Shanghai Redemption

FIFTEEN

CHEN ARRIVED AT PEOPLE’S Park about five minutes before six and waited with a group of old people who had started queuing up earlier. When the park opened, they all walked in together.

He had no idea when exactly Old Hunter was going to arrive. Retired Shanghainese tended to get out early to do their morning exercise. Perhaps that would be true for Old Hunter, since he had to go to his job at the agency afterward.

The park was at the corner of Nanjing and Xizang Roads, its northern gate facing the First Department Store across a busy intersection. The park was much smaller than he’d remembered. Just like the garden in Suzhou, the park’s location was too commercially valuable not to be exploited. All around it high-rises were jostling, elbowing against one another, encroaching on the park. It was a relentless effort that eventually had reduced the park to about one third of its original size.

Despite the early hour, Chen saw people here and there in the park, starting to practice tai chi, to sing Beijing opera fragments, to dance to the melodies from a portable CD player. He approached a half dozing man leaning on a dragon-head-topped walking stick and asked for directions to the “bird corner.”

“It’s near the gate on Huangpi Road, facing the Flower and Bird Market across the street.”

Chen had read about people training birds like parrots or orioles to repeat simple human words. There was a scene about it in a documentary about Shanghai. But that morning, there was only one old man sitting on a jutting rock in the corner, with a bamboo birdcage at his feet. He watched as a tiny sparrow skipped out of the open cage and then hopped about on the ground, flapping its wings. It was strange. The bird could fly away, but the old man was watching it, completely at ease, as if the bird were attached to him by an invisible string.

This was the bird corner, there was no mistaking it, but Old Hunter wasn’t there yet. Chen lit a cigarette and continued watching. The old man grinned a toothless grin, his shriveled face like a worn-out walnut, nodding as a proud master of the bird.

Chen, seized by an inexplicable impulse, pulled out his notebook. This wasn’t a morning for poetry, but the impulse could be gone in a minute. He wrote furiously.

The little sparrow hops in / and out the tiny door / of the dainty bamboo cage, / parading about in dust, / its wings rigorously disciplined, / capable nevermore of flying, / but only of flapping at the air. // A world of self-sufficient, self-containing, barred enclosure- / with rice, water, vegetables, / and light fresh air… enough / for its survival. What’s the point / of its breaking out, alone, / into the unknown? // Cheerful, it peeks back / at its aged benevolent master / with his face shriveled / into a walnut of satisfied smile. / A flash of the sparrow’s wing / in the light. History keeps / depositing into the forgotten corner / of the park. What is meaningful / means only here and now, / in the little bird’s ecstatic jump / under his blurred gaze…

He wondered how this scene had galvanized him into these lines. Then came the realization. Possibly there was a subconscious parallel between himself and the tamed sparrow-with its clipped wings, hopping around in a pathetic illusion of the infinite azure sky. Had he been that kind of a cop for years?

At about a quarter past six, Old Hunter appeared, sauntering along a trail to the corner, a shiny birdcage in his hand.

“Look at my oriole,” Old Hunter said with a proud chuckle. “I took it to the Suzhou opera theaters before they disappeared, so it speaks with a mix of Suzhou and Shanghai accents.”

That morning, however, the oriole was stubbornly silent despite its master’s repeated urging to speak.

“As the old saying goes, a man had better have one hobby or another. This is even more true for an ancient failure like me. When I lose myself in Suzhou opera, I forget about everything else. But it seems the opera is dying out. So a friend gave me this little bird. It’s truly a cute, clever one.”

“The fresh morning air at the park is good for your health too.”

“You’ve been to my place. Now, with three generations squeezed altogether, what can I do in a small tofu-sized room? The bird corner in this park gives me an excuse to escape our place early in the morning.”

They sat down on a wooden bench under a weeping willow tree, at a distance from the other bird master.

“Tang told me something new,” Old Hunter said, coming straight to the point. He pulled out a piece of folded paper. “He overheard a phone call between the squad head Ji and an unknown man. The call came in to Ji’s direct line, and Tang and Ji aren’t in the same office. But you know those office cubicles-the partition walls are so thin that they’re not even close to being soundproof. From fragments he overheard-and those fragments were largely out of context-it was difficult for Tang to grasp what the call was about. But the caller must have been somebody. Ji spoke respectfully, almost subserviently. And even though Tang only heard fragments of the call, he did catch a few interesting things. The phrase ‘the Heavenly World’ was repeated several times. Tang also thought that they might have been talking about a possible leak in the bureau. At one point, Ji protested in a louder voice, ‘No, that’s not possible. I didn’t know anything until I stepped into the club.’ It was quite a long phone call. I’ve written down those fragments Tang overheard so you could study them later. Nowadays, my memory sucks.”

