A Loyal Character Dancer

Chapter 26

The train arrived on time. At nine thirty it pulled into Suzhou.

In a side street a few blocks from the railway station, Inspector Rohn took a fancy to a small hotel. With its latticed windows, vermilion-painted verandah, and a pair of stone lions guarding the gate, it gave the appearance of antiquity.

“I do not want to stay in a Hilton here,” she said.

Chen agreed. He did not want to notify the Suzhou Police Bureau of their arrival. For a stay of a couple of days, one place was as good as another. And a hotel tucked away in the old section of the city would be a less likely destination for them, should anyone try to trace them. He had exchanged tickets for Hangzhou provided by Party Secretary Li at the station without telling anyone that they were headed for Suzhou.

The hotel was originally a large Shiku-style house, whose facade was covered with old-fashioned designs. A short line of flat colored stones were laid across the minuscule front yard as a walkway. The manager hemmed and hawed, showing no eagerness for their company, and finally admitted, shamefacedly, that the hotel was not meant for foreigners.

“Why?” Catherine asked.

“In accordance with the city tourism regulations, only hotels with three stars can accommodate foreigners.”

“Don’t worry.” Chen produced his I.D. “It’s a special situation.”

Still, there was only one “high-class room” available, which was assigned to Catherine. Chen had to stay in an ordinary room.

The manager kept apologizing as he led them upstairs to Chen’s room first. It had space only for a single hard-board bed. There was nothing else in it. Outside, along the corridor, the manager showed them a couple of public bathrooms: one for men, one for women. Chen would have to make his phone calls from the front desk in the lobby downstairs. Catherine’s room was equipped with air-conditioning, telephone, and an adjoining bathroom. There was also a desk with a chair, but both were so small that they looked like they had come from an elementary school. The room was carpeted though.

After the manager excused himself amid profuse apologies, they seated themselves, Chen on the only chair, and Catherine on the bed.

“Sorry about my choice, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said, “but you can use this phone.”

Chen dialed Liu’s home.

A woman answered the phone, speaking with a distinct Shanghai accent. “Liu’s still in Beijing. He will be back tomorrow. The airplane arrives at eight thirty in the morning. Would you like to leave a message?”

“I’ll call back tomorrow.”

Catherine had unpacked. “So what are we going to do?”

“As that Chinese proverb says, we will enjoy ourselves in this earthly paradise. There are many gardens here. Suzhou is known for its garden architecture-pavilions, ponds, grottoes, bridges, all laid out to create a leisurely and comfortable ambiance, which reflected the taste of the scholarly and official class during the Qing and Ming dynasties.” Chen produced a Suzhou map. “The gardens are very poetic, with meandering bridges, moss-covered trails, gurgling brooks, fantastic-shaped rocks, ancient messages hanging from the eaves of the vermilion pavilions, all contributing to an organic whole.”

“I can no longer wait, Chief Inspector Chen. Choose a destination for me. You’re the designated guide.”

“We’ll visit the gardens, but can you first give your humble guide half a day’s leave?”

“Of course. Why?”

“My father’s grave is in Gaofeng County. It’s not far away, about one hour by bus. I have not visited it for the last few years. So I would like to go there this morning. It’s just after the Qingming festival.”

“Qingming festival?”

“The Qingming festival comes on April fifth, a day traditionally reserved for worshipping at ancestral graves,” he explained. “There are a couple of gardens near here. The well-known Yi Garden is within walking distance. You could visit it this morning. I’ll return before noon. Then we can have a Suzhou-style lunch at the Xuanmiao Temple Bazaar. I’ll be at your service for the whole afternoon.”

“You should go there. Don’t worry about me.” She then added, “Why is your father’s grave in Suzhou-I’m just curious.”

“Shanghai’s overcrowded. So cemeteries were developed in Suzhou. Some old people believe in Feng Shui-they want a gravesite with a view of mountains and rivers. My father chose the site himself. Then we moved his casket here. I’ve visited it only two or three times.”

“We’ll go to the temple in the afternoon, but I don’t want to walk by myself in the morning. Such a beautiful city,” she said with an impish glint in her blue eyes. “To whom shall I speak / of this ever enchanting landscape?”

“Oh, you still remember Liu Yong’s lines!” Chen refrained from explaining that the Song dynasty poet had composed those lines to his lover.

“So, can I go with you?”

“You mean to the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“No, I cannot ask you to do that. It is too much of a favor to ask of you.”

“Is it against the Chinese custom for me to go there?”

