Chen had several days left of his vacation, but he went to the office because he had turned in the translation of the New World business proposal. It had not taken as long as he had expected. Of course, he anticipated that he would have to make minor changes when Gu’s American partner faxed back corrections and suggestions. But according to Gu, the initial response from across the Pacific Ocean was positive. Chen himself was now quite satisfied with the English proposal, which presented a comprehensive, convincing argument for the potential success of the project.
It would be nice to have a secretary working for him here in the office too, he thought, but he knew he’d better wait patiently, until he moved up one more notch in the bureau hierarchy before making this request.
There was a noise outside the window. He looked out. Not too far away, another matchbox-like apartment complex, supposedly postmodern, seemed to look back at him with a dull stare. Each building in the area seemed to be identical, each lost in the other’s reflection.
After all, the New World might be a good addition to the city, a fresh alternative to the commercially designed metropolitan landscape, even though the New World itself had been conceived out of commercial considerations.
What convinced him of its plausibility was not the study of the city’s architectural history, as elaborately presented in the business proposal, but his realization that there was now a rising middle class eager to claim a culture of its own. China was no longer a society of Utopian egalitarianism as it once had been under Chairman Mao.
From the various documents littering the desk, he managed to dig out the latest bulletin of the city housing committee. Turning to the last section of the bulletin, he started checking through a list of rooms that had been turned back in to the city authorities.
Housing assignment was a very complicated issue. Because of the severe housing shortage, some of the new apartment assignees had to hand over their former rooms in exchange. Most of them were single, all-purpose rooms rather than apartments. Invariably, they were smaller, or shabbier, than the newly assigned housing. But they would in turn be reassigned by the city housing committee. Those on the top of their respective working unit waiting list, like Detective Yu, might not be interested in such secondhand rooms with neither bathrooms nor separate kitchens.
Chen wanted to see if there was a room listed in the area designated for the construction of the New World. To his pleasant surprise, he found one-actually, one and half rooms, converted out of an original shikumen front wing, facing the courtyard. The former resident had even partitioned the wing into two areas, though the small back room thus created could contain only a single bed. And there was an extra bonus. Rooms in shikumen houses built in the thirties never had an indoor flush toilet; the chamber pot was a necessary nuisance. Here the previous resident had installed a kind of electric chamber pot. It was not as good as a toilet, but it would spare its owner the trouble of getting up early every morning to perform the routine of chamber pot emptying and washing.
He placed a phone call to the city housing committee. The associate director of the committee gave Chen a positive answer regarding the availability of that particular room.
“We will hold it for you, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
Such an old-fashioned room might not appear to Yu to be a satisfactory substitute for the new apartment in Tianling New Village that he had lost. But this shikumen room had potential that Chen alone knew about: it was on the street where the New World was going to be built. The value of properties there would increase tremendously when construction started. And as Gu was the potential buyer, Chen was sure he would be able to put in a word or two on behalf of Yu. According to the newest policy, compensation to the resident would be negotiable depending upon the value of the property-and, even better, the original resident could claim a new apartment of similar size in the same area when the project was completed.
Then Chen started to think about buying a room in that area, too. Perhaps he could buy a modest room for his mother, who refused to move in with him. At least it would be better than the attic she had lived in for thirty years. With the payment from the translation, he reflected, it was not unimaginable.
He wondered if there might be a conflict of interest. There was no hurry for him to make up his mind though. He would decide later.
At this moment he had to think of a way to talk Yu into it- without saying a single word to him about the New World.
A hint might be enough.
He lit a cigarette as he started visualizing a future visit to Yu in his new quarters, taking part in a game of go in a quaint courtyard, drinking a cup of Dragon Well tea. Perhaps there would be some neighbors in the background, merely as part of the traditional scenery. The picture was a pleasant contrast to his own apartment building, where people met, if at all, briefly, quickly, impersonally, on the stairs or in the narrow hallway. People were simply classified as Room 12, Room 35, Room 26.
He wondered whether he had been influenced by the business proposal for the New World. It was possible. People could be influenced by a book, a movie, a song, a proverb, not to mention a proposal interrelated with the cultural history of the city. He was no exception.
It was then that, like an apparition, Party Secretary Li dropped by his office.
“Great! You are already back at work, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I just stopped by to take a look at the paperwork that has piled up. There may be some urgent documents or letters that need my attention.”
