu had been used to seeing in ordinary bureau files. Wu Xiaoming was born in 1949. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father Wu Bing was a high cadre in charge of the Party’s ideological work, living in one of the most luxurious mansions in Shanghai. Wu Xiaoming grew to be a “three good” student in his elementary school. A proud Young Pioneer with the streaming red scarf and then a Communist Youth League member with a golden badge shining in the sunlight of the early sixties. The Cultural Revolution changed everything. Wu Bing’s political rival, Zhang Chunqiao, a Party politburo member, was merciless toward his opponents. Wu Xiaoming saw his parents dragged out of the mansion, handcuffed, and thrown into prison, where his mother died a miserable death. Homeless, Wu and his sister were left struggling on the streets. No one dared to take care of them. For six or seven years he labored as an educated youth in Jiangxi Province. In 1974 he was allowed to move back to Qingpu County, Shanghai, on the grounds of his father’s poor health. In the late seventies, the old man was let out of jail, and rehabilitated-more or less symbolically, since he no longer had the strength for his office. Wu Xiaoming, too, had been assigned a good position. As a photographer for Red Star, he had access to the top Party leaders and made several trips abroad. With praiseworthy diligence, the report went on in some detail about Wu Xiaoming’s own family. Wu was married in Jiangxi province in his educated youth years. His wife, Liang Ju, was also from a high cadre family. They came back to Shanghai together. Liang had a job in the city government, but suffering from some serious neurosis, she stayed at home for several years. They had no children. As Wu Xiaoming had to take care of his father, he and his wife lived in his father’s mansion.
In the part about Wu’s work, Yu found several pages of more recent date, the “cadre promotion background checkup” filled out by Wu’s current boss, Yang Ying. Wu was described as the magazine’s photo editor and “ace photographer,” who had produced several pictures of Comrade Deng Xiaoping in Shanghai. The report highlighted Wu’s dedication to his work. Wu had demonstrated his political commitment by giving up holidays to carry out special assignments. At the end of the report, Yang Ying gave his “full recommendation for a new important position.”
When Yu finished reading, he found his cigarette totally burnt out in the ashtray.
“Not much, eh?” Chen said.
“Not much for us,” he said. “What will his new position be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So how shall we proceed with our investigation?”
“A difficult investigation, even dangerous,” Chen said, “with Wu’s family connections. If we make one mistake, we’ll be in serious trouble. Politics.”
“Politics or no politics. Do you have a choice?”
“No, not as a cop.”
“Then neither have I,” Yu said, standing up. “I am your assistant.”
“Thank you, Comrade Detective Yu Guangming.”
“You don’t have to say that.” Yu moved over to the cabinet and returned with a bottle of Yanghe. “We’re a team, aren’t we? Drink up. It’s a bottle I’ve saved for several years.”
Yu and Chen drained their cups.
In The Romance of Three Kingdoms, Yu remembered, the heroes would drink wine when vowing to share wealth and woe.
“So we have to interview him,” Chen said, “as soon as possible.”
“It may not be too good an idea to startle a snake by stirring the weeds. And possibly a poisonous snake,” Yu said, pouring himself another cup.
“But it’s the route we must follow, if we make him our main suspect,” Chen said slowly. “Besides, Wu Xiaoming will get wind of our investigation one way or another.”
“You’re right,” Yu said. “I’m not afraid of the snake’s bite, but I want to finish it at one blow.”
“I know,” Chen said. “So when do you think we should act?”
“Tomorrow,” Yu said. “We may be able to take him by surprise.”
By the time Peiqin returned with Qinqin, Yu and Chen had finished the bottle of Yanghe and agreed on the steps they would take the following day.
The dessert Peiqin had promised was an almond cake.
Afterward, Yu and Peiqin accompanied Chen to the bus stop. Chen thanked them profusely before he boarded.
“Was everything okay this evening?” Peiqin said, taking Yu’s arm.
“Yes,” he said absentmindedly. “Everything.”
But not quite everything.
Once back, Peiqin started cleaning up the kitchen area. Yu moved out into the small courtyard, lighting another cigarette. Qinqin was already asleep. He did not like smoking in the room. The yard presented an unlovely sight-like a battlefield with each family trying to occupy the maximum space. He stared at the mound of coal briquettes, twenty at the bottom, fifteen above, and then seven at the top, confronting him like a large letter A.
Another achievement of Peiqin’s.
She had to carry all of them from a neighborhood coal store, to store them in the yard, and then, every day, to carry a briquette in her hands to the stove. In The Dream of the Red Chamber, Daiyu carried in her hand a white basket full of fallen petals.
And he turned to find Peiqin scrubbing the pots over the sink under the glaring light. It was hotter there. He could see the perspiration on her brow. Humming a tune, though off-key, she stood on tiptoe to put the dishes back in the makeshift wall cabinet. He hurried over to help. After closing the cabinet door, he remained standing close behind her, slipping his arms round her waist. She nestled back against him and made no attempt to stop him as he slid his hands up her back.
