Enigma of China (12 page)

“Oh, that’s Tieliang. I watched that TV interview with him. What a shame! He made a fortune running a chain of clubs for officials-all in the name of literature and art.” She added more hot water to her cup and said, “But he’s not alone. You might remember a sentence in
Dream of the Red Chamber
: ‘Except the two stone lions crouching in front of the Jia mansion, nothing else is clean.’”

“Well, you simply need to swap ‘the Jia mansion’ with ‘socialism with Chinese characteristics.’”

“Wow, that’s quite something for a Party cadre to say.”

“May I smoke, Lianping?”

“Go ahead,” she said, realizing she’d been carried away by the conversation. After all, it was a senior police officer who was sitting opposite her, and she wondered what he really wanted to talk to her about. “Oh, I heard that you’ve published a collection of poetry, and it sold out.”

“I, too, thought it sold quite well. As it turned out, however, a Big Buck bought a thousand copies from the publisher, and then gave them out as gifts to his business associates. While it was done as a favor to me, and without my knowledge, it came as a blow to my self-esteem as a poet. And as a cop, too, since I failed to detect that trick with the sales. But then again, I didn’t graduate from the police academy, so perhaps that can be counted as a factor in my defense.”

She enjoyed his subtle touch of self-irony. At least he knew better. Then it was her turn to speak in a self-deprecating way.

“I didn’t major in finance. But for a girl from Anhui, any job in Shanghai was worth grabbing. My major in English did give me one advantage, though. In today’s financial world, a lot of new terms have to be translated from English. For instance,
mortgage
and option. These terms were nonexistent in the state economy. So I was offered the position at
Wenhui
.”

“That is quite a coincidence. I was assigned to the job at the police bureau due to similar considerations-I was needed to translate a handbook of police procedures.”

“In my situation, there’s also a material difference between a literature journalist and a finance journalist.”

“Enlighten me, Lianping.”

“For example, at the meeting at the Writers’ Association, what I was given there was a cup of tea. And not high-quality tea, for that matter. But at a meeting of real estate professionals, a journalist might be given all sorts of things. One time, I was even given a laptop.”

“No wonder Tieliang no longer writes,” Chen said. “But still, your job is important. It helps people understand the financial world in which they live, a world that would otherwise make no sense to them.”

“Well, it might be necessary for us to make sense of it in a politically acceptable way. As Zhuangzi put it, ‘He who steals a hook will be hanged; he who steals a country will be made a prince.’ Our job is to justify the practice of country-stealing.”

“Yes, corruption runs like an unbridled horse through this one-party system of ours.”

“People all know about it, but can we write about it? For instance, consider all the shady deals in the housing market. One of the developers of the Xujiahui, Mr. Tao, used to be a dumpling peddler, but now, three or four years later, Tao is a billionaire. How? It’s said that a high-ranking official in the city government took a fancy to Tao’s wife after he saw her ladling out dumplings in their curbside stall. Needless to say, the official both gave and took in an incredible amount from her dainty hand-money for access-after they enjoyed cloud and rain in the dark night.”

“You know a lot about these things, Lianping.”

“I’m a finance journalist, and I have a friend whose father is a developer. I hear about all the manipulations and fluctuations of land prices done in the interests of the Party,” she said, with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, I’m getting a bit carried away.”

“No, I’m grateful for your insight. I have to admit, by catching the ‘last bus’ during the housing reform, I was assigned to a three-bedroom apartment. Supposedly I got such a large place because of my mother, even though she refused to move in with me.”

“You don’t have to say that. For a Party official of your rank, a three-bedroom apartment would be nothing. Nor has there been anything like ‘last bus.’ Just half a year ago, the head of
Wenhui
got a villa rent-free, the theory being that he would then be able to work better for the Party newspaper.”

“Well, in terms of social Darwinism, it’s the successful-whether businessmen or Party officials-versus the unsuccessful, the ordinary people.”

“But can we write about or report on them? No. That’s why Party newspapers, like
Wenhui
or Liberation, are really struggling. They only survive because of the mandatory subscription policy in the city. That also explains the popularity of Internet blog writings. They’re watched by the government, but not that strictly or that effectively.”

“Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “One of my colleagues had an accident on the street corner around here.”

“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed. He wasn’t here because he’d thought of her-or about the poems he’d promised her. “Those reckless drivers are impossible.”

He then took another sip in silence.

“But it’s strange,” she said. “Usually, cars drive slowly around here. What day was this?”

“Monday.”

“So that’s-” She didn’t finish the sentence. “Yes, I remember hearing something about it.”

“Detective Wei was killed-right there and then.”

“Killed. That’s impossible.” Shocked, she stood up and pointed out the window. “Look at the snaillike traffic.”

Chen followed her gesture and waited for her to go on.

“This is a busy street. It’s not like the highway, but it has its own terrible traffic. Sometimes the traffic is in a total snarl. On the fifteenth floor, you might not hear that much noise, but one definitely can in my office.”

“Because it’s a busy intersection with many people coming and going?”

“Do you know how many people come to Wenhui every day? A large number of the journalists have their own cars. Then there are the taxis for the visitors. Sometimes there are so many that the taxis form a long, curving line in front of the building. There is also the kindergarten across the street.”

“The kindergarten? Yes, I remember seeing one across the street. But what about it?”

“You should see it around three thirty. There are even more cars lined up and waiting then. It’s a private kindergarten. One of the best in the city-the best location, the best reputation, and the best history. The enrollment cost alone is thirty thousand yuan per year. The annual donation parents have to make on top of that comes to around another ten thousand.”

“Wow, that’s more than an ordinary worker’s annual salary.”

“But those aren’t ordinary parents. That’s why, starting around three in the afternoon, you’ll always see a long line of cars there-chauffeurs and nannies, waiting in private luxury cars.”

“But what about the other times of the day?”

“There are still quite a lot of people. The kids might not arrive on time, or their parents may have them picked up earlier for one reason or another. The kindergarten aside, there are many people coming to Wenhui at any time of the day,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Some of the visitors here are government Big Bugs. That driver must have totally lost his mind to drive so recklessly along Weihai Road.”

“You mean that a driver along here should know better,” he said, taking out a notebook.

“I can’t say for sure. Anything could have happened. Is this the case you’re working on?”

“No, I’m only a consultant on that case, but Detective Wei was a colleague of mine.”

“Is foul play suspected?”

“I just heard about it, but I can’t help wondering how it could have happened right in front of Wenhui Office Building.”

“I’ll ask around and let you know. Some of my colleagues may have seen or heard more about it.”

“You’re really helpful.”

“I’ve also had the pictures from the meeting at the Writers’ Association developed.” She pulled out an envelope containing photos. They started looking through them together.

“That’s a good portrait,” he said, picking out a shot of himself. “Someday I may use it on a book cover.”

“That would be fantastic.”

“I’ll see to it that you get credit.”

“Don’t worry about it. I take a lot of photos, especially for the finance section. Credit or no, it’s just a routine part of the work. I’ll e-mail you the file too.”

“Thanks. By the way, you asked me about the Zhou case the other day. Have you heard or read anything about the photo of the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty? A
Wenhui
journalist is sometimes better informed than a cop.”

The question didn’t come as a surprise to her. In fact, it would have been a surprise if the chief inspector hadn’t asked the question.

“First, let me tell you something, Chief Inspector Chen, something that happened to a journalist friend of mine in Anhui. He wrote an article exposing a major state company’s falsified sales figures right before it applied to go public. Do you know what happened? He was listed by local police as one of the ‘most wanted’ for slander, despite the fact that the article was well researched and documented. The head of the company turned out to be the nephew of the public security minister in Beijing. Even today the journalist has to hide in another province because of his ‘crime.’

“Now, a job at a Party-run newspaper is generally considered a good one. It’s secure and decently paid, as long as you know when to shut your mouth and to close your ears. So in terms of the picture in question, what can a journalist say except what can be read in an official newspaper?”

“That’s what disturbs me,” he said.

