Chen then dialed Sergeant Kuang, who hadn’t made a report to him, but it wasn’t really something officially requested. After all, An’s death wasn’t assigned to the special case squad.
Presently a large envelope came through the bureau mail. It was from Kuang, containing a transcript of An’s phone calls for the last three days. Sending it instead of bringing it to Chen’s office in person was perhaps Kuang’s way of showing Chen the reluctance of his respect. Chen began reading the transcript at once. Over the last three days, An had made six phone calls. Three to her son’s school. One to her company assistant. Two to someone in the city government about a possible cultural festival. Not a single call was remotely related to Ming, or to Xing.
Was it possible that something had been deleted from the records? Chen didn’t think so. There was also a short note in the envelope, saying that Kuang had been making a list of the people she had met in the last few days. The list could be a long one. It had obviously not been traced as far back as Chen yet, but it would be, eventually.
He tried Kuang’s number, but the line was busy. So Chen came back to the delegation file on the desk.
Nominally, the Writers’ Association was an unofficial organization, but it was largely controlled by the government through its funding. One of the main functions of the association was to provide for a number of “professional writers,” who would be able to concentrate on writing without having to worry about nine-to-five jobs. Each of them would get from the association a gongzi, an amount equivalent to their otherwise regular salary. In the pre-reform years, it had meant a lot to be initiated into the association. It was a high honor, and there were a lot of benefits too. In fact, all the writers chosen for the delegation were members of the association, and all of them were professional writers except Chen. He had chosen not to be one because of the imposed limitations. He would have had to write more “officially”-in tune with the government. The financial aid came with a political tab.
The mid-nineties brought dramatic changes everywhere, and in the literary scene too, in spite of the government control. For one thing, the book market became increasingly money-oriented. The new royalties system made a small number of writers financially independent, while those whose works could hardly sell in the market, like poets or critics, got nothing but the basic professional-writer pay from the association.
The delegation contained writers in a variety of genres. On the top of the list was Bao Guodong, a poet whose work was not unfamiliar to Chen, especially what he had produced during the Cultural Revolution. Even after all these years, a few lines came back to his mind easily-
The fish cannot swim without water.
The flower cannot blossom without sunlight.
And to make revolution,
We cannot go without Mao Zhedong Thought.
The poem had been made into a popular song broadcast all over the country. After the Cultural Revolution, Bao wrote little, but he remained on the literary scene, as an administrator in the Beijing office of the association. Now Bao also served as the Party Secretary of the delegation.
The next one was Zhong Taifei, a playwright better known for his life story. As a Rightist, Zhong spent his best years in a faraway labor camp, where his “black” class status excluded any possibility of romance. Then, during the Cultural Revolution, he fell on his hardest time yet, being physically starved as well as sexually starved, literally more dead than alive. But as Lao Zi writes, Luck turns at the lowest point. A widow cook, illiterate, older by more than ten years, took inexplicable pity on him. He survived on the steamed buns she stole for him. As a result of mysteriously misplaced yin and yang, they came to live together. In the eighties, Zhong wrote a play based on his experience in the labor camp. It was a huge hit. His life story got much exposure, along with the picture of “her white hair shining against his red cheeks,” which added to the popularity of his works.
Then was Shasha, a “beauty author” before the invention of the term. Born of a high-ranking cadre family, she chose for herself an unconventional path, first as a dancer, and then as a novelist. There were notorious stories, however, attributing her literary success to her unconventional life in the circle of high connections. One of the stories claimed that half of the politburo could have met in her “scented bedroom of red sweat.” Those tales might not have been reliable, but it was undeniable that her literary achievement was not “pure and simple.”
And then was Peng Quan. Peng had written celebrated essays before 1949, but in the years afterward, as a “historical counterrevolutionary,” he had produced nothing. Unlike Zhong, Peng kept silent even after his rehabilitation. Having survived thirty years of self-reforming and self-criticizing, he might have been totally brainwashed. Nothing left of the talented essayist of forty years earlier. Why Peng was chosen for the delegation, Chen had no clue.
Finally, there was Huang Jialiang, a young interpreter for the delegation and a recent graduate from the Beijing Foreign Language University, where Chen had studied in the early eighties.
But Chen didn’t want to spend too much time looking through all the information. There was no rush on it. He was going to be with those people for two weeks. Instead, he moved on to the activities of the delegation. Except for some formal speeches, he realized that he would not have much to do. So he might as well follow the time-honored doctrine of Taoism: Doing nothing does everything. The established writers should know better than to cause trouble, and contrary to Chairman Wang’s suggestion, he didn’t see any point in supervising them every step of the way. There was only one official responsibility specified in the document: he was going to organize daily political studies for the delegation, but that too would merely be a matter of formality.
He made a phone call to the Shanghai Library, requesting some books. He didn’t have much time to prepare for the conference, but he would try to read those books during the flight. Then, as he was going to call Detective Yu, unexpected phone calls came into his office.
Zhu Wei, the Wenhui Daily reporter, wanted Chen to purchase for him the latest edition of a GMAT reference book in the United States. Zhu must be a well-connected reporter to have learned about his new appointment so fast. The second phone call was from Xi Ran, the Secretary of the Writers’ Association, Shanghai Office, asking Chen to carry copies of Shanghai Literature to the conference. To his surprise, the third was from his mother. Party Secretary Li had already informed her of the delegation assignment, assuring her that the bureau would provide any help she needed during his absence. She wanted Chen to buy some genuine American ginseng for her friends. Then she switched the topic.
“Perhaps you’ll see your American friend there.”
“I don’t think I’ll have the time,” he said, aware of what was running across her mind. “She may not know about my visit. There are rules about the government delegation activities and I am the delegation head.”
One of the regulations stated that members were not supposed to meet their relatives or friends without official approval. Especially politically sensitive contacts, let alone the “American friend” mentioned by his mother. Though he had thought about the possibility even before her call came in.
By the time he was ready to leave his office, having gotten several more congratulations calls, he was beginning to have second thoughts- anticipatory ones-about the visit. It was an enviable opportunity, all the more so in the name of a government delegation, and the calls proved that. For Chen, it was also an opportunity to polish up his English. Not to mention the fact that it would add to his status as a writer. Last but not least, the appointment as the head of a government delegation was a political boost.