Shanghai Redemption

EIGHTEEN

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Chen decided to pay a visit to Suzhou Opera Club.

His hotel room felt oppressive; he couldn’t sit there any longer. And ever since his second phone call to Qian, he’d had an ominous feeling.

Qian might not be at the club, but maybe someone there could tell him something about her. At the very least, it could be an interesting visit, something he could talk about with Old Hunter. Chen’s knowledge of Suzhou opera had mostly come from his conversations with Old Hunter, but it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to toss out a couple of terms and names, pretending to be someone genuinely interested in opera.

The club was in a traditional two-story building, and a small sign on the front door indicated the club was on the second floor. The first floor had been converted into a shoe store, which had a large sign declaring “Suicidal Sale! Bankruptcy!” But the sign looked faded. It could have been posted there for weeks, possibly months.

Visitors to the club had to cut through an extremely narrow corridor leading to a precarious staircase in the back. On the second floor, the door was open, covered only by a bamboo bead curtain flapping slightly in an unexpected breeze. Chen noticed a bell on the doorframe, so, instead of barging in, he pressed the bell.

“Come on in. The door is open.”

A woman got up, walked over, and nodded her welcome. She was in her late thirties or early forties, looking haggard and noticeably thin in her oversized dark gray mandarin dress, like yesterday’s chrysanthemum.

The club’s space was quite large. It looked like it had been converted from the original living room and two wings with the partition walls removed. There were a couple of tables and chairs by the windows, instruments were leaning against the wall, and an oblong opera table stood toward the upper end. That was probably the centerpiece, and singers would perform sitting at the table.

There was also a small bouquet of jasmine flowers on the table.

Four or five kids were gathered in the center of the room, some playing pipa, some plugging sanxian, seemingly oblivious of his intrusion. He wondered whether there was a class going on at the moment.

“I’m staying at the Southern Garden Hotel. It’s so close, and I’m interested in Suzhou opera.” He decided not to ask about Qian straight off. “Do I have to pay a fee?”

“No, you don’t. This is not an opera house, and we don’t sell tickets. But if you want to buy a cup of tea, or a buy a CD, you are most welcome.”

“A cup of tea first,” he said, choosing a fairly expensive one, Hairy Point, for thirty yuan. “I’ve never been to a Suzhou opera club before.”

“It’s not like the club in your hotel, Southern Heavenly World, that much I can tell you. And I’m glad you’re interested in opera. By the way, my name is Nan.”

“No, I’m not interested in that kind of nightclub. And my name is Qiang,” Chen said, thinking of Qian again.

“Look around and enjoy yourself,” she said, pouring out a cup of tea for him. “If you have any questions, just ask. The kids will start singing soon.”

“Thanks.”

He seated himself on a mahogany chair by the windows. On the tea table, there was something like a menu, from which a visitor could choose songs or episodes, each with a price listed next to it. It wasn’t expensive at all. The mere fact that there was such a club at such a desirable location seemed nothing short of a miracle.

“I have a question for you, Nan. How do you manage to keep this club open?”

“Well, Suzhou opera enjoys a long tradition in this city. I grew up in a family of opera fans, listening to it all the time from my earliest memories on. When my parents passed away, they left these rooms to me. Alone, I didn’t need all that space, so I’ve converted it for the club after the opera theaters were all torn down in recent years. Like me, some other people were sad to see the local opera go into decline like that, so they help in whatever way possible. But it’s been really tough to keep the club going.”

“I imagine it’s not easy, maintaining this oasis in the midst of our materialistic society.”

“Usually, the members of the club meet to sing two or three times a week, and nonmembers come to listen and enjoy, buying a cup of tea or a CD as a sort of donation,” Nan said wistfully. “Suzhou opera is losing its audience, especially among young people. So we keep the place open for the kids to come by after school, and the instruments are left out so that the children can play them.”

“That’s something really worth doing,” Chen said, nodding. People came here to the club because of their passion for the traditional art, despite all the entertainment available on TV and the Internet. “Not everyone knows how to appreciate a slow pace. Describing Suzhou opera, a friend always used the well-known example of the one that features a young girl walking downstairs, lost in an internal monologue; it can take as many as eighteen episodes for her to reach the last step.”

“Yes, that’s from the Pearl Pagoda. You can see why times are really hard for Suzhou opera, with its narratives unfolding so slowly in a society that moves so fast,” she said with a wan smile. “In the evening, we’ll have an informal performance of short pieces. It’s free, and anybody may come. Of course, you may want to buy another cup of tea. We won’t refuse any donations from people who love Suzhou opera.”

A girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, stepped over to the opera table, carrying a pipa taller than herself. After bowing to an invisible audience, she started singing.

