Late Saturday afternoon, Chen decided to take a break. He got up and opened the windows. As the leaves rustled in a low pitch and the lake stretched out against the horizon, Chen saw a lone silver fish jumping up, in the distance, over the darkening water.
He shook out a cigarette from a new pack.
Chen had spent most of the day inside the villa, shutting himself off from the world as he pondered the information he had gathered so far, speculating over its meaning without any interruption except for breakfast and the herbal medicine delivered early that morning. But his efforts yielded little. Turning, he stared at the ashtray on the windowsill, the shell-shaped tray full of cigarette butts, which stared back at him, like a pile of dead fish eyes.
He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Jiang was the murderer. Internal Security had political considerations, but they also had circumstantial evidence, witnesses, and a plausible motive with the story of blackmail gone wrong. In contrast, Chen had only unsupported theories.
Of course, he could tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have any authority here, and his hands were bound; consequently, his information pointed to possibilities, but only to unsubstantial possibilities.
Whistling absentmindedly, he poured himself a glass of red wine. The bottle was compliments of the center, and the label said Bordeaux. All these nice extras were provided in recognition of his special status.
As he gazed into the red wine rippling in the glass, he realized that he missed her.
She cared about him without knowing his status. Not that he had intended to keep his identity a secret. His situation was not like the one in an English novel he had read years ago, where a rich and powerful nobleman had disguised himself as a poor vagrant to try to find true love, someone who would love him for the man he was, not for things like wealth or status.
Shanshan hadn’t told him that much about herself, either. Considering the circumstances in which they’d met, she had her reasons.
A young, attractive, bright woman like her must have had men pursuing her, presumably many of them, including Jiang. That was not suprising. But when they first met at Uncle Wang’s eatery, he was sure there wasn’t anyone in her life. Like there wasn’t anyone in his.
He stopped himself from thinking further along those lines. At this moment, there were so many more important things for him to do. It wouldn’t be a good idea for Chief Inspector Chen to lose himself in a burgeoning affair. If Internal Security happened to find out about their relationship while they were in the middle of the investigation, he might not be able to wash himself clean, as the proverb says, even if he jumped into the Yellow River.
It was late in the afternoon, and he was beginning to feel slightly hungry. He had skipped lunch; after the interruption of breakfast delivery, he had instructed the front desk that he wanted no disturbances whatsoever.
It would be only a matter of minutes for him to walk over to the canteen and have them prepare something, but he didn’t like the idea of being treated as a “special guest.” Instead, he boiled a pot of water and put in a package of shrimp dumplings he had bought at the center’s convenience store as an instant snack.
He ate the meal without really tasting it. When he thought about it, though, there was still an agreeable aftertaste lingering on his tongue. Afterward, he dumped the bowl and pot into the sink without bothering to wash them. Out the kitchen window, he noticed a fitful wind dispelling the languid clouds in the distance.
Chen changed into an old T-shirt and short pants, then picked up the phone. But he hesitated. He’d already left her a message, which she hadn’t yet returned. Putting down the phone, he wondered what she’d been doing all day. It was tempting to make another surprise visit to her room, but he decided not to go out. There wasn’t anything new to tell her, and besides, the dorm might be under surveillance.
Instead, he opened up the laptop on the table. He had an unexpected impulse to continue on with the fragments he had written earlier in the week. Thinking of her, he opened the file. The earlier lines remained unpolished, but they could develop into a long poem, perhaps even something as ambitious as “The Waste Land.”
Again, images sprang forth. Random ones, clustering around the lake, and with her in the middle of every line. The moment she was sitting with him in the sampan, the lake water murmuring after her, as she was telling him about all the environmental problems …
The morning comes to the lake
in waves of toxic waste, waves
of poisonous air, surging to smother
the smile in the waking boughs.
She walks in a red jacket
like a bright sail through the dust
under the network of pipes, long
in disrepair, spreading cobweblike,
dripping with contaminated water.
A mud-covered toad jumps up
at the dew-bespangled report in her hand
opens its sleepy eyes, seeing
all around still murky, slumps back into sleep.
There was something contagious about her youthful idealism. For a long while, he’d thought he was no longer capable of being genuinely lyrical. But it might not be too late for him to start all over again. He thought of her, and kept pounding at the keys.
The broken metal-blue fingernails
of the leaves clutching
the barren bank of the lake,
the dead fish afloat, shining
with the mercury bellies trembling,
their glassy eyes still flashing
with the last horror and fascination,
still gazing up at the apparition
of a witch dancing in a black bikini,
her raven hair long, streaming
on her snowy white shoulders, jumping
into the dark smoke from the chimneys,
against the dark waste currents
across the lake, a dark wood of
nightmare looms up.
A dog is barking the cell
in the distance.
Who’s the one walking beside you?
The moonlight streaming like water,
and worries drifting like a boat …
who’s whistling “The Blue Danube”?
So close, yet so far away.
All the joy and sorrow of a dream.
A snatch of the violin sweeping over,
a water rat creeps along the bank.
