A Case of Two Cities

20

THE DAYS AFTER THEIR conference in L.A. were like repetitions with little variation, at least as far as the delegation was concerned.

The cities they visited were different, but what they did there was similar. Meeting after meeting, handshaking with a poet, business-card exchanging with a novelist, greeting a critic, discussing with readers. Chen had to make his much-rehearsed speeches again and again. The other members were also becoming more experienced in “literature exchange.” The initial culture shock turned into culture critique, and each of them spoke from his or her own perspective. Bao alone seemed to remain true to what he called the real color of a Chinese working-class poet, condemning whatever he saw in the United States as bourgeoisie decadent or as capitalistic rotten.

Their travel between cities was partially by air, partially by bus. The American host had arranged a special bus for the trips between nearby cities. It was a practical arrangement for the delegation. They enjoyed the view of large cities as well as small towns. Occasionally, the bus also stopped by rustic inns and roadside pubs.

While moving from one city to another, Chen also managed to move on with his investigation. There had been some progress in Shanghai, but not all of it positive. His mother had been moved to a safer place. Again, Yu didn’t go into details on the phone but Chen knew his assistant would not have done so without a reason. Perhaps it was even the very reason that had worried Chen. Jiang could have been behind it. The chief inspector was coming back with those pictures in hand, so it was not unimaginable that Jiang tried to get something in his own hand, something that could hold Chen in check. Or, in a worse scenario, it was orchestrated by somebody higher than both Jiang or Dong.

Yu’s work on An’s cell phone record seemed to have bogged down. According to Yu, those that An had contacted were all in powerful positions. It was out of the question for Yu to confront them; furthermore, the phone conversations were hardly incriminating.

Nor was there anything new from Tian, though what he had provided was already more than Chen had expected.

All along the way, Chen had been continuing his Internet searches and research, working on one computer after another in different cities. There were things he still did not grasp, but he had confirmed his impression that it wouldn’t be easy for Xing to get political asylum and that few really believed his stories of political persecution. Still, it could drag on for a quite long time before any ultimate decision was made in court. In the meantime, Xing made one statement after another, mixing false information with facts, to the great annoyance of the Beijing government.

Between his responsibility as a delegation head in public, and as a cop incognito, the days passed quickly. Somehow he could not shake the ominous feeling that things were moving, like water in the dark.

On the fifth or sixth day, Chen was sitting uncomfortably at the back of the bus. The imitation leather covering of the seat felt rather sticky against his back and the air was stuffy. The effect of the long, continuous journey was beginning to tell.

Dozing with his head against the window, he thought of two famous lines by Yue Fei, a patriotic general in the Song dynasty. “Riding through eight thousand miles under the moon and the clouds, / fight for thirty years with achievement in sand and dust.” Shortly after the composition of that poem, General Yue was ordered to die, in spite of his legendary loyalty to the emperor. Chen felt disturbed at the thought of it. Looking out, the bus was moving near the bridge spanning Illinois and Missouri.

Little Huang, the interpreter, was the first to point out, “Look. The Arch of St. Louis!”

For the first minute or two, Chen did not respond like a tourist upon arrival in a new city. The novelty of their trip had worn off. Then he realized that it was not just another city, like all other cities, scheduled on the delegation itinerary.

“Yes, Master Ma’s old home,” Bao said with a broad grin.

“Not in St. Louis, but in Hannibal,” Zhong said.

“It’s close.”

Once the bus crossed the bridge, the high buildings of the city made for an impressive skyline, but there were also occasionally poor, dilapidated buildings along the way, forming a sharp contrast in the downtown area of St. Louis.

It did not take them long to arrive and disembark at the Regency, a high-end hotel attached to an ex-railway station, which was remodeled into a large shopping mall. It was a clever design, Chen thought, for the hotel residents could look out at what had been a railway platform, musing about the bygone days.

A familiar smell dragged Chen back to the present. Possibly that of green onion sizzling in a wok. Sure enough, he discovered a food court at the other side of the mall. A variety of restaurants and snack bars, including a Chinese eatery under a glittering neon sign of a gigantic wok. It was an added convenience for the writers. They did not have to ask the local escort to take them out to Chinese restaurants.

The local escort showed up. He was a tall young American who spoke no Chinese and kept raving about the location of the hotel. “Look, the Arch is within walking distance, the landmark of this city, where the frontiersmen started their journey westward long ago.”