To Chen’s surprise, it was an eleventh-century ci poem written by Su Shi, titled “Lines Written in Dinghui Temple, Huangzhou”:

The waning moon hangs on the sparse tung twigs, / the night deep, silent. / An apparition of a solitary wild goose / glides in the dark. // Startled, it turns back, / its sorrow unknown to others. / Trying each of the chilly boughs, / it chooses not to perch. / Freezing, the maple leaves fall / over the Wu River.

He heaved a sigh. He thought that was one of the songs included on Qian’s CD. What was going through her mind while she practiced those lines?

Chen applauded as the girl finished singing. Fifteen years ago, Qian might have been just like her.

He turned to Nan. “What a beautiful piece! I think I’ve also heard it on one of the club’s CDs, sang by someone named Qian. Do you happen to know her?”

“Qian-” Nan said, looking up in surprise. “Why?”

“I met her a short while ago, and she said she sometimes comes to the club.”

“You should have come-” Nan murmured, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

“What do you mean?”

“She died last night.”

“What!” The news hit like a personal blow.

“Someone broke into her apartment, killed her, and took all her valuables.”

He had suspected something had gone terribly wrong when he had tried to call her from the phone booth and a strange man answered. He was shocked speechless for a minute or two.

A robbery gone wrong? He ruled it out instinctively-it was just too convenient. And the robbery-murder theory certainly didn’t explain the man waiting in her apartment, answering her cell phone. But he wasn’t in any position to contact the Suzhou police bureau about it.

“You look pale,” Nan said. “It’s a shock to all of us. Were you close?”

“I didn’t know her well, but she helped me,” he murmured. “Please tell me more about what happened.”

“No one here knows any details yet. Yesterday afternoon, she came here to the club and paid her monthly membership fee, as always. After she left, some visitors came to the club. They bought her CD, and one of them even bought a copy of her poster, which cost two hundred yuan. After they left, I called her. She was pleased, saying that the money the visitors spent would be her donation to the club.”

“I don’t understand how thieves could have broken into her apartment,” Chen said. “Her apartment is close to the Temple Market, near the center of the city.”

“I don’t know. All I know is that early this morning, while I was still asleep, the cops came to my place. They found me because my number was in her phone’s call log as the last person that contacted her yesterday. The cops asked me a bunch of questions before telling me that she’d been murdered.”

“That must have been awful for you.”

“We’re having a memorial performance for her tonight. We’re performing all the Tang and Song poems that she set to Suzhou opera tunes. It’s our way to remember her. You should come.”

Nan then walked over to a pipa leaning against the wall.

“That’s hers.”

He followed her, reached out to the instrument, and noticed that one of the strings was broken. In ancient China, a broken string was a sinister omen. Touching it, he imagined her playing pipa here, one string, one peg, each reminiscent of the lost years of her youth.

“I’m so sorry I can’t come to the performance tonight,” he said. He thought it was likely that some plainclothes policeman would also be at the evening performance. “I have an important business meeting tonight. But I would like to buy a CD of hers and order a short piece called ‘Zijuan Lamenting at Night’ for tonight’s memorial performance. I’ll pay the fee for the song in accordance to the menu.”

Zijuan was a maid to Daiyu, the heroine of Dream of the Red Chamber. After Daiyu’s death, Zijuan laments the heroine’s tragic fate on the night when Baoyu, the hero, marries another girl.

“That is a very thoughtful choice. It’s the song I’m planning to sing for her tonight. Don’t worry about the fee.”

“No, I want to pay for it,” he insisted. “I only met her twice, and I know so little about her. Can I also ask a favor of you? Can you start recording tonight’s performance as soon as people begin to arrive? I’d like you to record the evening all the way to the end. Not just what the performers sing, but what they say too. Don’t bother burning it to a CD. A cassette tape will do. Here is a thousand yuan. Will that be enough?”

“You’re generous, sir. It’s far more than enough.”

“I’ll come back and pick up the tape in a day or two.”

“Whenever it’s convenient. I’m here most of the time, and if I have to step out, I’ll leave a note about the tape.”

He supposed that was about all Nan could tell him about Qian. He stood up, holding the CD, which also bore the address and contact information of the club, and said his good-byes.

He almost stumbled walking down the stairs. The narrow corridor led him to an overwhelming question.

Did she die because of him?

He might be jumping to conclusions, but if it had been just a random home invasion robbery, why was there a man at her home answering her phone? At the time Chen called, the man must have known that Qian was dead, but he pretended that he would give her his message.

What’s more, the man didn’t know Chen’s identity, but he did have some knowledge about him, such as the name he’d given her, Cao; that he was from Shanghai; and that he was fond of noodles.

The specificity of his knowledge suggested that the man had been stationed in her apartment to ambush Chen.

That confirmed Chen’s earlier suspicion that the phone call she made to him was tapped. It was very likely that that call had led to this tragedy.

While he hadn’t said much during that phone conversation, it was only a matter of time before whoever was behind the murder figured out who “Cao” really was.