A Case of Two Cities

11

IN THE MIDST OF his delegation preparations, Chen also managed to find out which hotel Comrade Zhao was staying in. The Western Suburb Hotel.

The day after he had learned about Zhao’s arrival in Shanghai, he had not yet received Zhao’s call. The chief inspector waited until the early afternoon before he dialed the hotel. The operator refused to confirm that Zhao was staying there, much less put him through. It was little wonder with that particular hotel. So Chen decided to go there. The old man would not be too displeased with his unscheduled visit. While he did not think Zhao would make any change regarding his delegation appointment, he might be able to find out something behind the sudden decision.

The Western Suburb Hotel, located not far from Hongqiao Airport, was a high-class hotel not yet open to the public. The hotel consisted of a group of villas with woods and lakes enclosed in high surrounding walls. In its facilities, the hotel was perhaps on a par with those new, five-star American hotels in Shanghai, but it remained for the exclusive use of senior Party leaders during their visits here. In the last few years, when there were no important guests staying there, it would occasionally open its restaurant to outside business. The hotel itself remained enveloped in mystery.

At the hotel entrance, Chen showed his identification to an armed sentry. A chief inspector’s rank meant nothing here. He had to wait for the “leading comrade” to signal approval. Comrade Zhao must have said something to the sentry, who saluted Chen on a suddenly respectful note, saying, “Yes, please come in, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. Comrade Zhao is waiting for you. He stays in Building B, close to the end of the complex.”

It was an independent, two-storied, white colonial building shaded in green foliage. A young maid in her pink uniform opened the door for Chen. “Comrade Zhao is in the living room.”

Chen saw a long mahogany desk in the center of a spacious living room, which was furnished in a traditional Chinese way, with long silk scrolls of painting and calligraphy hung on the walls. The desk was covered with white xuan papers, ink stone, ink stick, and books. There was a curl of smoke rising from a small tiger-shaped bronze incense burner on a mahogany corner table.

“Welcome, Chief Inspector Chen,” Zhao said, coming out from behind a mahogany bookshelf, carrying a large book in his hand.

Zhao was a man in his early or mid-seventies, white-haired and browed with a ruddy complexion. Dressed in a silk Tang costume, he looked well preserved and spirited for his age. He showed Chen to a sofa and seated himself opposite in a hardback mahogany chair.

“I apologize for not having called for an appointment, Comrade Zhao. Chairman Huang of the Writers’ Association told me that you had come to Shanghai,” Chen said. “I tried to call you, but without success. I have to leave for the United States tomorrow.”

“I have heard about your upcoming trip,” Zhao said. “I was thinking of calling you too. Phone calls have kept coming in.”

“You are on vacation here, I understand, but I have to report my work to you.”

“You have made your reports,” Zhao said, handing a cup of tea over to him. “A leading comrade in Beijing has discussed your work with me. I have said to him, I think, what you are probably going to say to me. So we may spare some repetitions.”

“Oh, a leading comrade in Beijing.” Chen was disturbed by the appearance of an unidentified “leading comrade in Beijing.” Whoever it might be, the discussion and decision must have been made at a higher level than the Writers’ Association.

“While we’re well aware of the urgency of your investigation, he did not think it would matter for you to be away for a couple of weeks.”

“It’s only a couple of weeks, but in the middle of an anticorruption case under the Party Discipline Committee-under you?” Chen said. “There are so many writers qualified for the position.”

“That is for the Writers’ Association to decide,” Zhao said with a smile, producing a folder out of the desk drawer. “As for the battle against corruption, it will be a long one. Let me show you something I have been working on.”

It was a draft on ethical regulations for Party officials. Zhao started by giving a comprehensive definition of corruption. The regulations forbade Party cadres from using their position to obtain improper benefit, to conduct business on their own account, to convert public property into private, to use their powers or influence to help others, to receive above-standard official treatment, to convert public facilities for private use…

“Corruption, especially within the Party cadres, is one of the most serious problems facing China today,” Comrade Zhao said, his silver hair shining like a dream in the sunlight. “People complain about corruption being institutional or a result of the one-Party system, and about absolute power leading to absolute corruption. I think that’s too simplistic. But we have to deal with the problem in an institutional way. We cannot content ourselves with one or two isolated investigations. As a relatively new system, China ’s socialism may experience all sorts of bumps along its way. We should never lose our faith in it.”

“Yes, we have to come to the root of the problem,” Chen echoed, choosing to say little. Some had been talking about his being too liberal. But would such a Party document prove to be the solution? A few conscientious Party cadres, like Judge Bao of the Song dynasty, might follow the regulations. Only there was no guarantee. Neither institutional nor legal guarantee. After all, the Party Discipline Committee had to serve the ultimate interests of the Party.

Chen started to feel irritated with the direction of the talk. He hadn’t come here for a lecture, one day before his trip, two days after An’s murder, and in the middle of an investigation that was reaching a crisis point. For all he knew, he had gotten on somebody’s nerves, which had led to An’s death and to a “leading comrade” saying something in the Forbidden City that resulted in his delegation assignment. He decided to push a little.

“You have given a most profound analysis, Comrade Zhao. As you have pointed out, we must carry the anticorruption work to the end,” Chen said. “It’s the first time for me to be engaged in such a case, and the leading comrade has discussed my work with you in Beijing. Has he made any specific suggestions or criticisms?”