“Yes, we can walk there in the evening,” Little Huang added.

The escort helped at the front desk. Everyone had his or her room key in no time and all their luggage was piled up in a cart to be taken to their respective rooms. As usual, they exchanged room numbers. Chen had a suite with a Jacuzzi bath on the third floor. A privilege for the delegation head, which everybody took for granted now.

Chen was tired, perhaps more so at the sight of the comfortable bed and of the glistening white bathtub. But he had no time for a break. He had to make phone calls-in the mall underneath the hotel. First to Detective Yu. It was still early in the morning in Shanghai, so Chen had a good chance of catching him at home.

Stepping out of the room, Chen saw Huang walking over in his direction.

“The hotel sucks,” Huang muttered.

“Why?”

“The hot water does not come.”

“Really? Try mine.”

The hot water worked all right in Chen’s room. Possibly a problem only with Huang’s.

“You may use my tub,” Chen said.

“What about yourself?”

“There’s a bookstore down in the mall. I may find some interesting mysteries.” That was true. A publishing house in Guiling had been pushing him for new translations. In spite of his workload, he had no objection to translation. It kept him reading and writing, even though mechanically, with his imagination crumpled like a dirty mop.

The phone in Chen’s room rang. It was Shasha. She, too, was interested in the ultramodern bathtub. “You have a Jacuzzi in your room, I’ve heard.”

“Try it if you like. Little Huang is in my room right now. Come in forty-five minutes,” Chen said before turning to Huang. “Take your time.”

“Thank you, boss. It’ll take me no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t worry. Leave the door closed after you finish.” He spoke into the phone again. “I’ll leave my key at the front desk, Shasha. I’m going to take a walk-in the home city of T. S. Eliot.”

“Oh yes, Eliot made you.”

It was a well-meant joke, which also sounded like an echo from a poem. Perhaps by Eliot. He was not sure, however, whether it took an American poet to make or unmake a Chinese cop.

Chen went down to the mall. It was late afternoon, and shoppers were pouring in. He saw a Chinese family walking in front, a young couple with a little boy. The woman wore silk embroidered satin slippers, shorts, and a silk vest like a dudou, and the man was in a white T-shirt with a gigantic beer mug imprinted on it. Both were carrying large plastic shopping bags. Holding a red balloon over his head, the boy jumped along, as if on invisible tracks, imitating the toot of the bygone trains. Presently Chen discovered the woman was American dressed in an overtly Asian way. Perhaps it was fashionable here, he did not know.

There were several pay phones scattered throughout the building. He chose one partially sheltered in a corner, and he dialed Yu’s number. But no one picked up. Strange. It was still morning in Shanghai. At least Peiqin should be at home.

He took out his address book and found another number-a local St. Louis number. But he hesitated. It might put him in a difficult situation- in China -if she contacted him. As a Chinese police officer, he had to report any call from an American police officer. He dialed the number. No one at home there either. A click, and the answering machine brought out her voice.

“This is Catherine Rohn’s residence. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave your phone number and a detailed message, and I’ll call you back as soon as possible.”

He hung up without speaking. Not a good idea to leave his cell phone number, and he hadn’t remembered to bring the hotel number with him.

Leaving the public phone, he was in no mood for window-shopping. But there was no reason for him to hurry back. Huang might be still enjoying himself in the tub. And then it would be Shasha’s turn, like a lotus flower blossoming out of the water. He turned into the bookstore, where he saw several shelves marked “mystery.” All the authors were listed in the alphabetical order of their names. It was a far more popular genre here. In China, only in the last two or three years had a new type of literature called “legal system literature” emerged, as the legal system itself was new. Most of the writing in that genre, however, had little to do with the real police work, for the Party authorities always acted like a god at the last minute. Chen picked up a hardcover-a naked girl with Chinese characters tattooed on her back. Glancing through a few pages, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to choose in so little time. Instead, he picked up a newspaper and a map before heading to an affiliated Starbucks café. The familiar fragrance seemed to bring back what he had discussed with Gu at the franchises in Shanghai. Looking up, he saw a variety of names on the coffee list, in English and in other languages as well, which he hardly knew how to pronounce.

“A cup of regular coffee,” he said.

The coffee tasted hot and strong. After a refreshing gulp, he started studying the map, but he failed to locate the Central West End. Frustrated, alone, he felt out of place.