“I’m responsible for finance and new business news. So I’m supposed to attend meetings like the one in which Zhou made his speech, and then write a story about it, whether I agree with what’s said or not. However, I didn’t go to the meeting that day. Why? I was told that the Housing Development Committee would send preapproved text along with pictures, which I could publish by simply adding some adjectives and adverbs. Which was what I did.

“People active on the Internet, and not working for Wenhui or other Party newspapers, might be able to tell you more about it,” she said cautiously. “I’ve heard that the human-flesh search was started on a Web forum run by somebody named Melong, but that’s about all I know.”

“Melong?” An inscrutable expression flashed across his face, as if he was hearing the name for the first time. It was probably a deliberate response. To a high-ranking cop in charge of the investigation, that couldn’t have been news, she thought.

“For Melong, the search that started with Zhou’s picture might have been intended as a smart protest, but what it then led to went way beyond his expectations or imagination,” she said. Then she added, “Perhaps I could make some inquiries for you in financial circles.”

“That would be a great help, Lianping. I’d really appreciate it. I’m still a layman, standing outside the door of the Web world.”

“Oh, I also keep a blog. Nothing official, you know,” she said, writing down the blog address on a Post-it. “It’s called Lili’s Blog.”

“Why Lili?”

“That’s my real name, the one my parents gave me. But for a journalist, it sounds too much like a pet name. So I changed it to Lianping.”

“I’m going to read it,” he said. He drained the coffee, which was already getting cold, and stood up. “And I’ll send you my poems as soon as possible. Thanks for everything, Lianping.”

TWELVE

Chief Inspector Chen went to the bureau the next morning as usual.

Being a special consultant to the Zhou case didn’t absolve him of his responsibility for the Special Case Squad. He was still the head of the squad, though Detective Yu was, effectively, in charge.

After taking a quick look at an internal report, Chen put it down with a lingering bitter taste in his mouth. It was about a dissident artist named Ai, who was said to be stirring up trouble with some of his postmodern exhibitions, which consisted of distorted nude figures done in an absurdist fashion. Chen decided not to take it on as a potential case for the squad. Not because he knew anything about Ai’s work but because he didn’t think it was justifiable to open an investigation of an artist like Ai simply for the sake of “a harmonious society.”

There was a message from Party Secretary Li about a routine meeting around noon, but Chen chose not to return the call.

Instead, he kept brooding over the suspicious circumstances of Wei’s death. An abandoned brown SUV had been found in Nanhui. It had been stolen from a paper company several days ago. The abandoned SUV added to the possibility of its having been a premeditated assault, but at the same time, it was also a dead end. Despite his hunch that Wei’s death was connected to his investigation into Zhou’s death, Chen knew better than to discuss it around the bureau, not even with Detective Yu. The chief inspector felt utterly abysmal about not helping more with Wei’s work. He had a splitting headache coming on.

Then he remembered that Lianping had given him the address of her blog. Taking a break from thinking about Wei, he turned to his computer and typed in the address.

What she had posted there seemed to be quite different from her articles in the newspaper. The title of a recent piece immediately grabbed his attention: “The Death of Xinghua.”

Xinghua was a poet and translator of Shakespeare who died during the Cultural Revolution. He was little known among the younger generation, so Chen wondered why she chose to write about him.

A first-class poet and scholar, Xinghua translated Shakespeare’s
Henry IV,
edited and annotated the complete translation. That’s about all that people would learn about him if they happened to turn one or two pages in the Complete Works of Shakespeare. What could be more tragic than a forgotten tragedy!

As early as the Anti-Japanese War in the forties, Professor Shediek at Southwest United University considered Xinghua one of his most promising students, as gifted as Harold Bloom. Xinghua soon made a name for himself with his poems and translations, but his career was abruptly cut short. In 1957, he was labeled a rightist during the nationwide antirightist movement. He was condemned and persecuted in the subsequent political movements, and he died in his midforties at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. When an article about him appeared in the official newspaper in the late seventies, the circumstances of his final days were not mentioned at all, as if he had simply died a natural death.