Shanghai Redemption

TEN

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Chen found himself at Cai’s Noodles, sitting at a mahogany table in a slightly raised section on the second floor. His table was leaning against a quaint lattice window that overlooked the somber green canal. He was one of the first customers. He’d slept badly the night before, so he decided to come as soon as the restaurant opened at six.

The other customers appeared to be locals, mostly in their sixties or seventies and some of them even older. He wondered why they were clustering around the lower section near the staircase, instead of sitting on the second floor, close to the windows with their pleasant views.

A waitress placed saucers of local specialties along with a pot of green tea on the table. The dog-eared, oil-stained menu she handed him spoke for the popularity of the restaurant. He began flipping through its pages. The prices weren’t too expensive, especially considering the location of the place. Perhaps Qian was right: the proprietor wasn’t so concerned with making money with the restaurant, having made enough elsewhere.

Sipping at his tea, Chen remembered a vacation not too long ago, when he was still a chief inspector. He was waiting for an attractive woman in a tiny eatery, in another city not too far away…

Now, he was no longer a cop. He was not on vacation. In no mood for romantic fantasies at all.

Last night, he’d gotten another phone call from Old Hunter. The information from Tang confirmed what Chen had suspected. He was the sole target of the raid. The room number, the statements from the two cat girls, the books piled in the room… all of this led to one unmistakable conclusion. The book party had been a setup orchestrated at a higher level and was designed to entrap him.

After the phone call, Chen couldn’t fall asleep. He lay there, awake, trying to put the pieces together in his mind, but got nowhere. By morning he was worn out, and haunted by the ominous feeling that he was far from grasping the crucial piece of this puzzle.

The waitress came over to pour him another cup of tea.

“I’m still waiting to order,” he said, holding up the menu.

Glancing at his watch, He began wondering whether Qian would appear. It was now seven ten. It didn’t really matter, he thought. All he really wanted to do this morning was enjoy a bowl of Suzhou noodles, not dwell on his troubles.

As he was breathing deep into his second cup of the fragrant tea, he heard a flurry of footsteps coming up the stairs. Qian appeared on the landing in a ray of dazzling morning light, waving her hand.

She was wearing a light blue, short-sleeved mandarin dress, with a white cashmere shawl over her shoulders. It accentuated her slender figure, as if she was stepping light-footedly out of another poem by Du Mu.

Down and out, I wander around / crossing rivers and lakes / with a cup of wine, / and her waist willowy, / as if capable of dancing / on my lone palm.

Chen stood up to greet her and then poured her a cup of tea, rather than the wine featured in the Tang lines.

“It’s such a nice place. Thank you for your recommendation, Qian.”

“You have a good memory, Chen.”

The waitress came over to take their order. Chen chose the double topping of smoked fish and slow-cooked pork belly and the noodles in red soup, while Qian settled on shredded pork fried with pickled cabbage in white soup.

“The deep-fried rice paddy eel is the chef’s special. It’s from Cai’s personal farm, so it’s guaranteed to be hormone-free.”

So along with the noodles, they agreed to share a platter of the eels.

“I didn’t think you’d call,” she said, chopsticking up the noodles as the waitress withdrew with an empty tray.

“I’m a detective for hire. So why not? But I’m here in Suzhou to oversee the renovation of my father’s grave. My mother insists that I personally attend to the details, and I happened to have a few days off.”

“You’re a filial son, aren’t you?”

“Well, you may tell my mother that,” Chen said, picking up an eel slice for himself.

“How did you happen to pick that hotel?”

“Because of what you said about this restaurant the last time we met. The hotel is a nice one; it’s also close to here and to the club.”

“So you have also been to the club?”

“No, not yet. But I’ll go there.”

“I didn’t know you were a Suzhou opera fan.”

“What does that have to do with Suzhou opera?”

“You just mentioned the club.”

“Don’t you mean Southern Heavenly World, the nightclub that’s in the hotel?”

“Oh. No. I was talking about the Suzhou opera club. It’s just two minutes’ walk from here.”

“A Suzhou opera club-” That was a disappointment. He’d invited her out for information of a different kind. “Of course I’ll go there too.”

