“Thank you,” she said. “You are a good boss. And a good friend too.”
“I have done nothing. It’s your book, Shasha.”
“I wish I could do something for you too, Chen. You seem to have so much on your mind.”
“The investigation of Little Huang’s death is going nowhere, and we are stuck here in St. Louis. As the delegation head, I can’t help but be concerned.”
“It’s not your fault. You were dragged into the delegation. I don’t think anybody could have done better in your position.”
“Now that we are on the subject, Shasha, I have a question for you. Chairman Wang called me just two days before the trip. I knew little about the conference, or about the delegation. Now the Americans believe that except for you and I, everyone else in the delegation could be a suspect.
“Why?”
“From five to six-fifteen that afternoon, I was reading in a café down in the mall, and a bookseller there confirmed my alibi. You called from your room to my room around five-forty, and the front desk also remembered you picking up my room key shortly afterward. In other words, you and I alone have solid alibis.”
“You are a cop, Chen,” she said sharply, “I don’t think I am in a position to discuss this with you.”
“No, I don’t suspect anyone in our delegation. But to discuss the case with Detective Lenich, I need to know more about them.”
“Well,” she said slowly, looking at him in the face, “I would like to ask you a question first.”
“Go ahead, Shasha.”
“You already knew Catherine, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we met in Shanghai,” he said, surprised by her observation, but determined to say no more than necessary.
“The way she looks at you, I knew,” she said. “You may take me as a busybody, but to tell the truth, your friend Ling wanted me to keep an eye on you. Now don’t get her wrong. Whatever problems there may have been between you two, she’s concerned about you.”
“Yes, you move in the same circle, I should have known, but let’s not talk about her for the moment-”
“Let me finish. She told me she had her reasons to be concerned about you-about you, not because of your relationship, you know what I mean, though she didn’t go into any details with me.”
“I see,” he said somberly. Ling could have called him directly, although the details of her concerns wouldn’t have been pleasant or positive to him as a cop, especially in the midst of an investigation on the number-one corruption case in China, he supposed. “Thank you, Shasha.”
“That’s why I have been concerned too. Ling is a good friend of mine. Not every high cadre’s child really wants to be an HCC-not me, not Ling. Now, what do you want to know?”
“How were the people selected for the delegation? For instance, Peng doesn’t write anymore, and he hardly speaks at the conference. Considering what he suffered during all the political movements, some compensation is understandable-”
“Who didn’t suffer those years?” Shasha said with a cynical smile. “But his daughter has married an HCCC
“HCCC?”
“High Cadre’s Children Cadre. In other words, those HCC themselves have become high cadres. Peng’s son-in-law has been rising fast-already a member of the Central Party Committee. So he put in a word for Peng with the Writers’ Association. ‘The old man has suffered enough. We have to think of a symbolic compensation for him. It’s also good for China ’s image. Perhaps you may arrange a visit abroad for him.’ “
“So he was chosen because of his son-in-law,” he said, “not because of his work.”
“And Bao was chosen for symbolic considerations too, though different ones. He complained to everybody-as a representative of the working-class writers left out in the cold in the nineties. As for me, nobody put in a word for me. The people at the Writers’ Association know more about my connections than about my writings. Now Zhong might have come into the delegation on his own merits, but his mistress in Beijing, a well-connected writer, must have made phone calls for him too.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” he said, but now he knew why Zhong kept calling back to Beijing. “Still, I’m not qualified to be the delegation head. Why would they choose me?”
“You keep saying that you aren’t qualified. But who really is? Don’t be so hard on yourself. In China today, with everything turned upside down, make the best of the situation for yourself-as long as it isn’t at the cost of others. What else can you do?”
“Thank you for telling me all this, Shasha.”
“One more thing,” she said rising. “Because of Ling’s request, I have been observing things happening around you. All of a sudden, Bao has a cell phone. One evening, I overheard him talking on the cell phone, mentioning your name.”
Shortly before lunchtime, Catherine proposed her new plan for the day: an evening of opera at the Fox Theater, and before that, shopping at Asian grocery stores on nearby Grand Avenue. Chen made a different suggestion. A visit to Eliot’s old home in the Central West End. No one else seemed to be interested, though.
“T. S. Eliot is the guiren for you,” Zhong said with a smile.
Chen smiled by way of response. In Chinese, guiren meant an unexpected helper, as if preordained. It was true that a large number of readers came to know Chen through Eliot.
“Really!” Catherine feigned surprise.
“Well, the success of the translation came more from Eliot’s status as a modernist. Some critics claimed-tongue-in-cheek-that it was necessary to understand modernism for the realization of ‘four modernizations’ for China.”
“Yes,” Shasha cut in with a giggle, “a young girl put a Chinese copy of ‘The Waste Land’ as something symbolic of her modernist knowledge on top of her dowager in a tricycle, parading the book all the way through Nanjing Road.”
“No wonder,” Catherine said. “Mr. Chen wouldn’t miss this opportunity for the world.”
So they reached a compromise. As Peng wanted to take a nap after lunch, the delegation was going to the groceries in the late afternoon, and then to the theater as suggested by Catherine. Chen was going to the Central West End, alone, “like a pilgrim,” as Shasha commented.
Not exactly alone, though.
“I don’t think there’s a need for me to interpret at the Chinese groceries. Nor at the theater, people are not allowed to speak there. The minivan driver will take you there, and then bring you back after the opera. There are several Asian restaurants in the Grand area. Choose one you like.” Catherine went on, turning to Chen, “Let me drive you to the Central West End, Mr. Chen. We’ll discuss more about the schedule changes on the way.”
“Yes, that’s so considerate of you, Catherine,” Shasha commented. “Our poet has been working hard. He deserves a break in his favorite area.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chen said. “Comrade Bao, you’ll take care of the group.”
It was a practical arrangement. No one raised any objections, except Bao, who declared in a miserable tone, “It’s really yangzhui to watch opera. I would rather stay in the hotel.”
“Yangzhui?” Catherine repeated it in puzzlement. She hadn’t heard the Chinese expression before.
Literally, yangzhui meant “foreign or exotic punishment or torture.” In its extended usage, it could refer to any unpleasant experience. For Bao, an opera in a foreign language for three hours would be indeed long and boring. Chen chose not to explain. He simply said, “Comrade Bao may be a bit tired.”
But Bao changed his mind. In spite of his disinclination, he agreed to take the delegation to the theater. “One of us has to be responsible for the delegation, Chen. So you can go to the Central West End.”