A Case of Two Cities

15

THE SECOND DAY IN Los Angeles was like the first day, busy with meeting, visiting, dining, and discussing. And now it was the third day, which would probably turn out to be just like the day before, Chen thought, waking up early in the hotel room.

In the midst of all the delegation activities, Chen managed to do a few things on his own.

With an international phone card, he had called Detective Yu, his hardworking assistant in Shanghai, who had hardly anything new to tell him. The weather remains cloudy, with little change in the air. If An had been murdered in connection with the anticorruption investigation, it might have been planned at a high level. So getting information would be difficult for a low-level cop like Detective Yu, let alone one without access to the investigation. The people Yu watched showed no unusual signs. Jiang was back in office, and in the newspaper too, the day after Chen had left, delivering a speech on the urgency of making the land development process transparent to the public. Sergeant Kuang kept plodding away at the An case without giving away any details. Yu had to find his own way of exploring the case. Separately, a short poem by Chen appeared in the Shanghai Morning with a note about his new status as the delegation leader. After Yu’s report, made mainly in the weather terminology, Chen told Yu what he had thought of during the night Dai was snoring in his room. The chief inspector found it hard to explain in their agreed-upon jargon, but he believed that he had managed to convey his meaning.

He also called his mother. The old woman was pleased with the phone call from Peiqin and with the visit from White Cloud. In addition, Party Secretary Li sent a small basket of fruit. Everything appeared to be fine there.

And here, he put Dai in the hotel as an honorable delegation member, a proposal Professor Reed had readily agreed with. Dai had a poetry collection translated into English, so there was no question about his writer status. Bao alone seemed not too pleased. Both Zhong and Shasha were on Chen’s side. Peng nodded, as usual.

Also, he delivered a speech on the translation of classical Chinese poetry. Afterward he had a fruitful discussion with a group of people interested in the topic.

So he had been doing an acceptable job for the delegation, he thought, in a number of ways. Little Huang was not always up to the task of literature translation; Chen helped whenever he had time. With his educational background, he also provided a sort of cushion for the culture shock of the delegation.

But the third day in L.A. turned out to be different from the first two. The American host suggested that the Chinese take a day off, considering they had had meeting after meeting without a break. So the day was rearranged to be one of free exchange among the writers. There were informal discussions and seminars on campus, and they could choose the topics they liked.

There were several American writers staying in the same hotel, and they talked over breakfast. Not exactly a productive literature discussion, Chen contemplated. The morning newspapers arrived, with both English and Chinese articles about the conference, carrying Chen’s picture in one of them-under a larger picture of a Chinese supermarket.

Some of the members of the delegation had a hard time adjusting to the American breakfast. There was a microwave in the hotel canteen and they could easily warm up Chinese food for themselves. The Americans had no objection to the request.

Sight-seeing was on the day’s agenda. Zhong suggested that they go out in the morning, and while sight-seeing, they could do some shopping too. The delegation got into a van, driving all the way to Chinatown. Once the van came in sight of those familiar signs and characters under an arch with tilted glazed eaves and dragon-embossed pillars, the visitors felt as if they were arriving home. There, they did not have to move in a group and no one would get lost. Chen stepped into a grocery, where he saw a dazzling array of Chinese products, perhaps even more various than in a Shanghai supermarket. He discovered a small bottle of Liuheju Fermented Bean Curd, a special Beijing product with a pungent flavor. A pity that he could not take it back to the hotel, where Americans might protest against its smell. He did buy a stick of green bean candy, dougen, a Tianjin product. He had so enjoyed it years earlier, sharing a small piece of it with his friend Ling. A small wonder, its rediscovery in another country. He paid for it, tore away its plastic wrapper like an impatient child, and popped it into his mouth. It was not the same taste as in his memory, but like a lot of things in the world, that could not be helped.

He heard no one speaking English in the store. There was only an old American couple examining herbal Chinese medicine in silent curiosity, and all others were Chinese, shopping, bargaining, and speaking in their respective dialects. A middle-aged woman was tearing the yellow leaves off the green cabbage before placing it into her plastic bag, a familiar scene which reminded Chen of Aunt Qiang, who lived down the street from his mother. He came to a counter that displayed cell phones and calling cards. A prepaid cell phone caught his attention. It was expensive, but affordable with the advance from Gu. Chen also purchased a new phone card, one that was cheaper than the one he had bought in the university store. According to the instructions on the back, it cost only ten cents per minute to call China, a benefit of competition. In China, telecommunications was still a state-controlled industry.