“The Southern Heavenly World nightclub murders the landscape.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Because of my job, I have to visit such places. It reminds me of the Heavenly World in Shanghai, which has almost the same name.”

“I’ve heard that the nightclub here is affiliated with the one in Shanghai. A former colleague of mine works in the Shanghai nightclub.”

“I see,” he said. This was the second time someone had mentioned the affiliation of the two clubs, and this time it was from a more reliable source. “This noodle restaurant is fantastic. There are a lot of customers this early in the morning. We’re lucky to be able to get such a great table, with just the two of us sitting by the windows.”

“This raised section by the windows is more expensive. They charge double for the view, and for the service. The other customers at this hour are mostly local retirees who are not well-to-do like you with your lucrative jobs.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“And there’s another reason they come so early. They want to get the noodles from the first pot of the morning.”

“Why’s that?”

“When the noodles are freshly made, and boiled in the first pot, the taste is particularly delicious. As the day goes on, the chef has to frequently add water to the pot. Let’s say you come here around noon. At that stage, the water can be floury from all the noodle residue, and there’s a huge difference in the taste.”

“That’s intriguing,” he said. “Is that why it’s open for only half a day?”

“It might be part of the reason, but there’s another explanation for why it’s only open for half a day. To make traditional Suzhou noodles, the soup has to be cooked in a pot-a different pot from the noodle pot-overnight, for five or six hours, with all the special ingredients. Because of the great demand here, the soup is usually gone by noon. To maintain the highest quality, the proprietor, Cai, can only serve from morning till one thirty in the afternoon.”

“Cai sounds like an interesting character.”

“He doesn’t come in early. He’s another fan of Suzhou opera,” she said, reaching into her purse. “I’ve brought a CD with me.” She showed a disc to Chen. “It is Tang and Song poems set to Suzhou opera. You won’t find it in any stores. It was produced by the Suzhou Opera Club.”

“Tang and Song poems set to Suzhou opera!”

“It was an experiment we did at our club. An old proverb says, if you memorize three hundred Tang poems, you might be able to write a little. It’s easier for people to remember words when they’re set to music. And at the same time, people interested only in the classic poetry might also learn to appreciate opera.”

“That’s great. You are promoting poetry as well as Suzhou opera.”

She took a slow sip at the tea, the morning light lambent in her eyes, a tiny greenish leaf between her lips.

The tenderness of the green tea leaf between her lips. / Everything is possible, but not pardonable…

Did he write those lines himself? Possibly. It wasn’t a morning, however, to indulge in poetic reveries.

“We didn’t talk much about the job on the phone,” Chen said, steering the conversation back to the reason they were meeting. “Tell me more specifically what you want me to do. Last time, you indicated that it involves somebody in the city government, someone big.”

“He’s not that big, but he is in a sensitive position. That’s about all you need to know. You should simply focus on the woman. You’ll find more about him as you investigate her-it’s inevitable, and really only a matter of time. Once you reach that point, it’s possible you’ll decide the job’s too much trouble. Once you understand what’s involved, you can decline the job and not tell me anything of what you’ve learned.”

It was basically what she’d said when they first met. But it would be difficult for him to back out now, since he’d invited her here, with his own ulterior motive in mind.

“I see,” he said, putting down the chopsticks. “I still have to ask you some questions first.”

“Go ahead.”

“The identity of the man aside, why do you want information on this woman?”

“Do you really have to know, Chen?”

“Yes, I have to know what is motivating a potential client before I take on any job.”

Chen was betting that Qian would choose not to answer, and then he would be off the hook.

She cast a plaintive look at him.

The waitress came over again, ready to clear the table.

“We’re in no hurry,” Chen said. “We want to talk for a while. Bring us another pot of good tea.”

“Yes sir,” the waitress said.

“And here is twenty yuan for you,” Chen said, handing her a bill. “Once you bring the tea, I’d appreciate it if you could leave us alone to talk in peace.”

“I understand, sir,” the waitress said with a knowing smile. “For fifty, I can make sure that no other customers are seated near you.”

“That’s reasonable,” Chen agreed readily. “I’ll pay you when we leave.”