“No, not necessarily,” Chen said, deciding not to tell her that one took only his wife or fiancée to a parent’s grave.

“Then let’s go there. I’ll just be a moment.” She went to wash and change.

While waiting, he dialed Yu, but got only Yu’s voice mail. He left a message and his cell phone number.

She emerged, wearing a white shirt, light gray blazer, and a slim matching skirt. Her hair was pinned back.

He suggested they take a taxi to the cemetery. She wanted to take the bus. “I would like to spend a day like an ordinary Chinese person.”

He did not think she could really succeed. Nor did he like the idea of having her bumped about in an overcrowded bus. Luckily, a few blocks from the hotel, they saw a bus with a sign saying cemetery express. The fare was twice as much, but they got on without any trouble. The bus was not so much packed with passengers, as with what they carried-wicker baskets of cooked dishes, plastic bags of instant food, bamboo briefcases probably laden with paper “ghost” money, and half-broken cardboard boxes bound around with strings and ropes to keep their contents from spilling out. They squeezed into the seat just behind the driver, which afforded them the small space underneath the driver’s seat in which to stretch their legs. She handed the driver a pack of cigarettes-a souvenir of her status as a “distinguished guest” at the Peace Hotel. The driver grinned back at them.

Despite the open windows, the air in the bus was stuffy, and the seat’s imitation leather covering felt hot. There was a mixed smell of sweating human bodies, salted fish, meat soaked in wine, and every other offering imaginable. Nevertheless, Catherine appeared to be in high spirits, chatting with a middle-aged woman across the aisle, examining other passengers’ offerings with great interest. Above the cacophony of voices, a song was broadcast via invisible speakers. The singer, popular in Hong Kong, warbled in a high-pitched voice. Chen recognized the lyrics: a ci poem written by Su Dongpo. It was an elegy for Su’s wife, but it could be read in a more general way. Why had the cemetery bus driver chosen that particular ci for the trip? The market economy worked everywhere. Poetry, too, had become a product.

Chief Inspector Chen did not believe in an afterlife but, under the influence of the music, he wished there were one. Would his father recognize him, he wondered. So many years-

Soon they were in sight of the cemetery. Several old women were coming toward them from the foot of the hill. Wearing white towel hoods, they were clothed in dark homespun, even darker somehow than the ravens in the distance. This was a scene he had witnessed during his last visit.

He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go quickly.”

But it was difficult for her to do so. His father’s grave was somewhere halfway up the hill. The path was overgrown with weeds. The paint on the direction signs had faded. Several steps were in bad repair. He had to slow down, pushing his way through the overhanging pines and rambling briars. She nearly stumbled.

“Why are some characters on the tombstones red, and some black?” she asked, as she picked her way carefully among the stones.

“The names in black indicate those already dead, and the names in red indicate those still alive.”

“Isn’t this bad luck for the living?”

“In China, husband and wife are supposed to be buried together under the same tombstone. So after one’s death, the other will have the tombstone erected with the couple’s names both engraved on it-one in black, and one in red. When both of them pass away, their children will put their coffins-or cinerary urns-together and repaint all the characters in black.”

“This must be a time-honored custom.”

“Also a disappearing one. The family structure is no longer so stable here. People get divorced or remarried. Only a handful of old people still follow this tradition.”

Their talk was interrupted as the black-attired old women reached them. They must have been in their seventies or even older, though they shuffled their bound feet steadily forward. He was amazed-such old people, moving with such difficulty, on such a hazardous mountain path. They were carrying candles, incense, paper ghost money, flowers, as well as cleaning implements.

One of them wobbled over on her bound feet, pushing a paper model of a “ghost” house at him. “May your ancestors protect you!”

“Oh, what a beautiful American wife!” another exclaimed. “Your ancestors underground are grinning from ear to ear.”

“Your ancestors bless you!” the third prayed. “You two have a wonderful future together!”

“You’ll make tons of money abroad!” the fourth predicted.

“No.” He kept shaking his head at the chorus in Suzhou dialect, which Catherine did not understand, fortunately.

“What are they saying?” she asked.

“Well, lucky words to please us, so we will buy their offerings or give them money.” He bought a bouquet of flowers from an old woman. The flowers did not look so fresh. Possibly they had been taken from somebody else’s grave. He did not say anything. Catherine bought a bunch of incense.