Finally, he made up his mind to walk out. With his English, he should have no problem finding his way around. No time to visit Eliot’s home this evening, he knew, though it was the first American city that brought out a feeling of déjà vu in him. In his college years, he had cherished an ambition of writing a book about Eliot, believing he had a singular Asian perspective. He had read books about the poet, and about the city too. Now with the project irrecoverably shelved, he found himself in that city, lighting a cigarette in the cool evening air.

In spite of the map in his hand, it did not take him too long to get lost. All of a sudden, the streets appeared deserted, except for an occasional car speeding along recklessly. There were no pedestrians like him around. In less than fifteen minutes, he must have made several wrong turns. Thanks to the pinnacle of the hotel shimmering in the sunlight, he managed to trace his way back.

Several people had already gathered in his room. They must have come in after Shasha. She was wrapped in a white robe, stretching on the sofa, her shapely bare legs stretching out like lotus roots. Zhong smoked like a chimney, as if trying to create a smoke screen to shield her out of sight. Peng slouched in a corner, silent as usual. Bao strode in, burping noisily with unusual satisfaction on his face.

“There’s a Chinese buffet restaurant down in the mall,” Bao said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “The owner’s from Shandong, my old home. We talked a lot. He gave me a box of fried dumplings for free. Genuine Shandong taste. A good-hearted overseas Chinese.”

“He may have kept his Shandong taste, but not necessarily his Chinese heart,” Zhong responded. “I saw the restaurant too. Far more expensive than the express bar.”

“Why so hard on him, Zhong?” Bao retorted with blue veins standing out in his temples, throbbing like the earthworms in one of his poems. “The price is different-buffet-as much as you can eat. I’ve never had buffet in China. It’s not easy for a Shandonese to get along in this foreign country.”

“An American student told me that buffet is characteristic of the Chinese. That’s so untrue,” Shasha commented languidly. “The same with fortune cookies. What an irony. We have never had fortune cookies in China.”

Chen looked at his watch: seven-twenty. It was about time for their routine political study, and everybody had come in except Little Huang. Usually, the young man was punctual. According to Zhong, Huang had headed out alone. Little Huang might have strolled out after the bath and lost his way.

“We don’t have to wait for him. He’ll come back,” Bao said, “with the hotel card and phone number in his pocket. Don’t worry.”

Chen was not worried. Huang spoke English, was capable of making it back to the hotel on his own. The meeting did not last long. People had many different things to do, with the mall located underneath the hotel. Chen, too, sneaked out again and made another call, but he got the same message.

When he got back to the room, he took a Budweiser from the refrigerator and turned on the TV. There was a show about people talking in a bar, hilariously, with an invisible audience bursting into constant laughter. While he understood most of the dialogue, he failed to make out the occasion for the audience’s guffaws. And he felt inexplicably frustrated.

Around nine-thirty, he called Little Huang’s room. No one answered. Because of his interpreter position, Little Huang had never missed a group meeting or stayed out late by himself. Nor had he mentioned any friend or relative in the city. Chen contacted the front desk. The night manager promised she would check and call back with any information. Chen took his shower.

Around eleven, the night manger, too, became concerned, and she called Chen. After a short discussion with Chen, she contacted the local police about a possible missing person. It was not an ordinary tourist, but a Chinese delegation member.

The response came shortly after midnight. A body had been found on the corner of Seventh and Locust Street. There was no identification on the body, but it was a young Asian male.

Chen rushed out in a hotel car. There was hardly any traffic at this late hour. The car drove straight to the mortuary. There, a night-shift clerk led him to a room and pulled out a stretcher. The dead man under the white sheet was none other than Little Huang-his glasses missing, his hair disheveled, and his face already waxlike.

The body had been discovered by a patrolling cop. According to an initial report, the victim’s skull was crushed by some heavy, blunt-edged object. Possibly with one blow. The estimated time of death was between five-thirty to six. The report pointed to a possible robbery case gone wrong. Huang’s wallet and other identification all vanished. There was no sign of struggle before his death. No bruises or any other wounds on his body.

Shortly afterward, Jonathan Lenich, a local homicide cop, arrived at the mortuary. A dapper man with gray eyes and silver-streaked temples, Detective Lenich appeared sleepy and grumpy. He looked at the dead body, and then at Chen.

