A Loyal Character Dancer

Chapter 12

The phone began ringing before her alarm went off. Rubbing her eyes, Catherine snatched up the receiver. It was her boss’s voice on the line, clear, familiar, though thousands of miles away. “Sorry to wake you, Catherine.”

“It’s okay.”

“How are things?”

“Lousy,” she said. “The Fujian police have made no progress. Here in Shanghai, we’ve not gotten any leads by interviewing Wen’s possible contacts.”

“You know the trial date. The INS has been driving us crazy.”

“Is it possible to postpone the trial?”

“Not a popular idea, I’m afraid.”

“Politics. Here, too. Is there any information about the gang that threatened Feng?”

“Feng has not heard from them again. We have taken your suggestion and are keeping him in the same place. If the gang has Wen, they will send another more explicit message to him.”

“The Chinese believe that the triad is looking for her but may not have her yet.”

“What’s your opinion of the Chinese?”

“The Shanghai Police Bureau or Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Well, both,” Spencer said.

“The bureau has made a point of treating me as a distinguished guest. Party Secretary Li Guohua, the bureau’s top official, is going to meet me today or tomorrow. A courtesy, I guess. As for Chief Inspector Chen, I would say he works conscientiously.”

“I’m glad to hear they treat you well, and your Chinese partner is a decent guy. Now about Chen, the CIA would like you to gather some information on him.”

“They want me to spy on him?”

“That is too strong a word, Catherine. Just pass on the information you happen to have about him. What people is he associated with? What cases does he handle? What books does he read and write? That kind of thing. The CIA has its own sources, but you are someone they can trust.”

She agreed but she did not like it.

Then the phone rang again. It was Chen.

“How are you this morning, Inspector Rohn?”

“Much better.”

“Your ankle?”

“The paste has worked. No problem today,” she said, rubbing her ankle, which still felt slightly tender.

“You scared me yesterday.” There was relief in his voice. “Are you up for another interview today?”

“Sure. When?”

“I have a meeting this morning. What about this afternoon?”

“Then I’ll do a little research in the Shanghai Library in the morning.”

“About Chinese secret societies?”

“Right.” In addition, she was going to collect some information about Chen. Not merely for the CIA.

“The library is also on Nanjing Road. A taxi will take you there in less than five minutes.”

“I’ll walk if it is so close.”

“That’s up to you. I’ll meet you at twelve in a restaurant opposite the library, across the street. The Verdant Willow Village. That’s the name of the restaurant.”

“See you then.”

After a quick shower, she left the hotel. She strolled along Nanjing Road, an extended shopping center, not only lined with shops on both sides, but also with rows of peddlers in front of the shops. She crisscrossed the street several times, lured by the interesting window displays. She had not done any shopping since her arrival.

At the intersection of Zhejiang Road, she had to resist the temptation to enter a vermilion restaurant with engraved pillars sustaining a yellow-glazed tile roof-an imitation of the ancient Chinese architectural style. A waitress dressed in the Qing dynasty costume bowed enticingly to the people passing by. Instead, Catherine bought a piece of sticky rice cake from one of curbside peddlers, nibbling it like the Shanghai girls walking in front of her. It was rather fashionable to talk about the Chinese people as natural capitalists, born wheelers and dealers, and to explain the economic boom in that way, but she believed it was their collective energy released after so many years of state economic control, being given the opportunity to do something for themselves for the first time, that had led to the transformation she saw around her.

And she encountered no more curious glances than she would have in St. Louis. Nor did she meet with any accident except shoulder-bumping and elbow-pushing as she squeezed past a crowded department store. She had been disturbed by the accidents in the last two days, but perhaps she had been clumsy from jet lag. She was well rested that morning. Soon she came in view of the library. She gave small change to beggars on the steps as she would have done in St. Louis.

As she entered the Shanghai Library, an English-speaking librarian came over to help. She had two subjects, the Flying Axes and Chen. To her surprise, Catherine found practically nothing on triads in their literature. Perhaps writing about those criminal activities was forbidden in contemporary China.