Qian looked on in amazement. She expected a private investigator to know the ways of the world, but the way he tipped was surprising.

The waitress brought over another pot of Dragon Well tea in no time, leaving them with an obliging smile.

“You really must have been paid well for your last job,” Qian said.

“Not too bad. The customer thought I did a good job.”

“I see. And to do a good job, you have to know why you’re being hired. I understand,” she said slowly. “It’s a long story. I’d better start from the beginning.

“In Suzhou opera, an actor might sing a couple of lines before starting into the narration. I don’t want to be that dramatic, but there’s a poem on the back of the CD cover, which might set up my story.”

Chen picked up the CD, on the back of which was the silhouette of a graceful woman dressed in ancient attire leaning against a pavilion. Beside that image was a ci poem set in a special font that looked like petals.

Thanks to the long willow shoot bending / itself for her, she succumbs / to the mistlike catkins caressing / her face, as if touched / by an old friend.

“Oh, it’s by Li Yu, the poet-emperor of Southern Tang in the tenth century,” he said. “He was a lousy emperor, but a brilliant poet…”

A group of customers appeared, laughing, talking, cursing, heading straight to their section, possibly having just come from an overnight mahjong party or a party at the Southern Heavenly World. It seemed the waitress wasn’t able to keep her word.

One of the new customers shouted out to the waitress, “Double toppings for each of us, a couple of the best cross-bridge dishes as well. And a pot of your best Before-Rain tea.”

“Sorry about that,” the waitress apologized to Chen and Qian.

Since it was no longer possible for them to talk privately there, they paid their bill and left.

It was just past eight in the morning, and neither the Lion Garden nor the bookstore had opened yet. Chen, instead, led Qian to the back garden of his hotel. Considering the time of year, it was surprisingly pleasant sitting on a bench out by the pond. Faint music came wafting over on a fitful breeze.

No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. By all appearances, they were merely a couple from the hotel, stepping out into the garden to watch the goldfish in the pond after enjoying an early breakfast.

“It’s a fairly long story,” she said quietly. “Like a Suzhou opera, I think it’s better told in the third person.”

“Perspective is what makes a story. Please go ahead.”

She was born in Suzhou. Her parents, both of them opera fans, dreamed of her growing up to be a Suzhou opera singer. She began showing a passionate interest in it as early as her primary school years. After middle school, she entered the Suzhou Arts School, where she was a top student. Soon she was hired by the Suzhou Number One Opera Ensemble. In the heyday of the opera, that would have meant a secure future. But times had changed. The audience, once huge in number, was shrinking rapidly, and frenzied real estate development led to the demolition of the old Suzhou opera theaters, one after another. As audiences dwindled, revenue fell, and once the government dropped their subsidy, the ensemble could hardly make ends meet. The dire financial situation meant the company could no longer continue as before.

Eventually, the ensemble had to resort to the old ways: having its members perform at whatever venue available. One night they performed at a restaurant, the next night a private performance for a wealthy family, and the day after, at a birthday party. Ultimately the members had to go their separate ways, with some of them going on the road and touring beyond Suzhou. Suzhou opera was said to have a considerable fan base in Shanghai, so Qian went there on her own, though nominally still a member of the ensemble.

In Shanghai, she came to play in a restaurant called Plum Blossom Pavilion, which was known for its inexpensive breakfast and was popular with the not-so-well-to-do retirees. The restaurant proprietor, a middle-aged man named Kang, invited Suzhou opera singers to perform every Tuesday morning. It was a marketing gambit-a free treat for customers to enjoy over a bowl of noodles or dumplings-but it gave the restaurant a reputation as “a conscientious enterprise intent on preserving the traditional arts.” The Foreign Liaison Office heard about the performances and started to bring foreign visitors to the restaurant. Then Kang made a suggestion to her.

“Continue to sing every Tuesday as before, but during the rest of the week, you can work as a hostess and get paid accordingly. You’ll also get free food and board, and a bonus whenever you sing for customers by special request.”

To Qian, Suzhou opera could not have sunk lower. But the rapidly rising rent in the city already took more than half of the money she earned. She had no choice but to move into the restaurant-eating leftovers in the kitchen and sleeping on the hard tables after the restaurant closed late at night.