“A visiting Chinese writer?” Detective Lenich said.

“An interpreter for the delegation,” Chen said.

“He looks like a visiting Chinese.”

There seemed to be an emphasis on the word “visiting.” Chen wondered what his American counterpart was driving at.

“A Chinese local would be dressed more casually, a jacket and jeans, but a Chinese visitor dresses far more formally-black suit and scarlet silk tie. And look at his shoes, another telltale sign.”

Chen nodded. The American had a point, though how the shoes could have made such a difference, Chen wondered. Also, would a mugger have observed that carefully? “So you think he was an easy target here?”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I mean.”

“A robbery and homicide case?”

“We’ll need to wait for the autopsy report-but we won’t learn much from that, I’m afraid. We’ll need statements from you and other members of your delegation.”

“I understand,” Chen said somberly. “But what about the location? The hotel is at the center of downtown, and Huang could not have walked far. It’s hard to imagine how somebody could have been mugged and murdered there. And it was still light-”

“That’s something you don’t understand, Mr. Chen. Downtown isn’t safe, even in broad daylight. St. Louis has a very high crime rate.”

But Chief Inspector Chen couldn’t help but think of other scenarios. Perhaps he needed to explore Little Huang’s background first. With his own experience in the Foreign Liaison Office, he knew people working there usually had special backgrounds. At the least Party membership and approved political status, and often much more than that, sometimes they were even directly trained and controlled by Internal Security. What about Little Huang? Not just an interpreter, but one for a delegation visiting the United States. It was an extraordinary opportunity for a young person like Little Huang. Could he have been assigned a secret mission? If so, anything could have happened.

“A high crime rate indeed-it happened only about two hours after our arrival here,” Chen said, trying to respond, and to clear his own thoughts. “As for a robbery-murder scenario, he was killed with one blow…”

“At a close distance.”

“Do you think an ordinary mugger could have hit like that? One single blow delivered from behind, the victim unaware of the approaching danger.”

“That’s a good point, Mr. Chen. For a poet, you seem to know a lot about homicide.”

“I have translated American mysteries.”

“No wonder you speak English well. Killers can be desperate or demented, different from the people in your poems,” Detective Lenich said. “My colleague is making a list of people with a history in the neighborhood. I’ll start checking their alibis early tomorrow morning-or rather, this morning. Then I’ll come to speak to your delegation members.”

“What can I do?”

“Go back to your hotel. I’ll come over later in the morning.”

By the time Chen got back to the hotel, it was almost four o’clock. The first gray light came filtering in through the blinds. He slumped across the bed, worn out yet intensely wakeful, like a bulb before exploding.

The murder had happened while he was serving as the delegation head, and he had to hold himself more or less responsible. If no one had been allowed to go out alone, the tragedy might have been avoided. Bao had grumbled about Chen’s laxity in enforcing delegation regulations, though as the Party secretary, Bao would share equal responsibility.

But what if there was something else behind the homicide? What if one of the Chinese writers was involved?

Chen got up, took a cold shower, and started making notes in an effort to brainstorm. He started by ruling out possibilities.

Little Huang seemed to have gotten along well with the writers. He knew his position, so to speak, and he showed proper respect to everyone. It was true that his English occasionally caused miscommunications. Shasha had once declared that she didn’t trust him, but her remark could have been made for Chen’s benefit. Bao was perhaps the only one who had seriously complained about Little Huang, claiming that the interpreter curried favor with Chen. Even so, it would be hard to imagine that Bao or any of the others would have committed murder because of such grudges-unless there was something else between Little Huang and them that Chen didn’t know about.

In another scenario, Little Huang might have had an antidefection mission for the delegation. In that event, someone with such an intention might have panicked and killed Little Huang. But defection was less common in the nineties, and Chen didn’t see why any of his fellow writers would have any reason to do so.

Chen composed a fax requesting Little Huang’s detailed file from the Writers’ Association in Beijing. He also made a long-distance call to Fang Youliang, one of his former schoolmates now teaching at the Beijing Foreign Language University. Some interpreters were enlisted by the Foreign Liaison, Chen knew, as early as their freshman year. Fang promised to provide any information about Little Huang from the college.

Of course, there was one more direction, Chen reflected, but he didn’t want to think too much about it for the moment. It was already nearly six A.M. He reminded himself that there were more phone calls to make-as delegation head.