A Loyal Character Dancer

Chapter 25

Several hours later, Chen tried to reach Catherine by phone without success. Nevertheless, he went up to her room hoping to find her.

At his first knock, the door opened. She was wearing the scarlet silk robe embroidered with the golden dragon, barelegged and barefoot. She was drying her hair with a towel.

He was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

“Come on in.”

“Sorry to arrive so late,” he said. “I called you several times. I wasn’t sure you were in.”

“Don’t keep on apologizing. I was taking a shower. You are a welcome guest here, just as I am a distinguished guest of your bureau,” she said, motioning him to sit on the couch. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water, please.”

She went to the small refrigerator and came back with a bottle of spring water for him. “Something important has come up, I guess?”

“Yes.” He produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase.

“What’s that?” She took a quick look at the first few lines.

“A poem from Wen’s past.” He took a gulp from the bottle. “Sorry, it’s difficult to read my handwriting. I did not have the time to type it.”

She seated herself beside him on the couch. “Could you read it for me.”

As she leaned over to look at the poem, he thought he smelled the scent of the soap on her skin, still wet from the shower. Taking a breath, he started to read, in English:

“Fingertip Touching

We are talking in a jammed workshop

picking our way, and our words,

amid all the prizes, gold-plated statuettes

staring at the circling flies. ‘The stuff

for your newspaper report: miracles made

by Chinese workers,’ the manager says.

‘In Europe, special grinders alone

can do the job, but our workers’ finger-

polish the precision parts.’

Beside us, women bending over the work,

their fingers

shuttling under the fluorescent light,

My camera focusing on a middle-aged one,

pallid in her black homespun blouse

soaked in sweat. Summer heat overwhelms.

Zooming in, I’m shocked to see myself

galvanized into the steel part

touched by Lili’s fingertips,

soft yet solid

as an exotic grinder.

“Who is the reporter in the first stanza?” she asked with a puzzled expression.

“Let me explain after I finish.

Not that

Lili really touched me. Not she, the prettiest

leftist at the station, July, 1970.

We were leaving, the first group

of ‘educated youths,’

leaving for the countryside,

‘Oh, to be re-re-re-educated by

the po-or and lo-lo-wer middle class peasants!’

Chairman Mao’s voice screeched

from a scratched record at the station.

By the locomotive Lili

burst into a dance, flourishing

a red paper heart she had cut, a miracle

in the design of a girl and a boy

holding the Chinese character-loyal’

to Chairman Mao. Spring

of the Cultural Revolution wafted

through her fingers. Her hair streamed

into the dark eye of the sun.

A leap, her skirt

like a blossom, and the heart

jumped out of her hand, fluttering

like a flushed pheasant. A slip-

I rushed to its rescue, when she

caught it-a finishing touch

to her performance. The people

roared. I froze. She took my hand,

waving, our fingers branching

into each other, as if my blunder

were a much rehearsed act, as if

the curtain fell on the world

in a piece of white paper

to set off the red heart, in which

I was the boy, she, the girl.

‘The best fingers,’

the manager keeps me nodding. It’s she.

No mistake. But what can I say,

I say, of course, the convenient thing

to myself, that things change, as

a Chinese saying goes, as dramatically

as azure seas into mulberry fields,

or that all these years vanish-in a flick of your cigar.

Here she is, changed

and unchanged, her fingers

lathered in the greenish abrasive,

new bamboo shoots long immersed

in icy water, peeling, but

perfecting. She raises her hand, only

once, to wipe the sweat

from her forehead, leaving

a phosphorescent trail. She

does not know me-not even

with the Wenhui Daily’s reporter

name label on my bosom

‘No story,’

the manager says.

‘One of the millions

of educated youths, she has become

“a poor-lower-middle class peasant” herself,

her fingers-tough as a grinder,

but a revolutionary one, polishing up

the spirit of our society, speaking

volumes for our socialism’s superiority.’

So came a central metaphor

for my report.

An emerald snail

crawls along the white wall.

“A sad poem,” she murmured.

“A good poem, but the translation fails to do justice to the original.”

“The language is clear, and the story is poignant. I don’t see anything wrong with the English. It’s very touching indeed.”

“ ‘Touching’ is the very word. I had a hard time finding English equivalents. It is Liu Qing’s poem.”

“Who? Liu Qing?”

“That classmate of Wen’s-her brother Lihua mentioned him-the upstart who sponsored the reunion?”

“Yes. ‘The wheel of fortune turns so quickly.’ Zhu also mentioned him, saying he was a nobody in high school. Why is his poem suddenly so important to us?”

“Well, a poetry anthology was found in Wen’s house. I think I mentioned it to you.”

“It is mentioned in the file. Hold on, the revolutionary grinder, the commune factory, the workers polishing the parts with their fingers, and Lili-”

“Now you see. That’s why I want to discuss the poem with you tonight,” he said. “After parting with you, I called Yu. Liu Qing’s poem is in that anthology, and Yu faxed me a copy of it. The poem was first published five years ago in a magazine called Stars. Liu worked as a reporter for Wenhui Daily then. Like the speaker in the poem, he wrote about a model commune factory in Changle County, Fujian Province. Here is a copy of the newspaper report.” He produced a newspaper out of his briefcase. “Propaganda stuff. I had no time to translate it.

“Few bookstores-except in large cities-sell poetry now. It’s unimaginable that a poor peasant woman would go all the way from her village to buy a poetry collection.”

“Do you believe the poem tells a true story?”

