A Loyal Character Dancer

Chapter 32

Chen was still in a dark mood, which soon proved to be infectious. Catherine was also subdued as they entered the Qing-style landscape of the Yi Garden.

There was something on his mind, she knew. A number of unanswered questions were on hers, too. Nevertheless, they had found Wen.

She did not want to raise those questions for the moment. And she felt uncomfortable for a different reason as she walked beside him in the garden. In the past few days, Chen had played the role of the cop in charge, always having something to say- about modernism, Confucianism, or communism. That afternoon, however, their roles had become reversed. She had taken the initiative. She wondered whether he resented her.

The garden was quiet. There were hardly any other visitors. Their footsteps made the only sound.

“Such a beautiful garden,” she said, “but it’s almost deserted.”

“It’s the time of the day.”

Dusk was beginning to envelop the garden path; the sun hung above the tilted eaves of the ancient stone pavilion like a stamp. They strolled through a gourd-shaped stone gate to a bamboo bridge where they saw several golden carp swimming in the clear, tranquil water.

“Your heart’s not in sightseeing, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“No. I’m enjoying every minute of it-in your company.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“You’re not a fish,” he said. “How do you know what a fish feels?”

They came to another small bridge, across which they saw a teahouse with vermilion posts, and with a large black Chinese character for “Tea” embroidered on a yellow silk pennant streaming in the breeze. There was an arrangement of strange-shaped rocks in front of the teahouse.

“Shall we go there?” she suggested.

The teahouse might have served as an official reception hall in the original architect’s design, spacious, elegant, yet gloomy. The light filtered through the stained-glass windows. High on the wall was a horizontal board inscribed with Chinese characters: Return of Spring. By a lacquer screen in the corner, an old woman standing at a glass counter gave them a bamboo-covered thermos bottle, two cups with green tea leaves, a box of dried tofu braised in soy sauce, and a box of greenish cakes. “If you need more water, you can refill the bottle here.”

There were no other customers. Nor any service after they seated themselves at a mahogany table. The old woman disappeared behind the screen.

The tea was excellent. Perhaps because of the tea leaves, perhaps because of the water, or perhaps because of the peaceful atmosphere. The dried tofu, rich in a spicy brown sauce, also tasted good, but the green cake was more palatable, sweet with an unusual flavor she had never tasted before.

“This is a wonderful dinner for me,” she said, a tiny tea leaf between her lips.

“For me too,” he said, adding water into her cup. “In the Chinese way of drinking tea, the first cup is not supposed to be the best. Its taste comes out in a natural way in the second or the third cup. That’s why the teahouse gives you the thermos bottle, so you can enjoy the tea at your leisure while you view the garden.”

“Yes, the view is fantastic.”

“The Hui Emperor of the Song dynasty liked oddly shaped rocks. He ordered a national rock search-Huashigang-but he was captured by the Jin invaders before the chosen rocks were transported to the capital. Some of them are said to have been left in Suzhou,” Chen said. “Look at this one. It is called Heaven’s Gate.”

“Really! I don’t see the resemblance.” Its name seemed a misnomer to her. The rock was shaped more like a spring bamboo shoot, angular, and sharp-pointed. It was in no way suggestive of a magnificent gate to the heavens.

“You have to see it from the right perspective,” he said. “It may resemble a lot of things-a cone swaying in the wind, or an old man fishing in the snow, or a dog barking at the moon, or a deserted woman waiting for her lover’s return. It all depends on your perspective.”

“Yes, it all depends on your point of view,” she said, failing to see any of those resemblances. She was pleased that he had recovered enough to play the guide again, though at the same time irritated by her enforced return to the role of tourist.

The sight of the rocks also served as a reminder of reality. Despite all her Chinese studies, a American marshal would never see things exactly the same way as her Chinese partner. That was a sobering realization. “I have some questions for you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“Go ahead, Inspector Rohn.”

“Since you phoned the Suzhou Police Bureau from Liu’s place, why not call in the local cops to do the job? They could have forced Liu to cooperate.”

“They could, but I did not like that idea. Liu was not holding her against her will,” Chen said. “Besides, I had a number of unanswered questions. So I wanted to talk to them first.”

“Have you got your answers?”

“Some,” Chen said, piercing a cube of tofu with a toothpick. “I was also worried about Liu’s possible reaction. He’s such a romantic. According to Bertrand Russell, romantic passion reaches its height when lovers are fighting against the whole world.”

“You have made a study of it, Chief Inspector Chen. What if you had failed to persuade them?”

“As a police officer, I would have to make an objective report to the bureau.”

“Then the bureau would make them cooperate, right?”

“Yes, so you see, my effort is just pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Well, you succeeded in convincing them. She’s willing to leave,” she said. “Now for the relationship between Liu and Wen. Can you tell me more about it? It’s still hazy to me. You may have given your word to Liu-promised confidentiality perhaps. Tell me what you can.”

She was sipping at her tea as he began, but soon she was so absorbed that the tea turned cold in the cup. He included what he considered to be the important details. In addition, he added things from Yu’s interview tapes, which focused more on the miseries Wen had suffered with Feng.

Catherine had gathered some of the information but now the various pieces were forming a whole. At the end of his account, she gazed into her cup for several minutes. When she raised her head again, the hall appeared to be even more gloomy. She saw why he had been so depressed.

“One more question, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “About the connection between the Fujian police and the Flying Axes-is that true?”

