The water flows along, the cloud drifts away, and the spring is gone. / It’s a different world.
He tried to straighten up the things on her nightstand here, as if the effort could somehow make him feel less lousy. He was interrupted by a noise at the door.
“Hello, Chief Inspector Chen. Nurse Liang Xia told me that you were here today. You should have told me you were coming.”
Chen looked up to see Dr. Hou striding into the room, beaming from ear to ear. Hou Zidong, the head of the hospital, was wearing a white smock over a black suit with a red tie.
“Dr. Hou, I want to thank you for everything you’ve been doing for my mother. You’re a busy man, I understand, so I didn’t call you.”
“Auntie has been doing well. No need to worry. We’ll make sure that it’s just like home here.”
“Dr. Hou has done a fantastic job, as I have told you many times,” she said, looking at Chen with a light of pride flashing in her eyes.
Chen understood. It was all because of a “case” Chen had helped with in the late eighties. The “suspect” in question was none other than Hou, a young doctor newly assigned to a neighborhood hospital. While in college, Hou had been involved in a so-called foreign liaison case. According to an inside control file, Hou had visited an American medical expert staying at the Jinjiang Hotel and had signed his name in the hotel register book several times. The American was alleged to have connections to the CIA. So Hou was put on a blacklist without knowing it. After Hou’s graduation, there was an international medical conference in New York, and the head of the Chinese delegation picked Hou as a qualified candidate-someone with several English papers published in the field, whose presence could help to “contribute to China’s image.” But for Hou to join the delegation, it was necessary to investigate his involvement with the American. Chen was assigned to listen to the recordings of the phone conversations between Hou and the alleged American spy. As it turned out, they talked about nothing but their common interests in the medical field. In one phone call, Hou did urge the American to be more careful, but judging from the context, he was referring to the American’s drinking problem. It was ridiculous to put Hou on a blacklist because of that, Chen concluded. He transcribed and translated the taped conversations carefully, submitted a detailed analysis to the higher authoritities, and proposed that Hou’s name be cleared.
No longer a suspect, Hou was allowed a spot in the delegation, his speech was well received at the conference, and his luck since then had been incredible. It wasn’t long before he was transferred to East China Hospital, one of the most prestigious in the city, where eventually he became the head of the hospital. About a year ago, Hou had learned of Chen’s help from a high-ranking cadre who stayed at the hospital. The next day Hou came to the bureau, declaring Chen was the “guiren” in his life-the life-changing helper who had come out of nowhere.
“I knew somebody helped, but I didn’t know it was you, Chief Inspector Chen. Ever since then, I’ve always tried to be a conscientious doctor. Do you know why? I wanted to be as conscientious as my guiren. There are so many problems in society today, but there are still a few good Party cadres like you. Now, if there is ever anything I can do for you, just say the word. As in the old saying, for the favor of a drop of water, one has to dig out a fountain in return.”
Dr. Hou kept his word. When Chen’s mother was sick, Hou took it upon himself to handle everything. It was impossible for ordinary people to get into the prestigious East China Hospital, but Hou made an exception for her and arranged a special room, in spite of the fact that she had suffered only a minor stroke. He insisted that she stay for her convalescence as well.
“You’ve really gone out of your way for her, Dr. Hou.”
“For me, it’s as effortless as a wave of my hand. Auntie may stay here as long as she likes. She doesn’t owe the hospital any money. To be frank, we need cash-rich patients like her in our hospital. Lu, one of your buddies, insisted on depositing a large sum against the account of his auntie.”
“Overseas Chinese Lu is impossible,” Chen said with a wry smile, glancing at the presents on the nightstand again. Lu might not be the only one.
Dr. Hou’s cell phone rang. He looked at it without answering it.
“I’ve got another meeting. I have to go. But don’t worry, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll come by regularly.”
Chen’s mother sat up and watched the doctor walk out of the room, then turned to her son.
“You go back to your work too. People don’t speak so highly of the police, but my son is conscientious, I know. That comforts me more than anything else. Good things do not go unrewarded. It’s karma.”
Chen nodded.
“Oh, before I forget, there is a gift card from another of your buddies. Mr. Gu. You know how to deal with it, I think.”
He picked up the gift card and frowned at the amount. Twenty thousand yuan.
The money meant nothing to Gu, who was a business tycoon. He’d helped Chen in an earlier investigation, and Chen had also proved helpful to Gu. Gu had since claimed to be a friend of the chief inspector, and he, too, called Chen’s mother his “auntie.”
The expensive gift card would have been acceptable for a real auntie, but as it was, it was just another way for Gu to grease the connection. Still, it was considerate of Gu. What made it difficult for Chen was that the gift card came not to him but to his mother. It wouldn’t be that easy for him to return it.
“I’ll take care of it, Mother,” Chen said, putting the card in his pocket.
His cell phone rang. It was Detective Yu. Chen excused himself and stepped out into the hall.
Yu called to fill Chen in on the meeting that had just finished in the bureau. Among other things, Party Secretary Li had been surprisingly adamant in refusing to acknowledge that Detective Wei’s death happened while he was on duty. Wei was killed during the investigation, but no one knew what he was doing there at that particular intersection, at that particular moment. Li claimed that Wei might have been there for himself, checking out some evening courses at a night school around the corner.
To Chen, the change in Li’s attitude was not too surprising. Initially, Li must have been shocked and saddened, like everybody else in the bureau. Wei was a veteran cop, having worked hard in the bureau for years. But the prospect of pursuing his death as a possible murder case could further complicate the Zhou situation. In the final analysis, any more speculation concerning the Zhou case wasn’t seen as in the Party’s interest.
“His wife is sick and jobless at home, and his son is still in middle school,” Yu concluded on a somber note.
Chen got his point. If Wei had died in an accident, there wouldn’t be any bureau compensation for his family.
Walking back into the room with the phone in his hand, Chen felt even more guilty. Had he attended the meeting, at least he could have tried to speak up for Wei, though he wondered whether that would have made any difference. Probably nothing would, unless it was proved that Wei was doing his duty, investigating around the corner near Wenhui Office Building, when he was killed.
But what was Wei doing there?
“I have to leave, Mother,” he said. “Something has come up at the bureau. I’ll come back soon.”
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Chen went to Pingliang Road in the Yangpu District.
According to the address he had, the Weis lived on an old lane. In the early sixties, a number of “worker apartments” were built there, which were undoubtedly an improvement over the pre-1949 slums, but each apartment unit had then been partitioned and partitioned again, resulting in an entire family inhabiting one room of the original three-bedroom design, and all of the families sharing the kitchen and toilet.
It wasn’t a surprise that the lane showed all the wear and tear of the past decades, even more so now that the apartment buildings were in sharp contrast to the skyscrapers that surrounded them. As he stepped into the lane, Chen felt a weird sense of disorientation. He was walking under a network of bamboo poles stretched across the lane, filled with damp laundry, like an impressionist expanse obliterating the sky overhead. The lane was rendered even narrower by the bewildering jumble of stuff stacked along both sides-a locked bike with a large bamboo basket, another covered with a large plastic sheet, a broken coal stove, a ramshackle tool-and-junk shed, and all sorts of residential add-ons, legal or illegal, seeming almost to have sprouted magically from the original houses.