“The Propaganda Minister of the city government has talked to us again. We have decided to hold the press conference this Friday. It’s time the Yin case was concluded. We cannot wait forever, you know.” Li added, “It’s really his decision.”
The last sentence might have been added for face’s sake. Chen had opposed the termination of the investigation, but the contrary decision might be a little more acceptable if, supposedly, it had been made by somebody outside the bureau.
Chen knew he was not in a position to argue. Yu had informed Li of the new lead, about Bao, but Li had brushed this aside. There were no witnesses and no direct evidence to connect Bao with the murder.
“With all the notices that have been sent out, some information about Bao should reach us soon, Party Secretary Li,” Chen said, making a feeble attempt to stall.
“If you could find Bao and prove him to be the murderer before Friday, it would be satisfactory. We have also spoken to Internal Security, and they have no objection to that conclusion. But they want us to keep them informed if you find out anything,” Li said amiably before leaving the office, “it’s all in the interests of the Party authorities.”
As Party Secretary Li’s footsteps faded along the corridor, Chen picked up the phone, and decided that he was justified in dialing the number. In a Confucian classic, Chen recalled, there was a long paragraph on the term “expedience.” It seemed relevant now.
“Hello, Gu.”
“Hi, Chief Inspector Chen. I was just thinking of giving you a call. My partner has already showed the English proposal to an American investment banker.”
“But the text has not been finalized yet.”
“Well, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Mr. Holt decided to go ahead. We may have to make some minor changes later, of course. You have really done me a great favor.”
“You are flattering me again. But I have to ask a you a favor, Gu.”
“Anything, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“If your are not too busy at the moment, how about meeting for lunch at Xinya? We’ll talk there.”
“Xinya, that’s great.”
They were seated in a private room in the state-run restaurant on Nanjing Road. Like other large restaurants in the city, Xinya had been resplendently redecorated. Its facade shone in the sunlight, and its rear connected with a new American hotel, the Amada.
“You made an excellent choice,” Gu said. “Xinya used to be my grandpa’s favorite place.”
In his childhood, Chen’s parents, too, used to take him there more often than to any other restaurant.
“Beef in oyster sauce. Fried milk. Garlic fried fish in a bamboo basket. Gulao pork. These were the dishes we ordered almost every time,” Gu said. “My grandfather had a superstitious belief in them.”
A waiter in a bright yellow uniform took their order down on a small pad, after suggesting many exotic, expensive possibilities.
Gu selected those specials his grandfather had always chosen. Chen asked for slices of winter bamboo shoots fried with dried winter mushroom, which had also been one of his parents’ favorites.
“I am sorry, we do not have bamboo shoots.”
“How can that be?”
“Bamboo does not grow in Guangzhou. Xinya is known for its genuine Guangdong-style cuisine. All our vegetables are from there. We get them delivered by overnight air freight.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Chen said, shaking his head as the waiter stepped out of the room. “What about buying bamboo shoots in the local market?”
“Well, that’s what a state-run restaurant is like,” Gu said. “It’s not their own business. Profit or no profit, the people here get the same pay. They don’t care. Soon, you will come to dine in the restaurants of the New World. All of them will be privately run, and you may have whatever you like.”
“Really, I am not such a fastidious gourmet,” Chen said. “I wanted you to meet me here because I need to discuss something with you.”
That was true. Chief Inspector Chen did not want to talk too much on the bureau phone, with people like Party Secretary Li dropping in without knocking; Li, for one, still did not have the word “privacy” in his vocabulary.
“Yes, please go on.”
“Detective Yu, my long-time partner, has been looking for a young man named Bao,” Chen said, producing a picture from his briefcase. “That’s his picture, taken about a year ago in Jiangxi Province. Like other provincials, Bao has not registered his residence in the city. Detective Yu is having a hard time tracking him down. I do not think Bao is connected with the Blue or other triads, but those organizations may know more about the provincials than we do. The police do not have direct control over them.”
“Let me ask around. There is one thing I do know about those provincials: if they are from Jiangxi, they will stay together in a certain new area, like Wenzhou village, where the police have not established control yet, but where the Blues have their contacts.”
“Exactly. It’s an important case for my partner. If you can find out something before this Friday, I would be very grateful.”
“I will do my best, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I owe you a big one, Gu,” Chen said. “Let me know as soon as possible. I really appreciate this.”