He stepped out of the store carrying the phone card. Before he discovered a public phone booth, he saw Pearl coming over with a cell phone in her hand.

“Somebody has been looking for you everywhere,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you,” he said, taking over the phone. “Hello, this is Chen Cao.”

“I am Tian Baoguo. Still remember me, old friend? The same Little Tian who shared the dorm desk with you for four years in Beijing Foreign Language University.”

“Of course. Old classmate. How can I forget those long nights, of talking about the night rain south of the Yangtze River, and of scrambling eggs over your little alcohol stove?”

“I read the news. I saw your pictures. It had a biographical note about you: the distinguished poet and translator. Only one Chen Cao under the sun. I made so many calls. Now I have finally got hold of you. Where are you?

“ Chinatown. In front of a Chinese grocery store called Central Trading.”

“Don’t move. I’m running over. Five to ten minutes. We’ll have lunch together.”

“I would love to, Tian, but I’m here with my delegation.”

“The delegation’s lunch is on me. A small way of showing my respect to you writers-on the behalf of my company. The best Chinese restaurant here. See you soon!”

When Chen discussed Tian’s invitation with others, no one had any objection. They were intrigued at meeting a prosperous overseas Chinese still interested in the literature of his country. With no special activity arranged for that afternoon, Pearl, the American interpreter-escort, did not insist on their dining in the hotel.

And in less than five minutes, Chen saw a tall man striding over and recognized him immediately as Tian, though they hadn’t seen each other for more than ten years.

“As our ancient sage says, there are three wonderful moments in one’s life,” Tian said, grasping his hand. “When one’s name appears at the top of the civil service examination. No more civil service examination today, but your high-ranking position counts. When one gets married with the candle of happiness illuminating the wedding room. I have just married a second time. When one meets an old friend in a faraway place. All apply to us. Isn’t today a perfect day?”

“You still talk like in the old days, Tian.”

“Now I’ve come here in the name of my company too. You have to give me face by condescending to dine with me. Every one of you, my respected masters.”

It was a banquet set in a magnificent Chinese restaurant. Tian had reserved a private room. At his insistence, the restaurant owner, too, came out to toast the “great Chinese writers.” To the pleasant surprise of everyone, Tian had also prepared his special present. Ten bottles of deep sea fish oil-each with a gold “Made in the U.S.A. ” label pasted on top-for each member of the delegation. An offer that made not only him, but Chen as well, immediately popular.

“It’s a popular product of our company. The best on the market. Please accept it as a token of our appreciation of your wonderful writings,” Tian said with undisguised pride. “I used to major in Chinese literature. I cannot express how I admire you. Deep sea fish oil will be good for hardworking intellectuals like you.”

“Thank you for your present,” Zhong said. “The fish oil will be good for my older wife.”

“You have to write a report about his pioneering business in the People’s Daily,” Shasha said with a giggle. “Good for his business.”

It was an impressive feast by any standard. The host and guests kept raising their cups. The restaurant owner brought out a bottle of Maotai as house compliment. “Drink to your hearts’ content. I’ve had it for over ten years. No fake products those days.”

It sounded like a not-too-subtle reference to the rampancy of fakes in present-day China. Still, everyone at the table cheered.

Tian made a passionate welcome speech, concluding with a couple of lines from Wang Wei: “‘Drink one more cup, my dear friend! / Out of the Yang Pass / to the west, you‘ll find / no companion of old.

“Now we are way out of the Yang Pass,” Bao commented, echoing from the well-known poem, “but we still have a good friend like a Tian.”

Because of the banquet, of the wine, of the fish oil, when Tian invited Chen to his home, no one had any objection, despite the delegation regulation against a member going out with a friend without an official approval. Several urged Chen to go.

Bao also said, “Enjoy yourself in the company of your friend. I’ll take care of things.”

“Anywhere you want to go,” Tian said as soon as Chen got into his car. “Anything you want to do. It’s your first trip here. Casino, club, bar, topless, bottomless. You name it.”

“I would like to go to your home,” Chen said. “To meet your young wife. And you may tell me your success story along the way.”

“It’s anything but a success story, Chen. But it’s a long drive, so I may as well tell it from the beginning.”