“You are a young Party cadre full of drive,” Zhao said slowly. “That’s very good, but it is also very important for someone in your position to bear in mind the ultimate interests of the Party.”

“The ultimate interests of the Party? I am a Party member and a police officer. I remember what my Confucianist father has taught me. A man lays down his life for the one who appreciates you, and a woman makes herself beautiful for the one who likes her. Because of the Party, I am what I am today. Now you have entrusted me with an emperor-special-envoy task. How can I not fight for the Party’s ultimate interest?”

“We know, but there’s always room for improvement in our work. For instance, the investigation could be conducted more discreetly. Someone has complained about your passing confidential information to the media.”

“No, I have never talked to the media about the case…” Chen sensed something wrong. He had mentioned Dong’s name to Zhu Wei, the Wenhui reporter, but not in the context of the Xing case. It might not have been too difficult for a reporter to associate it with the investigation. Still, the chief inspector was not held responsible for speculations. How could the accusation have made its way into the Forbidden City so fast?

“I have been fighting for the sacred cause of our great Party all my life,” Zhao said. “Now China is finally making great strides in the right direction. Our anticorruption work is to ensure the success of this historic reform. But there are people anxious to make something out of it. To present a totally rotten picture of China, as if all the corruption occurred because of our Party system. And they attempt to stir up trouble through the media both at home and abroad.”

It was a difficult talk, almost like a high-level tai chi performance. Diandaojizhi. Zhao would never push or punch all the way. Just one light touch, sometimes a gesture in a direction, and Chen had to figure out how to respond.

“But it’s not true. I have never talked to the media about the investigation. How could that leading comrade in Beijing have believed it?” Chen said. “Does my delegation appointment mean a stop to the investigation?”

“No, you mustn’t think so. Don’t ever consider the trip to the United States as a stop to your investigation. As an experienced investigator, you know that there are different perspectives from which to look at one thing. Don’t worry about what people may say about your work. I trust you.”

“Thank you, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said.

Was it possible there was something else in Zhao’s statement? If not a stop, then a continuation of the investigation? Chen thought he caught a subtle emphasis on “the United States,” and “different perspectives.” It suddenly occurred to him that Xing was there too. Was that a hint? There seemed to be something else Zhao could have said, but he didn’t.

Instead, Zhao produced a silk scroll and spread it out on the desk. The scroll presented a poem entitled “The Guanque Pavilion,” written by Wang Zhihuan, a seventh-century Tang dynasty poet.

“I copied out the poem last night. Since retirement, I have learned only one small skill-how to make silk calligraphy scrolls. So this is one for you. Keep it, or give it to one of the American writers there. It may make a good gift.”

“No, I will never give it away, Comrade Zhao. It is special for me. I’ll hang it on the wall.”

Chen was no judge of Chinese calligraphy, but he liked the poem. A silk scroll in Zhao’s handwriting with his red chop seal on it would be spectacular on Chen’s wall. He appreciated the gesture made by the old man.

“Let me add one line,” Zhao said, standing up and writing with his brush, “To Comrade Chen Cao, a loyal anticorruption soldier.”

Was the poem also a subtle hint?

A hint about the necessity of climbing higher to see further. It could be just another reference to the political catch phrase daju weizhong-to take into consideration the interest of the situation in general. Or to the necessity of approaching the investigation from a different perspective.

There would be no point in pressing Zhao for an explicit explanation. The old man had said all that could be said, as well as the unsaid, as in a classical Chinese poem. Politics could be like poetry. A figure of speech whose meaning Chen had never considered before.

“I have one more question, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, pushing a little again. “So far I have made no real breakthrough, but there are some leads that should be followed, I think, during my visit abroad.”

“Well, you’re in charge of the investigation. Do whatever you think necessary.”

“Thank you.” That was better than he had expected. “Comrade Detective Yu Guangming has worked with me for years. A capable and loyal comrade. During this period, can he act on my behalf if need be?”

“Of course. If need be, he can also come to me. I think I’ve heard of his name.” Zhao added, “Any special idea or target?”

“No, it’s just that the case can be complicated. Anything could happen in two weeks, I’m afraid. And I’ll keep in close contact with you, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, rising, “while in the United States.”

“It may not be so easy to make phone calls there. An old Chinese saying puts it well: When a general is fighting along the borders, he does not have to listen to every order given to him by the emperor far away in the capital.”

That had to be a hint, Chen concluded.

And he was going to think a great deal about it. He left the hotel, carrying the scroll. After a while, he put it on his shoulder, like an imperial sword.

There was a flash of light in the tree-a hummingbird flapping up toward the sun.

On his way home, Chen called Peiqin, the wife of Detective Yu.

“Tomorrow morning, I would like to have breakfast with Yu.”

“Come to our restaurant,” Peiqin said. “Our new chef is good.”

“ Old Half Place is closer,” Chen said. “Yu has become a loyal noodle eater there, you have told me.”

“Then he will be there.” She added, “Second floor, there are nice private rooms there. I’ll make a reservation for you.”

Peiqin was a smart woman. Chen didn’t have to say more. She must have guessed why he had chosen to call her. In one of their previous investigations, he had also contacted her when he had to take extra precautions.