A Case of Two Cities

22

BY EIGHT THIRTY. EVERYBODY in the delegation had heard about the tragic death of Little Huang.

The telephone kept ringing in Chen’s room like a funeral bell.

Bao was the first to come rushing into his room, declaring in a thundering voice, “It’s absolutely unacceptable. How could something like that have happened to a Chinese delegation? We have to hold the Americans fully responsible.”

“They have been working on the case,” Chen said. “I met with a local cop assigned to the case last night.”

“We have to inform the Chinese embassy of the case.”

“I’ve already done that. The embassy people are contacting Huang’s family. They may fly over as early as tomorrow.”

“We have to report this to the Foreign Ministry in Beijing. It’s a serious diplomatic incident.”

“Yes, we’ll do that, but the embassy must have notified Beijing.”

“Now what are we supposed to do here?” Shasha cut in, in her terry robe and slippers, her toenails painted like blood.

“We may have to stay here for the time being. To cooperate with the police. The American investigators will come for our statements.”

“That’s absurd,” Zhong said, striding into the room. “The American government has invited us over. One of us was murdered here, and we are going to make statements to their cops?”

“Don’t worry about the statement. Nothing but routine questions. It doesn’t mean that you are a suspect.” Chen added, “That’s also the opinion of the Chinese embassy-that we should cooperate in whatever way possible.”

“In addition to giving statements,” Zhong said, “what else can we possibly do?”

“It will be hard to continue the delegation activities as scheduled. The news must have attracted negative media attention and the university is concerned about it. So we’ll wait until further notice. In the meantime, we have to be careful.”

“Who will serve as our interpreter then?” Shasha said.

“I’ll help as much as I can,” Chen said. “I’ll talk to the Americans about it.”

Chen spent the next half hour making phone calls, making explanations, and making notes whenever he had a minute. The two local institutions originally responsible for the day’s activities were universities. One of them, Washington University, with a Chinese department, promised to send over help for interpretation.

Shortly before nine, the front desk called up, saying Detective Jonathan Lenich had arrived at the hotel in the company of a new interpreter. They were both waiting in the lobby. Chen and Bao immediately went downstairs.

“Oh, you must be Mr. Chen Cao,” a young blond woman in a white blouse and blue jeans stood up, speaking in Chinese. “I am Catherine Rohn. The university sent me over as your new interpreter. You speak English too, I know.”

“Oh, Catherine-” Chen was practically speechless at the meeting, before he realized her self-introduction in Chinese was not meant for him. “Thank you for your help, Miss Rohn.”

It was clever of her to have announced her temporary identity as an interpreter-escort. There must have been a reason for her to be sent over in that capacity. It was a sensitive case; at least so it must have seemed to some people here. Otherwise a marshal wouldn’t have been dispatched incognito.

For Chen, there was no point revealing their former relationship, either, though it could be the very reason that she was assigned here. It would have led to unnecessary speculation among the Chinese. For the moment, it was nothing but business. He’d better not mention anything to her, not even in English.

Whatever the reason was, she was someone he thought he could trust. But then again was he really so sure-after all the silence?

“You must have heard of the situation,” Bao started sternly. Because of the linguistic barrier, he had been unable to say anything as the Party secretary of the delegation. A barrage of questions came from Bao, but they were neither here nor there. It was hard for her to answer them-or not to answer them.

“I’ve heard there was an accident,” she said, handing over her business card to Bao. “ Washington University called me early this morning to provide interpretation service, but they did not tell me anything else. You will have to speak to Detective Lenich about it.”

“She is a temporary interpreter,” Chen said to Bao, glancing at the bilingual business card, which declared her as a senior interpreter from a local translation agency. “We don’t have to discuss the case with her.”

Catherine translated his remark to the detective.

“I’m in charge of the case,” Lenich said. “You can discuss it with me.”