In the mid-eighties, Tian came to the United States to further his study in comparative culture. He made a career change, however, while working on his dissertation. Devastated by the divorce from his first wife, who saw no hope of his finding a job here, Tian started practicing acupuncture and herbal Chinese medicine. His studies in comparative culture were unexpectedly useful. His eloquent and frequent talk about the balance between yin and yang, about the mysterious interactivity of the Five Element System, about the omnipresent Way of Qi-all in English-prompted local newspapers to report on his “groundbreaking” medical work on the new continent. He was soon enjoying success among American as well as Chinese clients, who stood waiting in long lines outside. He began making herbal pills, which, too, proved to be popular with people who had no time or earthenware to prepare medicine in the traditional Chinese way. He then bought a run-down warehouse and turned it into a workshop for herbal medicine production. Because of the FDA regulations, he called the pills health products.

“But I don’t see how the deep sea fish oil came into your product line,” Chen commented with a smile.

“When the wheel of fortune turns, no one can stop it. You don’t even have to oil the wheel.”

“Fantastic, Tian. Tell me more about it.”

“I made my first trip back to China several years ago. I met up with Yan Xiong. He majored in French and lived in the same dorm building with us, remember?”

“Yes, he wrote his thesis on French symbolism.”

“He must have forgotten all about the symbols-except what stands for money in this materialistic age,” Tian said. “Yan is now a cadre in charge of export and import in Ningbo. He offered to collaborate with me on the health products-on the condition that he and his wife act as the exclusive agent.”

Tian then went into a detailed market analysis. As the economy in China improved, people became aware of the need for those health products. It was in line with the time-honored tradition of bu, the necessity of providing something beneficial to one’s yin and yang system. They did not believe, however, in the locally made pills. There were too many reports about knockoffs. The emerging middle class was willing to pay a couple of dollars more for a product with a “Made in the U.S.A” label.

“The Yans know the market, and they have the connection. One of my products, deep sea fish oil, was a huge hit. Natural omega in the depth of oceans, which sounds both mysterious and miraculous.”

“It’s true,” Chen said.

“My company has obtained several patents. The American customers are drawn to the part about the ancient Chinese tradition, and the Chinese customers, to the part about modern American technology. What an ironic joke!”

“It’s good that you take it as a joke, and laugh at it too. After all, a successful joke.”

“But how far have I moved away from the dreams I had in Beijing Foreign Language University? We talked about the value of life, about the aroma of newly printed pages, about the reflection of White Pagoda in the Northern Sea, about the bamboo music in the quaint teahouse. Now I am a businessman, reeking of copper coins all over.”

“How far have I moved, Tian? I didn’t read mystery novels then. Now I have translated several of them-for money. And I am a cop, like one prowling in those pages. In fact, I don’t know why I have come here.” Chen changed the subject: “You should have contacted me in Shanghai.”

“Well, the first time I went back, I heard a lot about your work. I thought it might not be so convenient for me to approach someone in your position. Then for the following trips, I was overwhelmed with business- including that of marrying Mimi.”

Tian couldn’t help being effusive at the unexpected reunion. There was no doubt about his sincerity. Still the same bookish, honest Tian as in their college years. It must not be easy for him to take a day off for an old friend, with so much business for him to take care of in L.A.

“You know a lot of business people here, Tian?” Chen said, with an idea flashing through his mind.

“Some, I would say.”

“Do you know Xing Xing too?”

“I have heard of him-and seen him at an antique auction, at a distance. The local Chinese newspapers were full of his stories.”

“Well, I’m a cop, you know.” He knew he was taking a risk. While 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. And a general could not fight alone. He had to depend on his allies. For the moment, he had only Tian-or had his only hope in Tian. Tian was trustworthy, he judged. Besides, Tian had business in China. Such a businessman would probably not give away a Chinese official in an important position. “So let me tell you something-between you and me. I was investigating a case concerning Xing before I came out.”

Chen began to talk about his work-part of it-to Tian. Tian slowed down before turning into a rest area off the highway. Then the car pulled up in the cool shade of a blossoming tree. There were several cars and trucks there. A few Americans stood drinking or smoking. Chen and Tian did not get out of the car.

At the end of Chen’s account, Tian said quietly, “It’s about time that the Beijing government did something about corruption. I’m so glad you still trust me like in our college years. You are doing a great job, Chen. I’m proud of having you as a friend.”

“The authorities have been trying hard-” Chen did not go on, for he himself was not so pleased with the editorial-like defense of the government. “Xing stays in Roland Height, right?”

“Yes. I know something about the area. The people there buy a lot from my company.”

“Really! I need to find out something. Maybe you can help me. For instance, who does Xing associate with here? And if possible, I need to know in what ways.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Tian said.

“But you can’t canvas-knock on one door after another. Everything should be done without Xing’s knowledge.”

