It was a poem Lu Xun composed for Yang Xingfu, an intellectual who was killed in the fight for democracy. Unexpectedly, memories of Detective Wei came back, overwhelming Chen in the guilty realization that he was not a poet like Lu Xun, not having written a single line for the dead.
“Two hundred yuan,” the peddler declared. “You are a man of letters, and you know the true value.”
“One hundred,” he bargained without thinking.
“Deal.”
Back in Shanghai, the scroll could hang in his office, he mused, as a souvenir of the trip, and in memory of Detective Wei.
Like everywhere else in China, Shaoxing was inundated by wave upon wave of consumerism. Along the street, except for the houses marked as part of Lu Xun’s residence, all the houses had been turned into shops or restaurants named in connection to the great writer. One salesman held a brown urn of Shaoxing rice wine on top of his head while jumping in and out a ring of wine bottles like an acrobat. Chen couldn’t recall any such scene in the stories.
He wished he could find a small tea room, but at least he was relieved not to see a Starbucks. He stepped into a small tavern instead, where he ordered a bowl of yellow wine. At this time of the day, he was the only customer, so a waiter also brought him a tiny dish of peas flavored with aniseed. Picking up a pea, he debated with himself whether he should go to the festival, perhaps make only a quick appearance. But once he was there, it might not be easy to get away quickly.
He couldn’t see any real point in going, just to join in the chorus singing the praises of “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” Lu Xun, for one, would never have done that.
Chen thought about an article he’d read recently. It was about a surprising comment Chairman Mao had made regarding Lu Xun in the fifties, during the heat of the antirightist movement. When asked what Lu Xun would have been doing if he was still around, Mao said simply that Lu would be locked up and rotting in prison.
As he sat there lost in thought, Chen got another call from Tang.
“Yes, there is a property registered in the name of Fang, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s a villa near Lu Xun’s old home.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you in a minute. There used to be a phone line under her name, but it was canceled about half a year ago. Which isn’t too surprising, since more and more people use only mobile phones. Also, the property seems to be unoccupied most of the time. According to the subdivision security, a woman moved in just a couple of days ago. Possibly she’s none other than Fang. The security guard is pretty sure she’s there now.”
“Good, I’m on my way.”
There was nothing surprising about the property being registered under her name. Either Zhou was cautious, having purchased it for himself but put it under her name, or he was really smitten and bought it for her.
The subdivision was about two blocks behind Lu Xun’s home. From a distance, he glimpsed a stretch of new roofs shining in the sunlight.
There was no ruling out the possibility that she was kept under surveillance in that subdivision. If he was able to track her down there, so could others. Still, he had to approach her. He turned a corner on the street, looking over his shoulder one more time.
NINETEEN
Turning around, Chen caught sight of Kong Yiji Restaurant.
Kong Yiji was the protagonist in one of Lu Xun’s stories. He was a scholar, totally down and out because of his having failed the civil service examination, his quixotic insistence on the old ways at the end of the Qing dynasty, and his inability to adjust to the changing society. Consequently a helpless drunkard, Kong spent his money-whenever he had any-in a small tavern, where he postured and lectured in an impossibly bookish way.
In that story, the tavern was shabby. It was frequented by short-coated, poor customers who could only afford to drink standing at the counter with just a one-copper plate of aniseed-flavored peas. The relatively better-off, long-gowned customers would sit sipping their wine and relaxing in an adjacent room.
The new restaurant was huge, even though its façade sported some decorations depicted in the story, such as a hot water container for wine warming; a row of dented, ancient-looking bowls and saucers; and a signboard on the wall with a chalk inscription declaring, “Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers.” Chen walked over and stepped inside.
“Give me a private room,” Chen said to the young waitress who came up to greet him, “a small one.”
“Just for two?”
“Yes, just for two. You know what I want.”
“Sure, we have one for you.”
The waitress led him to a cozy room lined with pink floral wallpaper. It was furnished with a dining table and chair, a long couch, and a coffee table sporting a statuette of a naked Venus, none of which had anything to do with the original story or its protagonist. That bookish archetype would have never dreamed of a romantic rendezvous in a room like this. The waitress handed Chen a pink-covered menu.
“These are specialties of your restaurant?” Chen asked.
“Yes. There is a minimum charge of seven hundred yuan for the private room. I can recommend some-”
“That’s fine. Bring me whatever you recommend, but make sure to include the local specials.”
He then took out his notebook and scribbled on a page:
Don’t worry about who I am. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help. Come to the restaurant. Private room 101. I’ll be waiting for you.
He tore out the page, put it into an envelope, and addressed it before handing it to the waitress.
“Deliver it to the address on the envelope. Make sure she herself gets it. Here’s ten yuan for delivering it. When she comes over, I’ll have another twenty for you.”
The waitress eyed him up and down slowly before she nodded, like one waking from a dream. Her face lit up with an arch smile.
“I see, sir. She’ll be here.”
He wondered what the waitress saw, but that hardly mattered.
A middle-aged man wearing a long, worn-out blue gown appeared in the doorway, gesticulating, mumbling literary quotations that ended invariably with the refrain, “forsooth, little left, indeed, little left.” Originally, it referred to the peas in the impoverished character’s hand, Chen recalled. He waved “Kong Yiji” away, closed the door, and wondered what Lu Xun would have thought of that.
Twenty minutes later, there was a light knock on the door.
“Come in, Fang.”
A woman in a plain white blouse and black pants stepped in, a suggestion of hesitation in her timid movements. She appeared to be in her early or mid thirties. Thin, slender, she had a slightly long face, almond-shaped eyes, and a black mole on her forehead.
He stood up and signaled her to a seat, raising his finger to his lips like an old friend. The two sat in silence, waiting, as the waitress came in to serve the cold dishes and then pour the rice wine in two bowls in front of them.
Chen took a slow sip from the bowl. The wine was surprisingly sweet and mellow. The dishes of food in front of them appeared interesting. Smoked duck, white fish fried with green onions, stinking tofu, salt-water-boiled river shrimp, fermented winter melon, and dried bamboo shoots. Thanks to Lu Xun, the special dishes all appeared to reflect the traditional local flavor, even though it was done for a strictly commercial purpose.
“Don’t hurry with the hot dishes. We’d like to talk first,” he said to the waitress. “And please make sure to knock before entering.”
“Of course.”
The moment the waitress stepped out, Chen produced his business card and placed it on the table before Fang.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Fang. I’m Chief Inspector Chen Cao, Deputy Party Secretary of the Shanghai Police Bureau, and also a member of Shanghai Party Committee.”
He didn’t like to use the titles printed on his business card, but they might help in the present situation.