But Bao’s questions sounded too official, as if echoing from his office in Beijing. Talking about responsibility did not help at this stage, Chen thought. With Bao occupied with his official talk, however, he stole another glance at Catherine. She looked hardly changed from his memory-tall, slender, her face animated with an inner glow, and her hair cascading halfway to her shoulders. But in that instant, he thought he also saw one tiny difference. The color of her eyes appeared to be brown instead of blue, though as serene, vivid as he had remembered. Because of the sunlight in the hotel lobby?

It is difficult to meet. A line from Li Shangyin came to assume a different meaning. Difficult not so much in terms of distance, but what to say to each other at the moment of their meeting? Perhaps just like in that Tang dynasty poem: what is not said speaks much more than what is said.

She was busy translating for Bao and Lenich, occasionally looking back at him with a familiar yet not so familiar smile.

Other writers came down. They, too, started questioning the Americans. She had a hard time interpreting for all of them.

“I like China. Not too long ago, I made a trip to your wonderful country. I had a memorable experience with an excellent escort. So I will do my best. Trust me.”

She made the statement for him, he knew. It was also a reassuring one for the other writers, who now had to depend on an American instead of Little Huang.

“An unlucky trip from the very beginning. Doomed,” Zhong commented. “Remember the unexpected health problem of Yang? Problems even before the beginning of the trip.”

Chen tried to talk more with Detective Lenich, but it was difficult for them with others continuously cutting in. The hotel manager approached them. A group of agitated Chinese talking in the lobby did not present a pleasant scene, especially with the prospect of journalists coming over soon. So the manager offered to provide them a conference room with a small enclave attached to it.

“You have a lot to do, Miss Rohn, with so many Chinese writers on your hands,” Chen said before moving into the cubicle with his American counterpart. “I’m glad you are here. We appreciate all you are doing for us.”

“Call me Catherine. I’d love to help, Mr. Chen.”

The discussion with Detective Lenich did not produce anything new. The American cop held onto his earlier assumption: it was a street homicide case, in which the victim happened to be a Chinese delegation member. He had his assistant checking the alibis of the possible suspects in the area, and he wanted to start interviewing the writers in the hotel.

So the writers had to come in, one by one, to give a statement. Zhong was the first interviewee and Catherine followed him in. Chen and the rest of the delegation remained in the larger room. They did not talk much. Chen made several more phone calls. Eventually, Zhong emerged with a livid face. Then it was Bao’s turn. Presently Chen heard loud voices from the smaller room. Catherine must have had a hard time interpreting so, after a while, Chen went in too. For Detective Lenich, it might be a matter of formality, but Bao fought back by talking about the Americans’ responsibility all the time. Chen’s effort to intervene was far from successful.

Unable to break the impasse between the two, Chen recommended a pause.

“Well, it’s time to have a lunch break,” he suggested.

“Let’s eat here,” Bao said. “It’s not safe outside the hotel, is it? There is a Chinese carry-out down at the mall. They’ll deliver.”

With a sideways look at Chen, Catherine translated Bao’s suggestion selectively. Chen and Lenich agreed to the idea of having Chinese food delivered to the conference room. When Chen spoke to the writers, however, Shasha asked if they could have lunch in their respective rooms instead and take a short break afterward.

After briefly conferring with Lenich, Chen agreed. “You can all head back to your rooms,” Chen said. “I’ll stay here with the Americans.”

When the food was delivered, Detective Lenich decided to take his back to his office, promising to return in an hour. Catherine and Chen were left alone in the room, the long conference table between them. He sat with a portion of sweet and sour shrimp with walnuts, and she, a portion of Chinese barbequed pork. Their moment alone overwhelmed them in awkward silence.

“How did you come to be an interpreter today?” Chen asked, disposable chopsticks in his hand.

“I’ve been studying Chinese for years,” Catherine said. She sounded not so pleased with his question-the first of their reunion. “You didn’t tell me about your visit.”

“I tried-several times-but either your line was busy, or others interrupted. There are delegation regulations, you know. Yesterday afternoon I called you again, but I got your machine. I didn’t leave a message because I forgot my room number.”