“I have an idea. I might be able to break through using the kids of the ex-official families there. Totally spoiled, they brag and boast as if the world were a watermelon in their hands, which they can cut and eat to their hearts’ content. A little Chinese girl once offered to pay the private school tuition for her American friend, claiming that there was too much money in the banks for her father to count. Sure enough, her father, a former mayor of Liaoyang City, promptly signed a check for her. So I’ll approach their kids. Birds of a feather gather together, and they may tell me something.”

Chen had heard of stories about corrupt officials fleeing overseas with tons of money and squandering the stolen money like children throwing pebbles into water. He made no comment.

“And I have another idea,” Tian went on. “Let me drive you to Roland Height this afternoon. It may help your work.”

“I don’t think a visit there would lead to anything. I’m not supposed to do any official investigation. It’s out of the question for me to knock on his door.”

“We may still find something there. You never know, Chen.”

Chen didn’t think so, but like a Tang dynasty general, he could hardly resist the opportunity of observing the enemy at a close range. Besides, Tian appeared to be in such high spirits, he would probably keep talking all the way.

“Well, if that’s not too much trouble for you.”

“No trouble. It’s not just for you, but for China too. I’ve got my citizenship here, but China is still my home country,” Tian said excitedly. “Let me tell you something. Last year, I watched the soccer game between the U.S. and China on TV. To the annoyance of my American neighbors, I cheered the Chinese team all the time.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So that’s it. We’ll go to Roland Height, but a little later on: it’ll be better in the evening. Come to my home first.”

So they arrived at Tian’s house, which was located in a new subdivision. A new red brick house with a back garden. Not large, but nice. According to Tian, it was worth more than a million in the area.

Mimi, Tian’s new wife, wearing a pink T-shirt and white shorts, barefoot, soared out like a butterfly. She was about twenty years younger than Tian, handsome, tall, moving softly with a suggestion of voluptuousness. Tian had met her during one of his trips to China, and brought her here by having married her there, about ten days after their first meeting. The marriage was also seen as part of his success story.

“Old Tian has told me so much about you, Chen,” she said sweetly. “You look so young.”

In spite of Chen’s protest, the Tians started to prepare a barbeque reception in the backyard, which boasted a swimming pool, and a white pavilion in enjoyable relief against the green foliage. Soon, the ribs sizzled deliciously over the antique grill made of an old-fashioned tank. They sat close to a corner overgrown with weeds. Cicadas started chirping, distantly, different from those heard in Beijing. Against the rugged mountain lines, the afternoon sun on the back of a wild goose seemed to be still coloring a corner of the sky.

They did not resume their talk about Xing immediately. Mimi kept coming to them with drinks and snacks in her hands, an amiable, competent hostess, walking light-footed over the green grass. She finished a Qingdao beer with them before she went back into the living room for her favorite TV program.

“By the wine urn, the girl is like the moon, / her white wrists like frost, like snow,” Chen quoted a couplet in a moment of impulse. He immediately regretted it. It was out of place.

“I first met her in a bar in a Qingdao hotel. She worked there-a Budweiser girl,” he said, brushing the sauce on the slightly burnt ribs. “So your guess is close. Except there’s no wine urn there, but a beer barrel.”

“She’s so pretty. I could not help quoting.”

“Except that we are no longer so young,” Tian said, in a reference to the ending of that celebrated poem too: Still young, I am not going back home, / or I’ll have a broken heart. Heaving a long sigh, Tian took off his toupee. His bald skull shone in the afternoon sunlight, like a boiled egg.

“Tell me more about Roland Height,” Chen said, changing the subject again.

“Well, it is an open secret. The area has embraced a recent influx of extraordinarily wealthy Chinese. A new breed of immigrants, small in number, but conspicuous as hell. They buy million-dollar houses and pay all in cash. So many Chinese officials in charge of government or state-owned business money have disappeared, only to resurface here with their families in tow, with the missing money channeled into their personal bank accounts.”

“Yes, the capital flight amounted to several billions over the last two years, a large part of it embezzled by officials on the run.”

“We’d better leave now,” Tian said, looking up. “It’s getting dark.”

Chen called the hotel and spoke to Bao. “There’s no special activity for the rest of the day, so I think I’ll stay on with Tian. You’ll have to take care of the political study in the evening.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Bao said.

Chen and Tian set out around five-thirty. Mimi accompanied them out to the car. “Come back, Mr. Chen. I’ll make you a seafood dinner, Qingdao style.”