“Strange, isn’t it,” he said, “to think Chief Inspector Chen should come to envy me.”
“What?” she murmured.
“He told me what a lucky husband I am.”
“He told you that!”
He kissed the nape of her neck, feeling grateful for the evening.
“Go to bed now,” she said smiling. “I’ll join you soon.”
He did, but he did not want to fall asleep before she came to bed. He lay there for a while without turning off the light. Out in the lane, all sorts of vehicles could be heard moving along Jingling Road, but once in a while came a rare minute when all the traffic faded into the night. A blackbird twittered nostalgically in the maple tree. His neighbor’s door slammed closed across the kitchen area. Somebody gargled at the concrete common sink, and he heard another indistinct sound like swatting a mosquito on the window screen.
Then he heard Peiqin snapping off the kitchen lights, and stepping lightly into the room. She changed into an old robe of shot silk that rustled. Her earrings clinked into a dish on the dresser. She pulled a plastic spittoon from under the bed and put it in the corner partially sheltered by the cabinet. There was a gurgling sound. Finally she came over to the bed and slid under the towel blanket.
He was not surprised when she pressed herself against him. He felt her moving the pillow to a more comfortable position. Her robe fell open. Tentatively, he touched the smooth skin on her belly, feeling the warmth of her body, and pulling her knees against his thighs. She looked up at him.
Her eyes mirrored the response he had expected.
They did not want to wake up Qinqin.
Holding his breath, he tried to move with as little noise as possible; she cooperated.
Afterward, they held each other for a long time.
Normally he would feel sleepy afterward, but that night he found his mind working with intense clarity.
They were ordinary Chinese people, he and Peiqin, hardworking and easily contented. A crab dinner like tonight’s could make them happy, excited. In fact, little things went a long way for them: a movie on the weekend, a visit to the Grand View Garden, a song on a new cassette, or a Mickey Mouse sweater for Qinqin. Sometimes he complained like other folks, but he counted himself as a lucky guy. A marvelous wife. A wonderful son. What else mattered that much on this earth?
“Heaven or hell is in one’s mind, not in the material things one has in the world,” Old Hunter had once told him.
There were a few things, however, Detective Yu would like to have. A two bedroom apartment with a bathroom, for instance. Qinqin was already a big boy who needed a room of his own. He and Peiqin would not have to hold their breath making love. A propane gas tank for cooking instead of coal briquettes. And a computer for Qinqin. His own school years were wasted, but Qinqin should have a different future…
The list was quite long, but it would be nice to have just a few of the items at the top.
All of these, it had said in People’s Daily, would come in the near future. “Bread we will have, and milk, too.” So said a loyal Bolshevik in a movie about the Russian Revolution, predicting to his wife the marvelous future of the young Soviet Union. It was a movie seen many times in his high-school years-the only foreign movie available at the time. Now the Soviet Union was practically gone, but Detective Yu still believed in China ’s economic reform. In a few years, maybe, a lot would improve for the ordinary Chinese people.
He dug out the ashtray from under a heap of magazines.
But those HCC! That was one of the things making life so hard for the ordinary Chinese. With their family connections, HCC could do what other people could not dream of doing, and rocketed up in their political careers.
A typical HCC, Wu must have thought the world was like a watermelon, which he could cut to pieces as he pleased, spitting other people’s lives away like seeds.
Life’s not fair to everybody, a fact Detective Yu had long accepted. Family background, for one thing, made a huge difference everywhere, though nowhere so much as in China in the nineties.
But now Wu Xiaoming had committed a murder. Of that, Yu was convinced
Staring up at the ceiling, Yu thought he could see exactly what had happened on the night of May tenth: Wu made the phone call, Guan came to his house, they had caviar and sex, then Wu strangled her, put her body in a plastic garbage bag, took it to the canal, and dumped it there…
“Your chief inspector has a lot on his mind,” Peiqin said, cuddling against him.
“Oh, you’re still awake?” he said, startled. “Yes, he does. The case is tough, involving some important people.”
“Perhaps something else.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a woman,” she said, her lips curving into a suggestion of smile. “You men do not notice things written on each other’s faces. A handsome chief inspector, and a well-published poet, too-he must be a highly eligible bachelor, but he looks lonely.”
“You, too, have a soft spot for him?”
“No. I already have such a wonderful husband.’
He hugged her again.
Before he fell asleep, he heard a faint sound near the door. He lay listening for a moment, and he remembered that several live crabs remained unsteamed in the pail there. They were no longer crawling on the sesame-covered bottom of the wooden pail. What he heard was the bubbles of crab froth, bubbles with which they moistened each other in the dark.