“What is a friend for? You, too, are helping your friend.”
The arrival of their order prevented them from saying more, but Chen thought he had covered what was necessary.
The lunch was not so satisfactory. The Gulao pork looked like sweet and sour pork done in a hurry at home. The beef in oyster sauce did not taste as delicious as he remembered it. The fried milk was a joke.
And Gu paid the check once again. The waiter took Gu’s gold credit card-an unmistakable sign of his wealth-ignoring the cash in Chen’s hand.
Later that afternoon, Chen arrived at the Renji Hospital with a small bamboo basket of fruit. At the front desk, he was told that his mother had been transferred to another room. Panic-stricken, he rushed upstairs, where he found that she had been moved to a better room, a semi-private which also had more advanced equipment. His mother was pleased to see him; she reclined in the adjustable bed, looking more relaxed than he had seen her in weeks.
“I’m really fine,” she said. “They’ve been running one test after another. You don’t have to come every day. And don’t bring me anything more, I already have so many gifts.”
It was true. There were so many things on top of the nightstand that it was almost like a display at an expensive food store: smoked salmon, roast beef, white bird nest, American ginseng, pearl powder, black tree ears, and even a bottle of Russian vodka.
Chen thought he could guess from whom this array came.
“No, they’re not from Overseas Chinese Lu alone,” his mother said, shaking her head, as if in disapproval of something invisible in the air. “Some are from a certain Mr. Gu. I had never met him before he came to see me here. He must be a new buddy of yours, I guess. He insisted on calling me aunt, like Lu does. He also summoned the head of the hospital to my room, and right in front of me, he pushed a bulging red envelope into his hand.”
“He’s incorrigible, that Mr. Gu.”
But he was not completely surprised. White Cloud would have kept her real boss informed of everything concerning Chen, but Gu should have mentioned his visit over lunch.
“Since then the doctors and nurses have been extraordinarily nice to me. They moved me here. This is a much better room, normally for high cadres, they said,” she told him and shook her head. “You must be somebody nowadays, son.”
“No, not me, but Mr. Gu. I’ve been doing some translation for him.”
“Really!” She appeared to be in better spirits and there was amusement in her voice as she said “Perhaps I’m too old to understand things in today’s world, but since when have you had a secretary working for you at home?”
“She’s no secretary.” He had foreseen that his mother would mention this. In her eyes, he must have strayed far enough from his father’s path. Now the news that he had a “little secretary” would only confirm her opinion. “She is just a temporary assistant for the translation project.”
“She is young, clever,” his mother said. “And she makes a very good home-made chicken soup.”
“Yes, she is very capable.” He doubted that the soup had been made in White Cloud’s home. She bought the soup from a restaurant with Gu’s money, probably. But he decided not to correct his mother.
“And she’s a university student. She likes your work, she has told me.”
He realized that his mother was already launched in a different direction. It should not have surprised him. “Yes, she’s a Fudan University student,” he said. He was not about to disclose that he had first met White Cloud when she was working as a K girl in a private room of the Dynasty Club.
Fortunately, his mother was still too weak to push this topic any further. He decided to leave well enough alone. If she wanted to cherish hopes, in spite of everything, especially in her present frail health, why not let her?
He did not like Confucianism, despite his late father’s influence. Like many other people of his generation, Chen believed that Confucian ideology had caused rather than solved problems in the course of the history of Chinese civilization. Still, the chief inspector considered it only human nature to be a filial son. That was the least a man should do-to provide for his parents in their old age, and, whenever possible, to make them happy.
He shuddered to think of those who refused to pay the deposit for their parents at the hospital. And for those who were unable to do so. It was not their fault, of course. Chen was able to do so, in the last analysis, because of his Party cadre position.
Someday, he might be able to make his mother happy in that particular aspect, but his first priority must be to do a good job as a chief inspector of police. In the Confucian ethical system, responsibility to one’s country was more important than to one’s family.
As for White Cloud, she was just a temporary assistant, as he had told his mother. He did not know whether the future would ever throw her into his path again. There was no predicting with Mr. Gu, of course. Two lines came to mind: Waving my hand lightly, I’m leaving, / leaving, carrying not a cloud with me.
He thought he had forgotten this poem by Xu Zhimo, and he wondered whether it had come back to him now because of her name. Or was it because of something else?