As he finally located his father’s grave, the old women carrying brooms and mops rushed over to clean the tombstone. One of them produced a brush pen and two small cans of paint, and started repainting the characters with red and black paint. This was done as a service, for which he had to pay. It was partially because of Catherine, he thought. Those old women must have assumed he was immensely rich, with an American wife.

He brushed away the remaining dust from the tombstone. She took several pictures. It was thoughtful of her. He would show those pictures to his mother. After sticking the incense in the ground and lighting it, she came to stand beside him, imitating his gesture, with her palms pressed in front of her heart.

What would be the late Neo-Confucian professor’s reaction to this sight-his son, a Chinese cop, with an American woman cop?

Closing his eyes, he tried to have a moment of silent communion with the dead. He had let the old man down terribly, at least in one aspect. The continuation of the family tree had been one of his father’s highest concerns. Standing by the grave, still a bachelor, the only defense Chief Inspector Chen could make for himself was that in Confucianism, one’s responsibility to the country was considered more important than anything else.

This was not, however, the meditative interlude he had expected. The old women started their chorus again. To make things worse, a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed around them, huge, black, monstrous mosquitoes that intensified their bloodthirsty assault to the chorus of the white-haired ones’ blessings.

In a short while, he suffered a couple of vicious bites, and noticed Catherine scratching her neck.

She produced a bottle from her handbag and sprayed it on his arms and hands, then rubbed some on his neck. The mosquito spray, an American product, did not discourage the Suzhou mosquitoes. They lingered, buzzing.

Several other old women loomed up from another direction.

They had to leave, he concluded. “Let’s go.”

“Why in such a hurry?”

“The atmosphere is mined. I don’t think I will have a moment’s peace here.”

When they reached the bottom of the hill, they ran into another problem. According to the cemetery bus schedule, they would have to wait there for another hour.

“There are several bus stops on Mudu Road, but it would take us at least twenty minutes to reach the nearest one.”

A truck pulled up beside them. The driver stuck his head out the window. “Need a lift?”

“Yes. Are you going to Mudu?”

“Come on. Twenty Yuan for you both,” the driver said, “but only one can sit inside with me.”

“You go ahead, Catherine,” he said. “I’ll sit in the back.”

“No. We’ll both sit in the back.”

Stepping onto the tire, he swung himself over into the back of the truck and pulled her up. There were several used cardboard boxes in the flatbed. He turned one inside out and offered it to her as a seat.

“It’s the first time for me,” she said, cheerfully, stretching out her legs. “When I was a kid, I wanted to sit in the back of a truck just like this. My parents never allowed it.”

She slipped off her shoes and rubbed her ankle.

“Still hurts? I’m so sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

“Here you go again. Why?”

“The mosquitoes, these old women, the trail, and now the truck ride.”

“No, this is the real China. What’s wrong?”

“These old women must have cost you a small fortune.”

“Don’t be too hard on them. There are poor people everywhere. The homeless in New York, for instance. So many of them. I’m not rich, but giving away my change won’t bankrupt me.”

Her clothes were all rumpled, sweat-soaked, and her shoes were off. Looking at her, seated on a cardboard box, he realized how much more she was than merely vivacious and attractive. She had a radiance.

“It’s so kind of you,” he said. Still, it was not appropriate for him, as a Party member, to show an American the poverty of China’s rural areas, even though she had told him about the homeless in New York. He was anxious to resume his role as a guide. “Look, the Liuhe Pagoda!”

The truck pulled up a few blocks ahead of Guanqian Road, where the Xuanmiao Temple was located. Sticking his head out of the window, the driver said, “I can’t go any farther. We’re at the center of the city now. The police will stop me for letting people sit in back. Don’t worry about catching a bus. You can walk from here to Guanqian Road.”

Chen jumped out of the truck first. Bikes were racing by him. Seeing the hesitation in her eyes, he reached out his arms. She let him lift her down.

The magnificent Taoist temple on Guanqian Road soon came in view. In front of it, they saw a bazaar consisting of food vendors as well as a variety of other booths selling local products, knickknacks, paintings, paper cutouts, and small things not readily available in general stores.

“It’s more commercialized than I expected.” She gladly accepted a bottle of Sprite he bought for her. “I suppose it’s inevitable.”

“It’s too close to Shanghai to be much different. All the tourists don’t help,” he said.

They had to purchase entrance tickets to the temple. Through the brass-trimmed red gate, they could see a corner of the flagstone-paved courtyard, packed with pilgrims and wreathed in incense smoke.

She was surprised at the turnout. “Is Taoism so popular in China?”