“You weren’t calling from your hotel room?” she asked sharply. Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “I thought you must have forgotten about me.”

“No. Of course not, but I did wonder if it was a good idea for me to contact you, being what I am.”

“That’s so considerate of you,” she said, taking a drink from her cup. “Anyway, they approached me for information about you-being what you are.

“Oh, they… I should have realized that.”

“As the delegation head, you must have a lot of responsibilities-special responsibilities, since you were appointed on such short notice.”

“Oh? You heard about that? You know a lot-” Chen stopped midsentence.

They were certainly being mistrustful of each other again, he thought, just as they were the first time they met in Shanghai. It wasn’t difficult for him to pick up that much.

Still, how would he react in her position?

But there was something she hadn’t told him either. Surely, she wasn’t assigned to the Chinese delegation just because of the homicide case.

“I’ve missed you,” he resumed on a different note. “You remember Mr. Gu of the Dynasty Karaoke Club, where you were introduced as my girlfriend?”

“Yes, I remember. That sly businessman.”

“I talked to him about you, and he wanted me to bring you something- to my ‘beautiful American girlfriend.’ It’s in my room upstairs.”

“What did you say to him about me?”

But before he could respond, they were interrupted by Bao, who returned carrying a large portion of fried dumplings, declaring he had more questions for her.

“Comrade Bao is a well-known Chinese writer, as well as the Party secretary of our delegation,” Chen said by way of explanation, barely able to conceal the frustration in his voice. It was no surprise that Bao showed off his official responsibility from time to time, but he seemed to make a point of not letting Chen out of his sight for very long. It was all the more exasperating now with Catherine here. “He has to show his concern for the case-even during the lunch break.”

“When a case like this happens,” she said, “everybody must be concerned.”

“Really. What is the American government’s response?” Bao said. “How could you have allowed this to happen to a Chinese delegation?”

“There’s no point repeating these questions to her, Bao. How can she answer for the American government? She’s been busy working all morning,” Chen said curtly. “Catherine, if you want, I’ll show you to my room and you can take a short break there.”

But his room was still being examined by two American cops. Little Huang had taken a bath there before stepping out. Chen had to think of some other excuse for them to be alone.

“We’d better speak to the hotel security,” he said. “I am not familiar with the hotel management here. You have to help me, Catherine.”

“Let’s do that,” she said.

But that didn’t work out either. His cell phone rang. It was a call from the Foreign Ministry in Beijing. A call of diplomatic formalities, but he had to listen and answer attentively. She stood at a distance, leaning against the wall with her ankles crossed, the same way she did back at the Peace Hotel in Shanghai. Then Detective Lenich returned to the hotel, wanting to speak with Chen again. Then Shasha showed up in the lobby and started to talk to Catherine.

As it turned out, the American cop had a new scenario: the murderer was a delegation insider, or at least was connected to an insider. Detective Lenich’s theory was based on a detailed analysis of the crime location. He took out a city map and started drawing red and blue lines across it. It was not uncommon for a tourist to stroll around upon arrival in a new city, but usually not very far. A couple of blocks, a breath of fresh air, and a first glimpse of the city landmarks. The hotel location made such a supposition quite plausible. The hotel opened onto Market Street, a prosperous street in the downtown area, with the Arch not far away to the east. It was reasonable to assume that Little Huang got out to Market Street and turned right in the direction of the Arch. But his body was found on a shady street quite a distance from the hotel, farther to the south. As a tourist, how could Huang have ended up in such a desolate area? He might have gotten lost, but with so many high buildings nearby, it was hard to imagine he would have strayed so far in that direction.

Based on that analysis, Inspector Lenich developed a new theory. Huang might not have been murdered on that shady side street, but rather somewhere closer to the hotel. As further evidence for this, foreign fibers were found on his clothes, possibly from a car in which his body had been moved.

Lenich had a point. This could be a far more complicated case. Chen also realized that there was something unusual about the trip-not just concerning Little Huang, but other members of the delegation as well.