“It’s difficult to say how much is true. The visit to Wen’s factory, as described in the poem, was coincidental. But Liu used the same metaphor in his newspaper story-a revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of the socialist society. It could have been part of the reason he quit his job.”

“Why? Liu did nothing wrong.”

“He should not have written such political baloney, but he did not have the guts to refuse. In addition, he must have felt guilty for having done nothing to help her.”

“I think I see your point now.” She perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. “If the story in the poem is a true one, Liu did not reveal his identity to her at the time, let alone offer help to her. That’s the meaning of the image of the emerald snail crawling at the end. It’s Liu’s guilt, a symbol of Liu’s regret.”

“Yes, a snail carries a burden forever. So the moment I finished translating the poem I hurried over.”

“What do you intend to do now?” she said.

“We must interview Liu. He may not have spoken to Wen then, but later he must have sent her a copy of the anthology, which she kept. And possibly there were other contacts between them, too.”

“Yes, possibly.”

“I’ve talked to people at the Wenhui Daily,” Chen said. “When Liu quit his job about five years ago and started a construction material company in Shanghai, he got several contracts from the Singapore government for the Suzhou New Industry Zone. Now he has two construction material factories and a timber yard in Suzhou, in addition to his company in Shanghai. I called Liu’s home this afternoon. His wife said that he was in Beijing negotiating a deal and would return to Suzhou tomorrow.”

“Are we going to Suzhou?”

“Yes. It’s a long shot. Party Secretary Li will have the train tickets delivered to the hotel tomorrow morning.”

“Party Secretary Li can be so efficient,” she said. “How early do we leave?”

“The train leaves at eight. We arrive in Suzhou about nine thirty. Li suggests that we spend a day or two there.”

He proposed vacationing as camouflage for their investigation. Li had readily approved of the plan.

“So we will be tourists,” she said. “Now, how did it occur to you to connect the poem with our investigation? I’ll make you a cup of coffee if you’ll tell me. Special coffee beans, from Brazil. A treat.”

“You’re learning the Chinese way fast. To exchange favors. The very essence of guanxi. But it’s late. We are leaving early tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. We can nap on the train.” She took a coffee grinder with a small bag of coffee beans from the closet, and looked for an outlet. “I know you like strong coffee.”

“Did you bring this coffee from America?”

“No, I bought it in the hotel. They provide every convenience. Look at the grinder. Krups.”

“Things are expensive in the hotel.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret of mine,” she said “We have a traveling allowance, the amount of which depends on the location. For Shanghai, I get ninety dollars a day. I do not consider myself extravagant if I use half a day’s allowance to entertain my host.”

She found an outlet behind the sofa. The cord was not long enough. She put the grinder on the carpet, plugged it in, and poured the beans into the grinder. Kneeling, she ground the coffee, revealing her shapely legs and feet.

Soon, the room was full of a pleasant fragrance. She poured a cup for him, put a small spoon for sugar, and milk, on the coffee table, and produced a piece of cake out of the refrigerator.

“What about yourself?” he said.

“I don’t drink coffee in the evening. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

She poured white wine for herself. Instead of sitting beside him on the couch, she returned to her position on the carpet.

Sipping at his coffee, he wondered if he should have declined, her offer. It was late. They were alone in her room. But the events of the day had been too much for him. He needed to talk. Not just as a police officer, but as a man-with a woman whose company he enjoyed.

He had conducted a thorough search of her hotel room. There had been no secret audio or video or taping equipment hidden. They should be safe. He was not so sure about this, however, after the day’s events, after Party Secretary Li’s information about Internal Security.

“The best coffee I’ve ever had,” he said.

She raised her glass. “To our success.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, clinking his mug against her glass. “About the poem. Oriole’s wet footprints disappearing along the street reminded me of a Song dynasty poem.”

“A Song dynasty poem?”

“It’s about the transience of one’s existence in this world- like the footprints left by a crane in the snow, visible only for one moment. Looking at her footprints, I tried to work out some lines. Then I thought of Wen. Among the people in her life, there is also a poet, Liu Qing.”

“It might be an important lead,” she said.

“At the moment we haven’t any others.”

“A fresh pot of coffee?”

“I’d rather have a glass of wine,” he said.

“Yes. You should not drink too much coffee in the evening.”

The fax machine in the room abruptly started emitting a long roll of paper, four or five pages. She took a look at the slightly tacky scroll without tearing it out of the machine.

“Just background information about the smuggling of immigrants. Ed Spencer did some research for me.”

“Oh, I learned something from Detective Yu,” he said. “The Flying Axes have requested assistance from other triads. One of them may be active in Shanghai.”

“No wonder,” she said simply.

That might account for the accidents here, perhaps even the raid on the market, but there was still a lot left unanswered.

She took a long drink, emptying her glass. His still remained half full. As she bent to pour herself more wine, he thought he glimpsed the swell of her breasts through the opening of her robe.

“We’re leaving early. It is such a long way for you to go back home-”

“Yes, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning.” He got to his feet.

Instead of moving to the door, he took a couple of steps toward the window. The night breeze was sweet. The reflection of the neon signs lining the Bund rippled on the river. The scene seemed to lie before them like the world in a dream.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, coming to his side at the window.

A short spell of silence ensued. Neither said anything. It was enough for him to feel her closeness, looking out to the Bund.

And then he caught sight of the park and the darkling riverfront-swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight / where ignorant armies clash by night-a scene experienced by another poet, at another time, in another place, with someone standing by him.

The thought of the unsolved case of the park victim sobered him.

He had not talked to Gu, or to Old Hunter that day.

“I really have to go,” he said.