“If you talk about the number of Taoist temples in China, it is not. It is more influential as a life philosophy. For instance, those performing tai chi in Bund Park are Taoist followers in a secular sense, following the principle of the soft conquering the strong, and the slow beating the fast.”

“Yes, yin turning into yang, yang into yin, everything in the process of changing into something else. A chief inspector turning into a tour guide, as well as a postmodernist poet.”

“And a U.S. Marshal into a sinologist,” he said. “In terms of its religious followers’ practice, Taoism may not be that different from Buddhism. Candles and incense are burned in both.”

“If you build a temple, worshippers will come.”

“You can put it that way. In an increasingly materialistic society, some Chinese people are turning to Buddhism, Taoism, or Christianity for spiritual answers.”

“What about Communism?”

“Party members believe in it, but in this transition period, things can be difficult. People don’t know what will happen to them the next day. So it may not be too bad to have something to believe in.”

“What about you?”

“I believe that China is making progress in the right direction-”

The arrival of a yellow-satin-robed Taoist priest cut short any further statement by Chen.

“Welcome, our reverend benefactors. Would you like to draw a piece?” The Taoist held out a bamboo container, in which were several bamboo sticks, each bearing a number.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A form of fortune telling,” Chen said. “Choose a stick. It can tell you what you want to know.”

“Really!” She pulled one out. The bamboo stick bore a number: 157

The Taoist led them to a large book on a wooden stand, and turned to the page with the matching number. There was a four-line poem on the page.

Hills upon hills, there seems to be no way out;

The willows shady and flowers bright, another village appears.

Under the heart-breaking bridge, green is the spring water,

Which once reflected a wild-goose-flushing beauty.

“What does the poem mean?” she asked.

“Interesting, but it is beyond me,” Chen said. “The Taoist will interpret it for a fee.”

“How much?”

“Ten Yuan,” the Taoist said. “It will make a difference for you.”

“Fine.”

“What time period do you want to inquire about-the present or the future?”

“The present.”

“What do you want to know?”

“About a person.”

“In that case, the answer is obvious.” The Taoist broke into an obliging smile. “What you are looking for is right there for you. The first couplet suggests a sudden change at a time when things seem to be beyond help.”

“What else does the poem tell?”

“It may pertain to a romantic relationship. The second couplet makes it clear.”

“I’m confused,” she said, turning to Chen. “You’re the one right here for me.”

“It is intentionally ambiguous.” Chen was amused. “I’m right here, so who do you have to look for? Or it could be about Wen, for all we know.”

They started to walk around in the temple, examining the clay idols on cushion-shaped stones-the deities of the Taoist religion. When they were out of the Taoist’s hearing, she resumed her questioning. “You are a poet, Chen. Please explain these lines to me.”

“What a poem means and what a fortunetelling piece means can be totally different. You’ve paid for the fortunetelling, so you have to be content with his interpretation.”

“What is wild-goose-flushing beauty?”

“In ancient China, there were four legendary beauties, so beautiful that everything else reacted in shame: the bird flushed, the fish dived, the moon hid, and the flower closed up. Later, people used this metaphor to describe a beauty.”

They then moved on, strolling into the temple courtyard. She started taking pictures, like an American tourist, he thought. She seemed to be enjoying every minute of it, shooting from many different angles.

She stopped a middle-aged woman. “Could you take a picture for us?” she asked. She stood close to him. Her hair gleaming against his shoulder, she gazed into the camera with the ancient temple in the background.

The bazaar in front of the temple was swarming with people. She spent several minutes looking for exotic but inexpensive souvenirs. Besides several baskets of herbs, which filled the air with a pleasant aroma, she bargained with an old peasant woman displaying tiny bird’s eggs, plastic bags of Suzhou tea leaves, and packages of dried mushrooms. At a folk toy booth, he rattled a slithery paper snake on a bamboo stick, a reminder of his childhood.

They chose a table shaded by a large umbrella. He ordered Suzhou-style dumplings, peeled shrimp with tender tea leaves, and chicken and duck blood soup. Between bites, she resumed her questions about the fortunetelling poem.

“The first and the second couplet are both by Lu You, a Song dynasty poet, but from two different poems,” he said. “The first is often quoted to describe a sudden change. As for the second, there’s a tragic story behind it. In his seventies, when Lu revisited the place where he had first seen Shen, a woman he loved all his life, he wrote the lines, gazing into the green water under the bridge.”

“A romantic story,” she said, swallowing a spoonful of the chicken and duck blood soup.