Bao, for instance, seemed to be following Chen in a mysterious way. Bao had been grumbling about Chen being in charge, but that could hardly account for him spying on Chen. Shasha, too, puzzled Chen with her inscrutable inquisitiveness. And Peng, with his baffling reticence. Indeed, why was he included in the group? He hardly wrote anymore, or even talked like a writer. Was his presence simply symbolic? As for Zhong, he made a point of calling back to China. Supposedly to his old wife in Nanjing, but once, when consulting Chen about the instructions on the back of the phone card, he let slip the area code, revealing that his call went to Beijing instead. Any one of them could have been entrusted with a secret mission unknown to Chen, the delegation head appointed at the last minute.

He didn’t discuss any of this with Detective Lenich, yet it made sense, Chen agreed, for the American to check the Chinese writers’ alibis-except Chen himself. Someone in the bookstore had already confirmed that Chen was reading and drinking coffee during that time period. He remembered Chen as being the only Chinese there, that he spoke “slightly quaint English with an accent.”

The other delegation members were not so lucky. Shasha was the one who followed Huang in the sequence of using Chen’s bathroom. She had only her own word that she hadn’t seen him since. Bao claimed that he went to the Chinese buffet restaurant, spending about two hours there because of “eating as much as you can.” Afterward he chatted with the buffet owner, yet the latter couldn’t remember when Bao arrived at the restaurant. Peng said that he took a nap as soon as he checked in, sleeping until the time of the political study. While it sounded plausible for a man of his age, no one could prove it. Zhong maintained that he strolled around the shopping mall before eating at the Chinese Express. No one there remembered seeing him, with customers coming and going all the time, and Zhong did not see Chen or Bao.

So Detective Lenich had a lot to do, following up on his new direction.

It was not until after five that the American cop finished talking with the writers. Chen, too, felt obliged to talk to the delegation. A speech of formalities, though not a long one.

“We have to be more careful,” Chen said. “To ensure the safety of the delegation, we have to reemphasize our disciplines. And I want to repeat a few of them: Do not go out by yourself. Do not go out without reporting to the delegation head. Do not meet with unknown people. In addition, turn in your passports, so they will be under my special care.”

These were not new rules. During the early stage of China ’s first opening its door, Chinese delegations abroad had to follow the rules literally. A considerable number of people defected then, either by disappearing or seeking political asylum. So they were supposed to go out only in groups, with one watching another, and with their passports under the care of the delegation head. But things had since improved. Most of the delegations were made up of those doing well in China. They would be unlikely to gamble on an uncertain future overseas.

“If you have any questions, you can ask our interpreter, Catherine Rohn,” Chen concluded. “She has been doing a great job for us.”

“But what do we do in the evening?” Shasha said. “She won’t be here with us all the time.”

It was a good point, so Chen requested that Catherine stay with them at the hotel, at least for one or two days. It appeared to be a very reasonable request. Chen himself was busy with many things, and there needed to be an interpreter around for the Chinese writers.

She agreed quietly. “It’ll save me downtown traffic in the morning.”

The hotel manager cooperated promptly. Instead of giving her the room Huang had occupied, he promised her another one on the same floor as the delegation. Chen was pleased with the arrangement. Perhaps later, after the delegation political study, he would run into her in the corridor.

And he did, only earlier. As the delegation was having their evening political study, Catherine called into Chen’s room.

“Miss Rohn wants me to come and discuss tomorrow’s activity,” Chen said to the delegation at the end of the phone conversation. “Americans like to stick to their schedules.”

“That’s true,” Shasha said. “They have to cook with the recipe in their hands. No improvisation or imagination. But she is so attractive, and speaks good Chinese too.”

To his surprise, Chen found Detective Lenich in Catherine’s room. Her true identity, as a U.S. marshal, was no longer being kept from the American investigator. She was dressed in shorts, sandals, and a light yellow T-shirt. She must have taken a shower, her hair still wet. She started making a fresh pot of coffee for Chen.

