“Well.” He pulled several bills out of his wallet. “Let’s make it two thousand and send the money to Little Huang’s family-in the name of our delegation.”
“Damn it,” Shasha said, emptying the money out of her purse. “Only twenty bucks. That’s all I have left today.”
“We don’t have to do that,” Bao said, clutching his full cup. “The Beijing authorities will take care of things in the proper way.”
“We don’t have to do this, and to do that,” Chen snapped. “Little Huang died for us-because of us. He was not even a so-called writer like you and me.”
28
IT MIGHT BE HIS last day in St. Louis, Chen supposed, stepping into the shabby motel near Jefferson Road. Behind the motel, not too far away, the Arch stood silhouetted against the gray sky, still, splendid as always.
He had been told to meet with Feidong, a military attaché from the Chinese Council in Chicago. The meeting was arranged more out of formality, though the location of it intrigued Chen. They could have met in the hotel where the delegation stayed.
Feidong conveyed his congratulations to Chen on behalf of the Culture Ministry and the Foreign Ministry. Then basically the same message: in view of the new situation, the delegation would return to China. Speaking as a government representative, Feidong showed proper respect to the chief inspector.
“The leading comrades in Beijing are pleased with your work.”
“What work?”
But there was no point arguing with Feidong, or even raising the question. He might not have any clue what work Chen was really engaged with here.
“Well, they are concerned with the safety of the delegation,” Feidong went on without directly responding to his question. “If anything else happens, it would be a diplomatic disaster. Then, huge responsibilities.”
So the meeting was not merely one of formality. It functioned as double insurance. After Zhao’s talk, the message was reiterated more like a warning. Chen had to lead the delegation back. Period.
Chen remained polite, saying little throughout the meeting, because it was a decision he had to accept. There was no point in fighting it.
“Also, there will be no mentioning Comrade Huang’s case whatsoever to the Chinese media. The delegation members are not supposed to talk or write about it upon their return.”
“Why?”
“It’s in the Party’s interests.”
Of course, anything would be so justified. There was little Chen could do about it. A case might be given to him one minute, and taken away the next. It was a fact he had long known. The final decision was always made in the interests of the Party.
The meeting was shorter than Chen had anticipated. There was hardly anything new to him. He had to be content, he tried to comfort himself, with whatever role was assigned to him-with the appearance that he had played the role successfully. He should not have felt so frustrated. He left the motel and started walking along the deserted street.
A blue jay flushed up, swirling around overhead before it flew away, as if carrying the sun on its back.
Had General Li met with the First Emperor of Han, / he could have easily been a duke. The lines Zhao had quoted in Shanghai came back to mind. In some of his cases, Chief Inspector Chen might not have gone all the way- for one reason or another. This time, he believed he had gone the extra mile, but for what?
A taxi slowed down beside him. An Arabic driver tentatively rolled down the window. Chen got in and gave the hotel name absentmindedly. As the car started out, he realized he was in no hurry to go back. He didn’t know how to explain the government’s decision to the delegation, though they probably wouldn’t make too much of it. It was about time for them to go back.
He didn’t have to announce the decision immediately. The delegation was having a meeting with a group of local Chinese writers with a Chinese dinner afterward. They all knew he had a meeting with the embassy people. A meeting no one would try to question. Not even Bao.
So Chen had the late afternoon for himself. He had done what he could, he kept telling himself, and further speculation would not help. Because things were beyond his control. Because he knew his limits. Because it depressed him to think. He did not have to be a cop or a delegation head every minute-at least not toward the end of his last day in the city.
For him, it remained an unfamiliar city, tall buildings looming up along the way like indecipherable signs against the horizon, ebbing to stunted slums before rising up again. He saw a Budweiser billboard of an eagle ceaselessly flapping its neon wings. The brewery had its successful joint ventures in China, its beer so cool and refreshing in Chinese TV commercials, and promoted everywhere by those scantily-clad Bud girls. The company already made a huge profit in only a few years after its entry into China ’s market, he had read. He thought of Tian and his ex-Bud-girl wife, whistling softly. Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out the address book, and read out a street name to the driver.
“So that’s where you want to go now?” the driver said without looking over his shoulder.
“Yes. Sorry about the change.”
“No problem. It’s not far away. In University City.”
He had not made any plan with Catherine for the evening, for he’d had no clue how long his meeting with the embassy official would last. So he’d told her he would be busy that afternoon, and perhaps that evening too. As most of the local writers at the afternoon meeting were bilingual, her services were not needed. She’d mentioned that instead of staying with them, she might go home.
As the taxi reached the intersection of Delmar and Skinker, he told the driver to stop. Handing the man a twenty-dollar bill, he didn’t ask for a receipt, which might reveal his whereabouts. Everybody knew about his “important” meeting this afternoon.
“Let us go,” he murmured to himself.
That section of Delmar was lined with bars and restaurants. He strolled past a café. A number of customers sat outside. A young girl was singing with an electric guitar near the entrance, her bare feet beating out the rhythm on the sidewalk, as if in correspondence to what had been already lost in his memory, distantly, with a string and a peg. Next to the neon sign was a secondhand bookstore. He resisted the temptation to step in.
Her apartment building was an old brownstone near the beginning of a quaint side street. One of the second-floor windows was decorated with a spreading cluster of dark green ivy underneath. He thought he recognized it from a picture she had once shown him.
He believed he had learned some things during the trip. Among others, people had to make appointments to visit here. No one simply dropped by, like in Shanghai. It wouldn’t do for him to knock on her door like this.
He pulled out his cell phone and called her home number. No one answered. Then he tried her cell phone, which was turned off, unfortunately. It was about four-thirty. She would probably come back soon. He thought he might as well wait awhile here. A nice surprise for her. And he found himself quite contented with the anticipation of it.
For the moment, he didn’t want to think about his responsibilities- being a government delegation head or being a chief inspector. Simply being a man waiting for a woman.
He turned into a street corner bar. Instead of sitting outside, he chose a table inside, leaning against the window, keeping her building in sight. It was a small, cozy bar; its walls presented an impressive array of old trophies and posters in a nostalgic statement against time. There was also a stuffed deer head gazing down, forever forlorn. A young waitress in high-heeled slippers came over, blowing out a gum bubble, and put a menu on the table. He wasn’t hungry so he had a glass of Chardonnay, and started sipping, watching out. He saw a bald man in shirtsleeves leaning out the window above hers, with a curl of smoke rising peacefully from a pipe.