The city wakes up sneezing in the morning,
and falls asleep coughing at night.
Who’s the one walking beside you?
The lines kept pouring out, as if rolling up on wave after wave. He worked on with intense concentration, pouring himself another glass of the red wine, until the spell was broken by the ringing phone. It was Detective Yu in Shanghai.
Apparently, Yu wasn’t calling from home, but from somewhere in the street. Chen could hear traffic in the background, and occasionally, Peiqin’s excited voice.
Yu began relating to him what he and Peiqin had learned.
It turned out to be a fairly long narrative. Yu made a point of including Peiqin’s analysis, sometimes even quoting her directly. Chen listened without interruption, sipping at his wine, until Yu finished relaying the part about Mrs. Liu.
“So what’s your take on her frequent trips back to Shanghai?” Chen asked.
“It’s difficult to say, Chief. According to Peiqin, it may be complicated. It might be more than just an escape from the unpleasantness in Wuxi. Only in Shanghai could she afford to keep up her image as a successful woman. She’s surely a character, desperate to keep up appearances-to preserve face-in the eyes of others.” Yu then added, “Oh, Fu, it seems, is another character.”
“How so?”
Yu summed up what he and Peiqin had seen while sitting at the cafe on Nanjing Road.
“I took a number of pictures of him and the girl,” Yu said. “Peiqin calls me a private eye. Which is, you know, a fashionable profession in the city now. Old Hunter is thinking about making it his new career.”
“That would be a good idea. Nowadays, there are quite a number of rich wives looking to find out about their husbands’ infidelities. Your father is experienced and energetic-an old hunter indeed. So why shouldn’t he?”
“Oh, before I forget, one more thing. Peiqin and I contacted Gu, the chairman of the New World Group. As far as he knows, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the IPO plan for the Wuxi Number One Chemical Company. The top Party boss always gets most of the shares when a company goes public. It’s something that is taken for granted, but Gu promised that he would ask around.”
“Thanks for everything you’ve done, Yu, and of course, thank Peiqin for me too.”
After Chen hung up, he tried to fit this latest information into the puzzle, but without success. Instead, he found himself worn out by the fruitless speculations. To his surprise, he felt a little sleepy. Perhaps he really had needed this vacation.
After another futile call to Shanghai, he made for himself a cup of Cloud and Mist tea, hoping that it might revive him a bit. It didn’t work. So he brewed himself a fresh pot of coffee as well. It wasn’t a day for him to go to bed early. Internal Security was already reaching their conclusions. He had to be up and doing, he told himself, pouring out a cup.
Then a thought struck him. The night he was murdered, Liu, too, had tried to work. Of course, he might have dozed off while he was there all alone in the apartment. There was nothing really inconceivable about that scenario. But he probably wouldn’t have taken sleeping pills, certainly not that early. Allowing a half an hour for them to take effect, Liu would have to have swallowed the pills around nine, or even earlier. That was inexplicably early for a man who planned to work late into the night on an important document.
Another argument against Liu’s having taken pills was the missing cup in the apartment. Occasionally, Chen swallowed pills without water, but that was due to specific circumstances, like being on an overcrowded train. It was hard to imagine that Liu, in his own apartment, would have chosen to swallow the pills dry rather than getting a glass of water.
In a case of unpremeditated murder, the perpetrator was likely to have killed with whatever weapon they had found there and then left the apartment with it. A missing cup would have been too light for such a fatal blow. According to the autopsy report, the blow was definitely inflicted with a heavy object. So what else-heavy, blunt-was now missing and could have been used?
Again, he tried to fit Jiang into the details. The unpremeditated murder scenario could work, but could he have entered without being stopped by security? As for the missing murder weapon, Chen had no clue about that at all.
Chen started to feel slightly queasy, his head swimming. Perhaps it was the result of too much coffee and an empty stomach. He tried to take another short break. Leaning against the window, he looked out it again. This time of year, the light lasted long into the approaching dusk. He was fascinated by the scarlet clouds beyond the distant ragged lines of the hills, which seemed to be spurting out a huge flame, gilding an immense area of the lake. The lake had never looked so fantastic, as if sporting its natural grace in an unappreciated effort to keep itself from being contaminated.
Turning his attention back to the laptop, Chen found himself unable to settle into the unfinished poem. The fragmented lines could be saved on the laptop, but he had no idea when he would experience another impulse to complete the whole piece.
It might not matter that much. He thought of what Shanshan had said about the irrelevance of poetry in today’s China. He pressed the save key and went off to take a shower.
After the shower, he wrapped himself in a gray robe provided by the center, lit a cigarette, and settled on to the couch before turning on the TV.
There was nothing worth watching, except perhaps a “much-awaited” football game. But Chen wasn’t a sports fan. A faint breath of cool air, barely noticeable, came wafting in from the lake. He fetched a bath towel. Chen sometimes drifted off to sleep more easily with the TV on. He didn’t want to go to bed for the night, but a nap might refresh his mind.