“I’m surprised that Tang was so cooperative. It’s just more proof of your persuasiveness.”

“If you listened to Suzhou opera as much as I do,” Old Hunter said with a mysterious smile, “you wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Well, I’ve just got a new Suzhou opera CD, but most of the time I’ve been listening to the cassette from Peiqin. Thank you, Old Hunter. The way you approached Jin at the café was a stroke of inspiration from the Suzhou opera master.”

“I’m planning to go back there again, but the agency has been busy lately.”

“There’s no hurry. By the way, did you see any foreign customers when you were there?”

“Foreign customers? There was a Korean businessman, but he left shortly after I got there. I only heard him say a word or two. Why?”

“I’m just curious. Now, what’s Jin like?”

“She’s young. Voluptuous. Possibly in her midtwenties. Very fashionable too. She was playing with her cell phone a lot, and she was constantly sending text messages or checking e-mail. She has a genuine Shanghai accent, so she’s not some provincial ernai.” Old Hunter then added, producing an envelope, “About Jin, I have something for you.”

“Something else?”

“At the agency, we have an errand boy. He’s not that young, almost eighteen, but he can’t find a full-time job. To run errands and other small tasks, Zhang Zhang pays him fifteen yuan an hour whenever he needs a little help. Yesterday happened to be a busy day, so I gave him some work to do. He proved to be quite capable and competent. For one thing, he got hold of a copy of the property certificate. The apartment Jin lives in is registered under the name of Qiang, who turned out to be Sima’s son. Given the soaring prices for property, that’s not too hard to understand. Within the subdivision, however, the apartment is registered under Jin’s name, showing her as the owner, not a renter. Also, her car is registered with the government to Sima, but with the neighborhood committee, that car is also registered as hers.”

“Sima probably did it that way for the sake of convenience.”

“I don’t know why he did it that way, but I know it makes for hard evidence of a relationship between the two. Also, the errand boy managed to get a snapshot of Sima and Jin standing by the window, his hand on her shoulder. It’s from a fair distance so it’s not very clear, but it’s still useable. Our errand boy has promised that he will station himself there every evening, and the whole weekend too, until he gets some higher-quality pictures.”

“That is fantastic. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough.”

“No need to thank me. You can call me whenever you need me,” Old Hunter said. “For a man of my age, I really don’t have anything to worry about. And I’m old enough to give you a piece of my mind, Chief Inspector. You believe that you can make a difference, but you should think about qingguan-those honest, incorruptible officials in Suzhou opera, like Judge Bao or Judge Dee. They were popular in the ancient dynasties, and they’re still popular today. Why? Because, like you, they’re rare, in a society without justice or law. Just last night, I watched a TV show about Judge Bao. Guess how Judge Bao solves a crucial case? The solution emerged when a fitful wind blew someone’s hat away. It was just one small thing leading to another, leading eventually to the emperor’s real mother, who was hiding in a hut. Ultimately, however, the resolution all depended upon the intervention of a still-conscientious, filial emperor. As for Judge Bao, even with incredible luck on his side, he got into much trouble. At one point, he was marched out to the execution grounds, only to be spared at the last minute because of the emperor’s mother.”

“Yes, I’ve thought about the issue of qingguan. It’s sort of an archetype in our collective consciousness. The continued popularity of the archetype speaks to the problems of the system. But I’ve never heard of the Judge Bao story you just described.”

“It’s not a commonly told one. In fact, only in Suzhou opera is there such a detailed version of that story,” Old Hunter said, standing up abruptly, “But I’ve got to get to work. I think I’ll leave the cage at the market for the day, even though Zhang Zhang wouldn’t say anything if I brought it to the office.”

Chen rose, watching Old Hunter walk to the gate at Huangpi Road. Chen then turned and headed back to the gate at the People’s Square, where he could get to the subway and from there to the railway station.