“It’s very probable. I had to tell her that,” Chen said evasively. “I might be able to shield her for a week or two, but more than that, I doubt. She has no choice but to go to the United States.”

“You should have discussed this with me earlier.”

“It’s not pleasant, you know, for a Chinese cop to admit this.”

She grasped his hand.

The moment of silence was broken by the sound of the old woman cracking water melon seeds behind the screen.

“Let’s go outside,” Chen said.

They stepped out, carrying their tea and cakes. Walking across the bridge, they entered the pavilion with the yellow glazed tile roof and vermilion posts. The posts were set into a surrounding bench with a flat marble top and lattice railings. They placed the thermos bottle on the ground and sat with the cups and cakes between them. Small birds chirped in the grotto behind them.

“The Suzhou garden landscape was designed,” he said, “to inspire people to feel poetic.”

She did not feel so, though she relished the moment. Someday in the future, she knew she would look back on this early evening in Suzhou as special. Leaning sideways against the post, she went through a sudden shift of mood, as if they had undergone another role reversal. Chen was almost his usual self again. And she was becoming sentimental.

What were Wen and Liu doing at this moment?

“Soon Liu and Wen are going to part,” she said wistfully.

“Liu may go to the United States someday-”

“No, he will never be able to find her.” She shook her head. “That’s the way our program works.”

“Wen may come back-for a visit-” he cut himself short. “No, that would be too risky for her.”

“It’s out of the question.”

“It’s difficult to meet, and to part, too. / The east wind languid, the flowers fallen,” he murmured, “Sorry, I’m quoting poetry again.”

“What’s wrong with that, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“It’s sentimental.”

“So you have turned into a hermit crab retreating into a rationalist shell.”

Instantaneously she knew she had gone too far. Why had she burst out with this? Was it because she was upset with the outcome of the investigation, because neither he nor she could possibly do anything that would really help Wen? Or was it because of a subconscious parallel rising to the surface of her mind? Soon she, too, would be leaving China.

He made no response.

She bent over to rub her aching ankle.

“Finish the last piece,” he said, handing the cake to her.

“It’s a strange name, Bamboo Leaf Green Cake,” she said, studying the box.

“Bamboo leaves may have been used in the cake. Bamboo used to be a very important part of traditional Chinese culture. There must be a bamboo grove in a Chinese garden landscape, and a bamboo shoot dish in a Chinese banquet.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Even Chinese gangsters use the word bamboo in the name of their organizations.”

“What are you referring to, Inspector Rohn?”

“Remember the fax I got at the hotel last Sunday? It contained some background information about international triads involved in human smuggling. One of them is called Green Bamboo.”

“Do you have the fax with you?”

“No, I left it at the Peace Hotel.

“But you’re sure?”

“Yes, I remember the name,” she said.

She changed her position. Turning toward him, she reclined against the post. He removed the cups. She slipped off her shoes and put her feet on the bench, her knees doubled against her chin, her bare soles resting on the cold marble bench top.

“Your ankle has not completely recovered,” he said. “The bench top is too cold.”

And she felt her feet being placed in his lap, the arch of her sole cradled in his hand, which warmed it before rubbing her ankle.

“Thank you,” she said, her toes curling against his fingers involuntarily.

“Let me recite a poem for you, Inspector Rohn. It came in fragments to me during the last few days.”

“Your own poem?”

“Not really. More like an imitation of MacNeice’s The Sunlight on the Garden.’ It is a poem about people being grateful for the time they share, even though the moment is fleeting.”

He started to speak, his hand on her ankle.

“The sunlight burning gold, / we cannot collect the day / from the ancient garden / into an album of old. / Let’s pick our play, / or time will not pardon.”

“The sunlight on the garden,” she said.

“Actually, the central image of the first stanza came to me in Moscow Suburb.

“Then after I got Liu’s poem about the loyal character dance, especially after we met Wen and Liu, some more lines appeared,” he explained. “When all is told, / we cannot tell / the question from the answer. / Which is to hold / us under a spell, / the dance or the dancer?”

“The dance and the dancer, I understand,” she said, nodding, “For Liu, it’s Wen that turned the loyal character dance into a miracle.”

“MacNeice’s poem is about how helpless people are.”

“Yes, MacNeice is another of your favorite modernist poets.”

“How do you know?”

“I have done some research on you, Chief Inspector Chen. In a recent interview, you talked about his melancholy because his job did not allow him to write as much as he wanted, but you felt sorry for yourself, for missing your chance as a poet. People say in poetry what is impossible for them to say in life.”

“I don’t know what to say-”

“You don’t have to say anything, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m going back in a couple of days. Our mission is finished.”

A mist enveloped the garden.

“Let me recite the last stanza for you,” he said. “Sad it’s no longer sad, / the heart hardened anew, / not expecting pardon / but grateful and glad / to have been with you, / the sunlight lost on the garden.”

She thought she knew why he had chosen to recite the poem.

Not just for Wen and Liu.

They sat there, quietly, the last rays of the sunlight silhouetting them against the garden, but she experienced, indelibly, a moment of gratitude.

The evening spread out like the scroll of a traditional Chinese landscape painting: A changing yet unchanging panorama against the horizon, cool and fresh, a light haze softening hills in the distance.

The same poetic garden, the same creaking Ming dynasty bridge, the same dying Qing dynasty sun.

Hundreds of years earlier.

Hundreds of years later.

It was so tranquil that they were able to hear the bursting bubbles of wrigglers in the green water.