Detective Lenich elaborated on his theory. “The murder was a collaboration between an outsider and an insider. An insider to point out the target, and an outsider with a car to move the body. My colleagues have made a more thorough search of Huang’s room. Nothing there matched the fiber found on his clothes, and the bus in which the delegation traveled to St. Louis is equipped with imitation leather seats.”

But this theory opened up a number of new questions, Chen observed. For such collaboration, the plan must have been made far in advance. That afternoon, the delegation was originally scheduled to arrive for lunch at the hotel, but, because of a traffic accident along the highway, they arrived several hours late. Then there was the unforeseeable factor of Little Huang’s bath in his room. So the outsider in Detective Lenich’s conspiracy theory would have had to wait hours outside of the hotel, and the insider-a delegation member-would have had to be there too, see Little Huang walking out, and point him out to the murderer. And during that time period, there must have been some contact between the insider and outsider.

Lenich had checked with the hotel phone service. Nothing. It was no surprise, Chen thought. He himself had made a point of not using the hotel phone except for official business. For such a murderous conspiracy, the hotel phone would have been unacceptable. The only phone calls Detective Lenich had discovered were from Shasha’s to Chen’s room. And another one from the lobby house phone-possibly a wrong number, since no one spoke when it bounced back from Chen’s room to the hotel operator.

“A room-to-room call,” Detective Lenich commented. “It was around five-forty. No one picked up. It proves only one thing. Little Huang must have stepped out of the room by that time. Incidentally, that also rules out Shasha as a suspect.”

They then discussed the delegation activity for the next day. Lenich thought the Chinese writers had better remain in the hotel, but Chen said that they had been complaining. It would be hard to keep them in for another long frustrating day.

“Let’s go to the Arch,” Catherine suggested. “It’s close to the hotel. If there is any new development, Detective Lenich can come over.”

Lenich and Chen left her room around ten-thirty. She walked them to the door with a wan smile. It had been a long, exhausting day, and she looked pale in the corridor light. Chen then accompanied the American cop to the hotel’s front gate.

Back in his room, he found several fax pages about Little Huang from the Chinese Writers’ Association. The information from the official channels showed nothing suspicious in his background. He didn’t start working for the association immediately after graduation; he was assigned to teach a middle school. He got the job at the Writers’ Association when another interpreter suddenly quit. He was reliable and easy to get along with; though not a Party member, he was given the opportunity to serve as interpreter for delegations visiting abroad. This was Huang’s third trip out of China. The last page of the fax also detailed a change in the arrangements for Little Huang’s family’s trip to the U.S. His father had suffered a severe heart attack upon learning the news.

There was also a fax from Fang, his former schoolmate at the Beijing Foreign Language University. It provided more background information about Huang in his college years. A hardworking student from a poor family in Anhui Province, he had worked as a TA for a professor and as a part-time English tutor over weekends. In his student years, Huang hardly had any time for political activities. “He also liked poetry,” Fang added in conclusion, “like you. I think that’s why he went to work for the Writers’ Association.”

Around eleven-thirty, a call came from Catherine.

“Sorry to phone you so late, Mr. Chen,” she said. “I hope you’re not in bed yet.”

“No. I’m not. I thought about calling you too, but a fax came in.”

“I just wanted to double-check our schedule. Eight-thirty tomorrow morning, right?”

“Yes, eight-thirty. Down in the lobby.”

“It’s the first interpreter-escort experience for me. I don’t want to let our Chinese writers down.”

“You are so conscientious.”

“Detective Lenich is an experienced investigator. Don’t worry. Whatever I can do, let me know.” She added, “It’s been a hectic day. Don’t stay up too late.”

“No, I won’t. You take good care of yourself too.”

Nothing but business talk between a Chinese delegation head and an American interpreter. Both knew their telephone lines might be tapped.

Still, she didn’t have to make the call.

Afterward, he looked out of the window, thinking of a Tang dynasty poem Ezra Pound had also translated. He might include it in his talk on the translation of classical Chinese poetry, if he was going to give another one during the remaining days of the visit.