“Do you remember anything unusual that he said or did during his visits?”
“No, I spoke only two or three words to him each time. We were seated at a big banquet table, more than ten of us, each of us thanking and toasting him across the table. I wondered whether he even noticed me.”
“But he must have talked to the others. For instance, about family back in Shanghai or his work?”
“He mentioned that the housing prices were still quite cheap here. I remember because we all took him as someone with reliable inside information. A free-standing villa in the best location here in Shaoxing would cost less than one million yuan, and he told us that it’s a steal.”
“So he encouraged you to buy?”
“A bargain or not, it’s still way beyond me. He mentioned one particular high-end subdivision, I think.”
“Was he going to buy something for himself?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about it.”
“What’s the name of the subdivision?”
“It’s near East Lake, but I can’t recall the name.”
“Was there anything else, Mingxia?”
“Well, I don’t know. He didn’t come back with his family. Instead, there was a secretary sitting with him, waiting on him. She deboned the Dong Lake fish for him during one of the banquets. But then that’s not that unusual for someone in his position, is it?”
“You mean having a little secretary?”
“I couldn’t tell. But she wasn’t that little, and not that young. Much younger than Zhou, of course.”
After talking for another forty-five minutes, Chen took his leave, practically empty-handed. All he’d learned was that Zhou had traveled with Fang, which, given their relationship, probably didn’t mean anything.
He began wondering if it was worthwhile to keep pursuing this angle.
Next, he decided to visit Chang Lihua, the director of the Shaoxing Housing Development.
Chang appeared genuinely surprised by Chen’s unannounced visit.
“You should have told us earlier about your visit, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I haven’t told anybody about my visit. There’s no point beating around the bush with you, Director Chang. You must have heard what was going on with Zhou. It’s a very complicated and sensitive case. The less people know about it, the better. Your help would be most valuable to us.”
“Thank you for telling me this,” Chang said, producing a pack of cigarettes. He was about to offer one to Chen, when his hand jerked back as if he’d been bitten by a poisonous snake.
They were Panda. Since they had once been made exclusively for Comrade Deng Xiaoping in the Forbidden City, the memories of its imperial uniqueness lingered. That was what made them so expensive.
“Don’t worry about it, Chang. What really got Zhou into trouble wasn’t a pack of 95 Supreme Majesty, as we both know only too well.”
“I know. And the housing prices are much lower in Shaoxing, with no housing market bubble to worry about. It’s not at all comparable to the situation in Shanghai.”
“Shanghai’s bubble economy is not what concerns me,” Chen said. “Since Zhou worked in the same sector as you, Director Chang, I suppose he talked to you about the housing market during his visits to Shaoxing last year.”
“Of course we had met and talked in the past, but last year he wasn’t here on business. He just called me from the station, a few minutes before his train was leaving,” Chang said, trying to recall. “He did touch on some of the changes in the housing market, specifically the new regulation against the construction of independent villas in the city of Shanghai.”
“Why did he bring that up?”
“With the new high-speed train next year, Shaoxing will be only an hour away from Shanghai. A villa here could become a real bargain.”
“So he wanted to buy one?
“That I don’t know. It was only a short conversation before he boarded his train. Perhaps the call was just out of courtesy.”
As he left Chang’s office, Chen couldn’t help feeling that the Shaoxing trip would turn out to be another waste of time. So far, it hadn’t yielded anything helpful to his investigation.
Still, he did not want to give up so quickly. There might be some details he hadn’t examined closely enough.
The proverb cited by Mingxia-that it’s important for a successful man to return to his old home wrapped in glory-came from the story about Xiang Yu, the king of Chu, in the third century BC. Xiang Yu, at the peak of his military power, was swayed by an ancient saying, “If one is rich and successful without going back to his old home in all his glory, it’s like walking in one’s best clothes in the dark.” So he had led his troops back to his old home, a strategically disastrous move that eventually led to the demise of his kingdom. Despite the results, the concept had become rooted in China’s collective unconscious. It was almost unimaginable for a successful Party official not to show off for the people back home. But to do so after many years, to do so twice in one year, and to do it in the company of Fang… it didn’t add up. What if the stories of him traveling to Shaoxing with a younger woman-not his wife-made it back to Shanghai?
Chen’s cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Detective Tang.
“Anything new, Tang?”
“Sorry, I haven’t found any property listed under his name.”
“Could you check another name?”
“Another name?”
“Fang Fang-possibly a villa near the East Lake. It’s a long shot. If it helps at all, the transaction was probably done last year.”
“That narrows it down. I’ll check into it right now.”
It would take a while, however, before Chen would hear back. In the meantime, he had some time to kill.
Cutting across the side street, he noticed an arrow-shaped sign pointing the way to Lu Xun’s residence. It looked like it was only a ten-minute walk away. The festival was being held there, but he should be able to maneuver around without being seen by the participants. He found himself heading in that direction.
Among modern Chinese writers, Chen admired no one more than Lu Xun, who fought against the injustices of society in the early decades of the twentieth century. For years after 1949, Lu Xun was endorsed by the Party government as the one and only proletarian writer because of his criticism of the Nationalist government.
Beyond a stone bridge, Chen saw a group of tourists getting off a bus near the entrance to an old street, most of them holding maps and brochures in their hands. An elderly man wearing a fake pigtail over a gray cotton gown shuffled up to the tourists, as if he had just emerged out of an illustration of a story by Lu Xun, selling souvenirs from his bamboo basket.
The original Lu residence must have been large, presumably housing the whole clan. Apart from a considerable number of halls and rooms, Chen saw the Hundred-Flower Garden at one side of the street and the Three-Flavor Study on the other, both of them mentioned in Lu Xun’s writings. Chen managed to curb the temptation to walk over to them.
About half a block away, in front of a quadrangle house, was a vertical wooden sign reading Young Writers’ Base of Lu Xun Academy. The door stood ajar, through which could be seen a corner of the tranquil flagstone courtyard. It was probably something like a writers’ colony. If so, he might try to come and stay here for a week, basking in the feng shui of Lu Xun’s old home, though he was no longer a young writer. Hearing voices coming from within, he hurried away.
“Buy a scroll of Shaoxing brush pen calligraphy-Lu Xun’s poem.” A scholarlike peddler with a flowing silver beard intercepted him on the street. “The calligrapher is an undiscovered master: in a few years, the scroll could be worth a fortune.”
The scroll showed a quatrain in bold Wei style.
How can I afford to be passionate as of yore? / Let flower bloom or fall, I care no more. / Who could have thought that in the southern rain, / I’m weeping for a son of the country again?