She found several magazines containing Chen’s poems and translations. And a few translations of mysteries under Chen’s name, too. Some of them she had read in English. What fascinated her was the stereotyped “translator preface” for each of the books. It consisted of an introduction giving the author’s background, a brief analysis of the story, and an invariable conclusion using political clichés-due to the author’s ideological background, the decadent values of the Western capitalist society cannot but be reflected in the text, and Chinese readers should be alert against such influence…

Absurd, and hypocritical too, but such hypocrisy might have accounted for his rapid rise.

The librarian stepped into the reading room with a new magazine. “Here is a recent interview with Chen Cao.”

There was a color picture of him in a black suit with a conservative tie, looking like an academic. In the interview, using T. S. Eliot as an example, Chen claimed that poetry should be written without the pressure of having to be a poet. He mentioned Louis MacNeice, who had to earn a living at another job. Chen acknowledged their influence on his poetry and mentioned the title of a poem suffused with melancholy. She found “The Sunlight on the Garden,” read it, and made copies. The CIA’s purpose was political, but Chen’s essay might throw more light on her Chinese partner as a human being. Eliot and MacNeice, Chen used their stories to justify his own career. She returned the material to the librarian.

As she left the library, she saw Chen waiting in front of the restaurant. Less scholarly-looking than in the magazine picture, he wore a black blazer with khaki pants. He took several steps across the street, met her halfway at the safety island, and led her into the restaurant. There, a hostess ushered them into a private room on the second floor.

She examined the bilingual menu. After reading a few lines, she pushed it over to him. She understood each of the characters, but not their combination. The English translation, or rather the transliteration, did not help much.

A waiter carried over a long-billed brass kettle and poured a graceful arc of water into her cup. In addition to the green tea leaves, there were also tiny pieces of red and yellow herbs at the bottom of the cup.

“Eight Treasure Tea,” Chen said. “Supposed to be potent for boosting your energy.”

She listened in amusement as he discussed the house specials with the waiter. He turned to ask her approval at intervals. A perfect escort, this chosen representative of the Shanghai Police Bureau.

“The name of the restaurant comes from a line of a Song dynasty poem, There’s a home deep in the verdant willows. I’ve forgotten the author.”

“But you remember the name of the restaurant.”

“Yes, that’s more important. As Confucius tells us, ‘You cannot be too fastidious in choosing your food.’ That’s the first lesson for a sinologist.”

“I guess you are a regular customer here,” she said.

“I’ve been here two or three times.” He ordered a South Sea bird’s nest soup with tree ears, oysters fried in spiced egg batter, a duck stuffed with a mixture of sticky rice, dates, and lotus seeds, a fish steamed live with fresh ginger, green onions, and dried pepper, and an exotic-sounding special whose name she did not catch.

After the waiter had withdrawn, she rested her eyes on him. “I’m just wondering-”

“Yes?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.” Several cold dishes appeared on the table, which gave her an excuse not to continue. She was curious as to how he had acquired all his epicurean knowledge. An ordinary Chinese chief inspector could not have afforded it. She realized she was already carrying out the CIA’s task, yet this did not spoil her appetite.

“I’m just wondering,” she said, “if our interviews here can lead anywhere. Wen seems to have totally cut herself off from her past. I can hardly see any possibility of her coming back to Shanghai after so many years.”

“We have just started. In the meantime, my temporary assistant Qian has been checking hotels as well as neighborhood committees.” He picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “We may hear something soon.”

“Do you think Wen could have afforded to stay in a hotel?”

“No. I think you’re right, Inspector Rohn. Feng has not sent any money home. His wife does not even have a bank account. So I have had Old Hunter look into cheap, unlicensed hotels as well.”

“Isn’t Old Hunter engaged with another case?”

“Yes, but I asked him to help with this case, too.”

“Any breakthrough in the other case?”

“Not much progress there either. It involves a body found in the park. Old Hunter has just identified the dead man’s pajama brand by the V pattern woven into the fabric.”

“Mmm, Valentino.” she said. “Now in our case, there’s another thing that troubles me. As far as we can tell, Wen has not yet made any effort to contact her husband. This does not make sense. Feng wanted her to run for her life, but not out of his life. She knows about the trial date, so if she didn’t know how to contact him she should have gotten in touch with the police. With each passing day, the possibility of her rejoining Feng before the trial becomes fainter. It’s the seventh day that she’s been missing.”

