A Case of Two Cities

9

BUT CHIEF INSPECTOR CHEN did not have much time to follow the latest development in his investigation.

A cricket was still screeching in the fragmented dream of the early morning when the phone in his room shrilled. He rubbed his sleepy eyes in disorientation. It was a long-distance call from Chairman Wang Yitian, of the Chinese Writers’ Association in Beijing.

“Chief Inspector Chen, we have a very important assignment for you. You are going to serve as the head of the Chinese Writers’ Delegation for the America-China Literature Conference in Los Angeles next week-to be exact, the day after tomorrow.”

“You cannot be serious, Chairman Wang. For such a conference, I would need a lot of preparation. No way can I leave at such short notice,” Chen said, blinking in a crack of the sunlight that glared through the early summer trees. A peddler started hawking fried dough sticks in the first wave of heat. It was said the much-used oil might contain alum from the dough sticks, but he felt strangely hungry at the moment. “I have no idea what this conference is about.”

“We understand,” Wang said. “In fact, we’ve been talking about it with the Americans for months. Comrade Yang Jun had been chosen as the delegation head, but all of a sudden, he fell sick. We have to have someone to replace him.”

“But how can I replace him? Yang is a writer of international renown. There are so many better-known writers, senior and more qualified, in the Writers’ Association. Who’s the one after Yang in the delegation?”

“Bao Guodong. A senior working-class writer, but it would have been an international joke to appoint Bao as the head. He doesn’t speak English, nor has he any knowledge of American literature. Once, he made a point of calling Americans by the Chinese equivalent. So Dr. Hegel became Dr. Hei, which in Chinese could mean Dr. Black.”

“But it doesn’t have to be Bao. Anybody else can do it.”

“It’s a conference that a lot of people are watching. The first one between the two countries since 1989. Not simply any writer may fulfill the position.”

“What do you mean, Chairman Wang?”

“It’s an urgent matter of improving our international image. So it takes an experienced, talented, politically reliable writer like you to head the delegation. As a young Party cadre writer, you are the best candidate we can think of. A modernist poet and translator, you have an intimate knowledge of Western literature, and you have experience in receiving foreign writers. Besides, you can speak English to your American counterparts, while they cannot speak Chinese-a plus for our collective image. Of course, the appointment is not made just in consideration of one’s status as a writer.” Wang paused before moving on. “Politically, you have to know what to say, what not to say. As a representative of Shanghai Congress, you are surely qualified to head a government delegation.”

“I’m honored that you have thought of me,” Chen said, trying to come up with more official-sounding excuses, for he was disturbed by the timing of the assignment. “I’m too young and inexperienced. I don’t see that my Party position has anything to do with the assignment.”

“It has everything to do with it, Comrade Chen. You are a Party cadre, and I don’t think it necessary to discuss that part.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I am so popular, as you know, among old writers. So far, I have only published one poetry collection. That’s far from enough for a delegation head.”

“Many writers are not always easy to get along with, but you are not exactly one of their circle. That should help. I don’t think the old writers will make things hard for you.”

“Because of my law enforcement background?” Chen said alertly.

“You don’t have to think that way. But now that you have mentioned it, I don’t think it will be hard for you to enforce discipline-if need be.”

“To enforce discipline, indeed-”

“This is an assignment you cannot say no to, Comrade Chen Cao. It’s in the interests of the Party.”

“In the interests of the Party!” Chen ground out his cigarette in disgust, a gesture invisible to the chairman in Beijing.

There was no immediate response from the other end of the line. Wang might be waiting for him to go on. A small commotion seemed to be breaking out in the street. He looked out to see a dog barking in a red convertible stuck in the traffic congestion. For the first time, the word pet had become a reality in Chinese life. He had never before seen such a scene except in American movies.

“As you may or may not know,” Chen went on, “I’m engaged with a special investigation under the Party Discipline Committee.”

“We know. We’ve talked to several leading comrades here.”

“Oh, you have?” Chen said, not really surprised. For such an assignment, his background check might have been made by the very committee.

“They all have a high opinion of your work. Your temporary assignment is only for a couple of weeks, so they think it will not be a problem. By the way, Comrade Zhao Yan has left for Shanghai.”

“Really. Do you know why?”

“No, I don’t. Old comrades like Zhao usually go somewhere else in the summer. He will probably contact you too, I think.”

“I see,” he said, coming to the realization that it would be futile to argue any more. “I’ll call you back, Chairman Wang.”

Long after the phone conversation was over, he could not brush aside a feeling of uneasiness.

Could it really be a coincidence?

As a cop, he didn’t think so. But he didn’t think that Jiang could have orchestrated such a surprising move only one night after their talk. Besides, what was the point? Chief Inspector Chen would be back.