The traffic in L.A. was crazy, cars speeding recklessly like headless flies. Tian, too, drove fast, but he kept talking, as if still sitting at leisure in his own backyard. A sign for Roland Height soon came into sight.

Tian must have been a regular visitor to the high-class subdivision. There was a guard with a phone sitting in a booth at the entrance. Visitors had to be announced before being admitted. But the guard apparently recognized Tian and waved him through without asking him to do anything. They drove through the entrance, turning into a driveway lined with tall palm trees. After making two or three turns, Tian pointed to a secluded section and whispered, “Here is Xing’s house.”

It was a majestic mansion looming through the dusk, with a marble arch towering over its door, and a couple of stone lions squatting in front of the entrance, which reminded Chen of the celebrated bronze ones on the Bund.

“Four or five million dollars at least,” Tian said, estimating in his businessman’s way, “Xing’s house.”

They saw a stolid man in black sitting on a rattan chair on the porch, resting his feet on a white plastic chair, drinking from a bottle of beer. It was not Xing. That Chen could tell.

“Possibly a bodyguard,” Tian said, slowing down as he made a show of looking for the house number.

The guard looked up in alert, putting the beer down, but the car did not stop, rolling out of sight.

“We’ll come back,” Tian said. “Xing has connection with local triads. Those tangs and bangs are capable of doing anything.”

“Do you mean Xing belongs to the secret society in Los Angeles?”

“I’m not sure, but with his money, he could have easily rented those thugs for protection.”

“Money can make devils pull round the mill like blindfolded mules,” Chen said. “Is Xing still doing business here?”

“No, not that I’ve heard of. He’d better stay low. The money he has plundered will let his next three generations wallow in obscene luxury.”

“Has his case made a big buzz here?”

“It did, but Chinese people here don’t care much about the politics back home-thousands of miles away in the Forbidden City. Look at this white five-storied mansion next to Xing’s. It belongs to the son of a politburo member. Little Tiger, that’s his nickname, I think.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He’s barely in his twenties. Instead of studying, he’s been partying everywhere, drinking, dancing, and mah-jonging night and day. He has a large import and export company-at least under his name.”

“You know a lot of people.”

“The Chinese community here is like a small world. Folks keep bumping against one another.”

In the midst of gathering dusk, they were driving round to Xing’s house again.

“I’ll ask for directions,” Tian said, pulling up before Chen could stop him. “You stay in the car.”

Tian apparently knew some residents here. The black-clothed guard stood up and pointed in one direction. Tian went on with his questioning, as if still lost. The door behind them opened. A white-haired woman appeared with a string of large beads in her hand. The guard said something to her, and the door closed again. But in swift glance, Chen saw the hallway inside enveloped in incense. Then the door of the white mansion opened again, and a young man came out. The guard bowed to the young man respectfully as Tian moved back to the car.

“Sorry, I’ve got nothing for you,” Tian said, sitting beside Chen. “The guy would not even say whether Xing is at home. I didn’t want to sound too inquisitive. No point stirring a sleeping snake.”

“No,” Chen said. “I really appreciate all your effort. So the old woman must be Xing’s mother.”

“Yes, Xing is a filial son. When he first came here, he often appeared in his mother’s company. I have seen her picture in the local Chinese newspapers too.”

“Is the old woman a Buddhist?”

“I think so. I have read something about it, but I’m not sure.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Oh, my mother also believes in Buddhism,” Chen said. “Is that young man Little Tiger-the next-door neighbor to Xing?”

“Yes. Perhaps more than a next-door neighbor. Tell you what. I may be able to find out more. My company has ads in most of the Chinese newspapers here. The editors owe me some favors.”

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to contact those people. Xing may be well connected here.”

Warmed with his first detective experience, however, Tian continued to make suggestions on the way back. Some of his ideas might be worth trying; others were totally impracticable. Chen listened and then glanced at his watch.

“How far is it from the hotel?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Let me down here. You’d best not be seen too much in my company. Now about Xing, don’t do anything without consulting me first.”

“I’ll be careful. No one will ever suspect me.”

“Don’t call the hotel. I bought a new cell phone here. Call this number only,” Chen said, writing the number down on a scrap of paper. “Better call me only from a public phone.”

“That sounds more and more exciting, like in a thriller movie, Chen. Any special directions for me to follow?”

“I don’t know. Little Tiger, his next-door neighbor, might be someone worth checking into. As a cop, I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“What do you mean by coincidence?”

“Xing’s connected at the very top,” Chen said. “Drop me here. I’ll take a taxi the rest of the way.”