“That’s true. Things may be more complicated than we originally imagined.”

“What else can we do here?”

“This afternoon, we are going to interview another schoolmate of Wen’s, Su Shengyi.”

“The secret admirer in high school. A red guard cadre, now down and out, right?” She could not help being suspicious. This seemed a total waste of time.

“Yes, you’re right. One never forgets his first love. Su may know something.”

“After the visit, what? Am I supposed to remain at the hotel as a distinguished guest, shopping, sightseeing, and sharing these fantastic meals with you?”

“I’ll discuss it with Party Secretary Li.”

“Another straightforward answer?”

“Cheers.” He raised his teacup in a toast.

“Cheers,” Catherine said, raising her teacup. The tiny dried fruit, Chinese wolfberry, rose to the surface like a scarlet period. There was not much she could do with this Chinese partner, who responded to her sarcasm with an unruffled air. It amused her to toast with tea, though.

Another course arrived, bubbling in an earthenware pot. It looked different from American Chinatown specials. Its creamy gravy tasted like chicken broth, but the meat was unlike chicken. It had a jellied texture.

“What’s that?”

“Soft shell turtle.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ask first.” She caught the spark of amusement in his eyes. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? It’s the most expensive item on the menu.”

“And is a turtle also a fabled aphrodisiac in China?”

“That depends.” Chen helped himself to a substantial portion.

“Chief Inspector Chen!” She feigned shock.

“Today’s special.” The waiter was back with a white bowl containing what seemed to be large snails immersed in brownish juice, and a glass bowl of water.

Chen put his fingers into the bowl of water, wiped them with a napkin, and picked up one of the shells. She watched him sucking the meat out with an effort.

“It is luscious,” he said. “River spiral shells. Often translated as river snail. You eat it like a snail.”

“I have never had snails.”

“Really!” He took a bamboo toothpick, picked the meat out, and offered it to her on the end of the toothpick.

She should have refused. Instead, she leaned over the table and let him put it into her mouth. It tasted good, but the experience was slightly disquieting.

The Chinese cop was turning into a challenge. He seemed to fancy himself as a charmer.

“It tastes better if you suck the meat out yourself,” he said.

So she did. The meat came out together with the juice. It did taste better that way.

When the bill came, she tried to pay it, or at least her share. He refused. She protested, “I cannot let the Shanghai Police Bureau pay all the time.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He crumpled the receipt. “Can’t I buy a lunch for an attractive American partner?”

He seemed to be a man to whom compliments came easily. Perhaps it was cultural. Perhaps he had his orders.

He was pulling out the chair for her when his phone started to ring. He turned it on, and his face became serious as he listened. At the end of the call, he said, “I’ll be there.”

“What’s up?”

“We have a change in plans,” he said. “The call was from Qian Jun at the bureau. We’ve had a response to the missing person notice. A pregnant provincial woman has been reported working in a restaurant in Qingpu County, Shanghai. Apparently she’s from the south, speaking with a strong southern accent. “

“Could it be Wen?”

“If Wen boarded a train for Shanghai, it’s possible she changed her mind and got off there, one or two stops before Shanghai. Perhaps she did not want to bring trouble down on her people. So she found a job there instead of moving into a local hotel.”

“That makes sense to me.”

“I’m going to Qingpu,” Chen said. “It’s a long shot. Many people are pouring into Shanghai for jobs-even into the counties. So quite possibly it’s a false lead. There may be a lot of things that would be more interesting for you to do here, Inspector Rohn.”

“I wish I had something more interesting to do.” She put down her chopsticks. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll get a car at the bureau. Do you mind waiting for me here?”

“Not at all.” Still, she wondered: was he trying to keep her away from his office for some reason? She wished she could trust him, but knew she’d be a fool to do so.

She was surprised when Chen pulled up in a medium-size Shanghai. “So you’re driving today?”

“Little Zhou was not on the bureau car service rota. The other drivers were busy.”

“A high-ranking cadre like you,” she said, stepping into the car, “I thought you would always have a chauffeur at your service.”

“I’m not a high-ranking cadre. But thanks for the compliment.”