The next call was unexpected, from Zhong, just as she was about to head to the shower.
“I thought about it all night. I don’t think Little Huang went out with any special plan. Before he left, he took a long bath in Chen’s room. No less than twenty-five minutes. I should have discussed it with Detective Lenich, but no one would have taken such a long, luxurious bath if he had some plan in mind.”
Again it was difficult for her to respond. Zhong might have a point, but how could he be so sure that the bath took “no less than twenty-five minutes”? Perhaps Lenich was right. There was something strange about the delegation. She had a feeling that she might have to be here for quite a few days.
“You should raise this with Detective Lenich today.”
“He’s going to be with us all day again today?” Zhong snapped. “That’s absurd!”
“Oh, we are going to the Arch, but he won’t be with us. He’ll be working in the hotel, and you can always contact him.”
It couldn’t be easy to be an interpreter-escort under normal circumstances, let alone this far-from-the-normal situation. The Chinese seemed to be in a collective lousy mood; the investigation meant a prolonged stay in St. Louis, with all sorts of restrictions imposed. Detective Lenich’s questions, while quite routine, must have sounded unpleasant to the Chinese, she thought as she took her shower. As she stepped out, still wrapped in a towel, the phone shrilled again.
“Sorry to call so early in the morning, Catherine,” Chen said.
“You aren’t that early. This is the third or fourth call this morning.” She took a look at the clock, drying her hair with the towel. Not even eight yet. “I’ll come down. We’re meeting at eight-thirty, right?”
“Yes. Yesterday I tried to talk to hotel security, but we didn’t have time. So this morning I thought you might be able to help me before we leave. Just a few questions. It won’t take too long.”
“Fine, I’ll be down in one minute.”
She dressed quickly and headed down to the lobby. She saw him standing in a corner, toying with a cell phone in his hand, a plastic bag on the chair beside him. He was dressed in a three-piece black suit with a scarlet silk tie. He looked like a Chinese official.
“Good morning, Miss Rohn.”
“Morning, Mr. Chen.”
“Look, I called you with this cell phone,” he said smiling. “Last night, Detective Lenich talked about the hotel phone records. There’s one thing I forgot to tell him. Two of us also have cell phones. Bao and I. I have to call China while traveling from one city to the next; my mother is in poor health. The prepaid cell phone is expensive. I don’t know how and why Bao has one. I don’t even know his number.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s health,” she said. But the part about the cell phone was strange, she thought. He could have told Lenich about it. It was an odd thing to say to her first thing in the morning. She looked up at him and he flipped the phone closed emphatically.
“Oh, this is for you,” he said, already changing the subject as he handed the plastic bag to her. “Last night, there were people in my room, and I came over in a hurry. The writing set is from Mr. Gu. The book is from me. You like Chinese poetry, I know.”
“Thank you so much, Chen. Can I take a look? The Chinese way is to open the present later, I know.”
“Now we are in St. Louis, so do as St. Louisians do.”
Shasha’s appearance in the lobby, however, interrupted their conversation. “Oh, you two are down early,” Shasha said in mock surprise.
“Miss Rohn has been doing a great job for us,” he said. “To express our gratitude, I am giving her some small gifts.”
“The writing set is expensive,” Shasha said, picking up the miniature water ladle and turning it over to read the tiny engraving on its back. “Eighteen-karat gold. I have a similar set at home. Four or five thousand yuan.”
“Really!” Chen exclaimed. “A friend gave it to me, and I think it will make a good present for Miss Rohn, a would-be sinologist.”
He didn’t reveal that it was a gift to her from Mr. Gu and Catherine knew why.
“A new book by you?” Shasha went on, picking up the book.
“An advance copy,” he said. “A collection of classic Chinese poetry in translation.”
“You never told me about it, Chen. You must have prepared the present just for her,” Shasha said smiling, turning toward Catherine. “Our poet must have brought the book all the way here for you.”
Catherine smiled without making a response to Shasha. “Thank you, Mr. Chen. I like Chinese poetry. It’s a wonderful present.”
Shasha turned to the inscription page, on which were two lines he had copied in English: Anguish of separation is like spring grass: / the farther you go, the more it grows. The couplet might be from a poem in the collection, but Shasha didn’t read English.
The other Chinese began to show up. It was the time for them to set out for the Arch. Catherine clapped her hands for attention.
“I’ve talked to the city government. Your prolonged stay here may cause you inconveniences, they understand. So they’ll try to do everything possible to make your visit to the city a comfortable one. For one thing, if you would like to call back to China, they have offered to provide you with prepaid international phone cards. As for those of you with cell phones, you may also have prepaid cards. You have a cell phone, Mr. Chen, don’t you?”
“Yes. As the delegation head, I have to take care of a lot of things, but I have just put enough money onto my cell.”
“I have a cell phone too,” Bao said.
She was aware of a surprised murmur among the Chinese, and of a subtle glance from Chen. “Let me put down the number and the mode, so the phone card will work with yours, Mr. Bao,” she said, taking over the phone and jotting the number on a notebook. “Now let’s go to the Arch.”
The hotel had arranged a minivan for them. Most of the Chinese carried cameras in their hands. In spite of the interpreter’s death, they wanted to have a memorable day with the celebrated Arch towering overhead.
Once they arrived at the Arch, the tallest man-made monument in the United States, the Chinese writers started wondering at close range, touching the individual slabs of stainless steel and imagining how all of them had been put together. They began to take pictures, posing with the Arch shimmering in the background.
Visitors usually wanted to go to the top of the Arch and the Chinese proved to be no exception. Catherine went to buy them the tram tickets. There were a lot of people in line for the tram, and their turn wouldn’t come for about forty-five minutes. Looking back, she saw the Chinese were still busy taking pictures. It appeared that Chen was a popular photographer among the group.
So she was left alone. She sat on a bench near the tram entrance. It was ironic. In Shanghai, Chen had played a similar escort role. If there was any difference, it was that he tried to do more than the Chinese authorities had instructed him to. Now things seemed to be coming full circle.
She started thinking about the CIA theory regarding Chen’s secret mission. She failed to see how, what with his delegation responsibilities, and in the midst of his fellow writers, it would be possible. According to the CIA, Chen hadn’t yet made any suspicious moves except for calling on pay phones instead of using the hotel phones. Chen wouldn’t have come all this way to make phone calls.
And Chen apparently had his own suspicions about the homicide case. He agreed with Lenich about probing among the writers, and then there was his hint about Bao’s cell phone earlier this morning.
She opened the book he had given her. A bound galley of Chinese love poetry translated by Chen and Yang, a celebrated scholar persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution. According to Chen’s introduction, most of the work was done by Yang, Chen only added a few poems not included in the original manuscript. She turned to a poem entitled “The Lines Written in Dinghui Temple, Huangzhou,” written by Su Dongpo, a Song dynasty poet she’d liked in her college years. Chen liked Su too, she remembered.