A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (44 page)

“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.

* * * *

Chapter 33

he train arrived at the Fuzhou Station at 11:32 a.m., on time.

The station was alive with waiting people, some waving their hands, some running alongside the train, and some holding up cardboard placards bearing the passengers’ names. However, there was no one from the Fujian Police Bureau waiting for them on the crowded platform.

Chen did not say a single word about this. Some acts of negligence on the part of the local police might be understandable, but not in this case. It did not make sense. A premonition gripped him.

“Let’s wait here,” Catherine suggested. “They may have been delayed.”

Wen looked on in silence, her expression unchanged, as if their arrival meant nothing to her. Throughout the train ride, she had said little.

“No, we are too pressed for time,” he said, unwilling to voice his fears. “I’ll rent a car.”

“Do you have the directions?”

“Detective Yu made a map for me. The directions are marked on it. Wait here with Wen.”

When he drove back in a Dazhong van, only the two women were still standing there.

Opening the door for Wen, he said, “Sit in the front with me, Wen. You may be able to help with the directions.”

“I’ll try.” Wen spoke to him for the first time. “Sorry for this trouble.”

Catherine tried to comfort her from the backseat. “This is not your fault.”

Consulting Wen and the map, Chen was able to find the right road. “Now the map is serving a purpose Detective Yu did not expect.”

“I’ve only spoken to Detective Yu on the phone.” Catherine said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“He must be on his way back to Shanghai already. You will meet him there. Both Yu and his wife Peiqin are wonderful people. She is also a marvelous cook.”

“She must be some cook to earn a compliment from a gourmet like you.”

“We may go to his home for a genuine Chinese meal,” he said. “My place is too messy.”

“I will look forward to it.”

They chose not to talk about work with Wen sitting in the car, clasping her hands over her belly.

It was a long drive. He stopped only once at a village market, where he bought a bag of lichee.

“Good nutrition. Now you have this fruit in big cities, too. It’s shipped by air,” he said, “but still it’s not as good as in the countryside.”

“It tastes wonderful,” Catherine said, nibbling at a transparent white lichee.

“Freshness makes all the difference,” he said, peeling one for himself.

Before they finished half of the lichee in the paper bag, Changle Village came into view. For the first time he noticed a change in Wen. She rubbed her eyes, as if dust had blown into them.

Inside the village, the road became a lane, wide enough only for a light tractor. “Do you have a lot to pack, Wen?”

“No, not a lot.”

“Then let’s park here.”

So they got out of the car. Wen led the way.

It was nearly one o’clock. Most of the villagers were at home having lunch. Several white geese sauntered about near a rain water puddle, stretching out their necks at the strangers. A woman carrying a basket of deep green shepherd’s purse recognized Wen, but she scurried away at the sight of the strangers walking behind her.

Wen’s house was located in a cul de sac, next to a dilapidated, abandoned barn. Chen’s first impression was that the house was a good size. There was a front yard as well as a back one on a steep slope over a creek overgrown with nameless bushes. But its cracked walls, unpainted door, and boarded-up windows made it an eyesore.

They entered the front room. What impressed Chen there was a large, discolored portrait of Chairman Mao hung on the wall above a decrepit wooden table. Flanking the portrait were two strips of dog-eared red paper slogans declaring, despite the change of times: “Listen to Chairman Mao!” “Follow the Communist Party.”

There was a spider resting contentedly, like another mole, on Mao’s chin.

The expression flashing across Wen’s face was unreadable. Instead of beginning to pack, she stood staring at the portrait of Mao, her lips trembling, as if murmuring a pledge to him— like a loyal Red Guard.

Several packages with Chinese or English labels were stored in a bucket under the table. Wen picked up a tiny package and put it in her purse.

“Are those for the precision parts, Wen?” he asked.

“It’s the abrasive. I want to take one with me as a reminder of my life here. As a souvenir.”

“A souvenir,” Chen echoed. The emerald snail climbing up the wall in Liu’s poem. He, too, picked up a package whose label bore a heavy cross over a schematic drawing of fire. There was something odd in the way Wen offered her explanation. What was there here she would like to be reminded of? But he decided not to touch on the topic of her life in the village. He did not want to reopen her wounds.

The living room led into a dining room, from which Wen headed into another through a bamboo-bead curtain hung in the doorway. Catherine followed her. Chen saw Wen taking out some child’s clothes. There was nothing he could do to help there. So he crossed to a walled back courtyard. Originally, the back door must have opened out onto the slope, but it had been boarded up.

He walked around to the front courtyard. The rattan chair by the door was broken, dust-covered. It seemed to be telling a tale of its owner’s indifference. He also saw empty bottles in bamboo baskets, mostly beer bottles, providing a footnote to the general desolation.

Outside, an old dog jumped up from a patch of shade in the village lane and shambled away silently. A puff of wind blew the weeping willow tree into a question mark. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against the door frame, waiting.

There was a train leaving for Shanghai late in the evening. He decided not to contact the local police, not just because of their failure to appear at the railway station. He could not shake off the ominous feeling he’d had since Wen had demanded they undertake this trip.

He felt worn out. He had hardly slept in the train. The hard sleeper had presented an unforeseen problem during the night. Of the three bunks, the bottom one went to Wen. It was out of the question for a pregnant woman to climb the ladder. The upper bunks across the aisle were left for Catherine and him. It was important to keep a watch on Wen. “Sometimes a cooked duck can fly away.” So he lay on his side most of the night, watching. Every time Wen stepped away from her berth, he had to climb down, following her as inconspicuously as possible. He had to resist the temptation to glance at Catherine across the aisle. She, too, lay on her side most of the time, wearing only the black slip they had bought at the Huating Market. The soft light played across the sensuous curves of her body, the skimpy blanket hardly covering her shoulders and legs. She was in no position to look at the bunk directly beneath her. So more often than not, she faced in his direction. It did not help when the lights were turned out at midnight. He felt her nearness in the darkness, turning and tossing, amid the train’s irregular whistles in the night. . .

As a result, standing in the doorway now, he had a stiff neck, and had to roll his head like a circus clown.

It was then he heard heavy, hurried footsteps drawing close from the village entrance. Not one or two men. A large group of them.