About a week after starting her new role, she was told that there would be a group of distinguished Western tourists interested in Suzhou opera coming in that evening and that she had to do her best. That evening turned out to be a huge success. Articles covering it appeared in several newspapers, some with pictures, and among the tourists was a well-known American sinologist who spoke highly of the Shanghai government’s efforts to support the local dialect opera. For Kang, publicity like that meant more profit.

For her, however, it was more about a man whom, for the moment, she would call S. He was the one who arranged for the Western tourist group to visit the restaurant, initially as a gesture of support for the traditional art. He was in a position to make decisions for the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office, and he arranged for several groups to come in quick succession.

In S., she saw “someone who understands the music,” an echo from the traditional romantic stories celebrated in Suzhou opera. And S. saw her as “the youthful, vivacious embodiment of the ancient art,” as he told her one evening after her performance. In him, she thought she’d discovered hope for a revival of Suzhou opera. He had the power to make impossible things possible. Because of the groups of foreign tourists who came to the Suzhou opera at the restaurant, and the coverage of it in the media, the opera started to attract some younger people.

All of this happened during a vulnerable time for her. She’d been in Shanghai for nearly a year, with very little to show for it. Her grandma had passed away back in Suzhou, worrying on her deathbed about her granddaughter. Qian was starting to wonder if there was any point in struggling any longer.

That was when S. stepped into the restaurant, and then, into her life. He brought with him flowers, red envelopes, and promises to make her a star in the revival of Suzhou opera. He was generous, though he might not have had to worry about the money, since it was all done under the cover of government business. He told her that he and his wife were separated and that they had filed for divorce. It wasn’t long before he arranged for her to move into a furnished apartment in Xujiahui. He even managed to secure her a “research subsidy for Suzhou opera,” which would be conducted under aegis of the Shanghai Foreign Liaison office.

What happened between the two of them seemed to be one of those old, yet always new, stories.

He told her that she didn’t have to perform anymore-she didn’t need the money, but she still went to the restaurant once a week. He was a busy official, so when he wasn’t around, she worked on recording the CD of Tang poems as part of her research into Suzhou opera.

But that phase of the relationship didn’t last very long. While S. tolerated her continuing to perform, he no longer brought foreign groups to the restaurant. He said that some people were already starting to gossip, and it was getting difficult to see her as much as he would have liked.

So he proposed that she move back to Suzhou. There he would visit her whenever possible, and they wouldn’t have to worry about being recognized. He bought an apartment for her there, and instead of a research subsidy through his department, he gave her a monthly allowance. Suzhou had more important appeal for her: she still had her position in the opera ensemble, and she hoped she might be able to do something more for the opera there. Not to mention the fact that she would be closer to her parents.

She accepted the seemingly reasonable arrangement, but she soon realized that it was something else entirely. He cared for his career more than he cared about anything else, and he wasn’t exactly separated from his wife, who was in the United States with their son while he attended private school. But what could an ex-Suzhou opera singer do? Still, Suzhou held something unexpected for her-a new Suzhou opera club, whose members were devoted fans, and to which she was a welcome addition.

Then she started to notice that S. had changed. He didn’t seem to be that crazy about her anymore. One evening, he even joked that when she was singing in her mandarin dress in Shanghai, she was animated with an irresistible glow, but here in Suzhou, she looked like any ordinary Suzhounese.

Shortly afterward, she found out that he had a new conquest in Shanghai, who was apparently younger and prettier. Qian was devastated by the realization that he’d sent her back to Suzhou to get her out of the way. Yet he still continued to come see her, though less and less, and to provide for her just as handsomely as ever.

Another devastating blow came from her parents. Initially, they were confused by the fact that she’d come back to Suzhou without a job, yet with very comfortable means. When they found out about the ernai arrangement with S., they refused to step into her apartment again.

Then an opportunity presented itself. The American professor who’d been part of the first group led by S. offered her a spot in his university’s Asian studies program. He even offered her a tuition waiver, so that all she’d need would be the money to support herself. He suggested she could support herself by giving performances, but she doubted there would be enough Suzhou opera fans in the local Chinese community.

So she approached S. He was going to get rid of her anyway, this could be a kind of severance pay, she supposed. To her surprise, S. was furious. He thought that once she was out of China, she would start talking and damage his career. He forbade her from pursuing the opportunity any further and, through his connections, had her travel permit rescinded.

“Things can’t go on like this,” she concluded, switching back to the first person. “I was considering starting over in another country when we met near the cemetery.”

She spoke in an amiable, soft Suzhou dialect, as if this were some sort of a theater performance.

Whether she was a reliable narrator or not, he wasn’t sure. There was probably some self-justification woven into her story. Still, her story was probably not that different from those of other ernai, with the exception of her passion for Suzhou opera. If for no other reason than that, she deserved help.

He saw a parallel with his own passion for poetry, except that he was far more realistic.

She went on with a catch in her voice, “He only sees the new one laugh, / but hears not the old one weep.” It sounded like another Tang couplet.

“He’s not worth it,” he said. “Start over, but start over here-and start over for yourself.”

“It’s not that I haven’t tried. But since my only skill is singing, it’s difficult to find a real job in Suzhou. Besides, people have already started telling stories about me. So the prospect of studying abroad is very tempting.”

“It’s tough,” he said, nodding.

“If only things could be just like when we first met-” Qian resumed.

It could be quote from a poem by Nalan Xingde, with a subtle intertextual allusion to a Han dynasty imperial concubine who compared herself to a silk fan that, once used, was forgotten, the memories of her first meeting with her lord now dust-covered.

As compelling as her story was, however, it was disappointing. He’d hoped that she’d be able to help him find out more about the Heavenly World.

“So you want to divorce him-” He cut himself short. She wasn’t even the man’s wife, and he was disturbed by the possibilities of who the man might be.

“No, I just want him to let me go, with or without financial help. But he says that if I try to leave him, he’ll have me crushed like a bug.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to gather evidence that will derail his career. It’s only with that kind of information that I can even hope to negotiate with him.”

“I see.”

“The new woman in Shanghai-”

“You have met her?”

“No, but she called him one night while he was with me in Suzhou. I checked his cell phone while he was sleeping, and I got her name and number.”

“That’s something to start with.”

“Whatever evidence you get, try to make sure it’s as graphic as possible.”

“But what are you going to do with this so-called evidence? If he’s a high-ranking official, none of the official media will publish it.”

“Now that the Internet exists, there’s no point in bothering with the People’s Daily.”

That was exactly what Old Hunter had told him. Her plan could work.

In a determined voice, she said, “Even in the worst-case scenario, where the fish dies and the net breaks, I’ll still have my freedom.”

“Because of his position at the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office,” Chen said, “he might have special agents working under him. I’ll have to move carefully, but I’ll definitely look into it for you.”

“Great,” she said, taking out her checkbook.

“No, I don’t know how far I’ll be able to proceed, so I can’t take your money now.” After a pause, he continued. “But I have a question for you. Do you know anything about the nightclub attached to my hotel?”

“Southern Heavenly World?” she said. “He took me there one evening. I don’t know why men are so crazy about it.”

“You mentioned that it’s affiliated with the Heavenly World in Shanghai and that you have a former colleague who works at that one.”

“Yes. Why are you so interested? You’re working on a case for another client, aren’t you?”

He nodded without responding. It was a reasonable guess-he was pretending to be a PI, after all.

“Yes, one of my colleagues ended up working there. I can make some calls for you.”

“That would be great. I’d really appreciate it.”

“But, back to my case. You should at least let me cover your expenses.”

“Don’t worry about it. You are doing me a favor, so it’s only fair that I do one for you. Now, about the new woman in Shanghai; you gave me her basic info last time we met, but I’m afraid I don’t have it with me.”

She scribbled the woman’s name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper.

“One last thing. I’ll contact you whenever I need to speak with you. But don’t try to contact me at the hotel,” he said, writing down his new cell phone number. “If anything, call this number and this number alone. That’s very important. And don’t call me unless it’s an emergency and you absolutely have to speak to me. Otherwise, I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

“I’ll be waiting for your call.”