The girl was all surprise, taking over the hairpin from her hand.
“That’s-”
“You’re White Cloud, aren’t you?” Peiqin whispered in a hurry. “I’m Peiqin, Chief Inspector Chen’s friend. My husband Detective Yu Guangming is his assistant. His mother knows me too. Come back with her to the hot-water shop.”
“Oh, yes, that’s the hairpin my sister gave me,” White Cloud raised her voice. “Thank you so much.”
White Cloud was a clever girl. Instead of turning into the lane, she kept on walking with the old woman on her arm, moving past the lane entrance, strolling for another round, whispering in the old woman’s ear.
The snuff bottle peddler also passed by the shop, his head hung low, without casting a glance at Peiqin.
Peiqin then ran through the back door to the back exit of the lane. She caught a glimpse of a red taxi parked there. She hurried back, feeling guilty. She had done a lousy job for the shop. After fifteen minutes or so, she saw the two women come back. This time, they stepped into the water shop.
“A pot of good green tea,” White Cloud said.
“The best tea, and the best seat,” Peiqin said, showing them to the table behind the screen, before she leaned down to the old woman. “You still remember me, Auntie? I’m Peiqin, Detective Yu’s wife.”
“Oh, yes, in Xinya Restaurant, I remember. My son keeps saying what a wonderful wife Detective Yu has.”
“It’s an emergency. We have to move you to somewhere else. Temporarily. For the sake of your safety.”
“What-” The old woman quickly regained her composure. “Can I take something with me?”
“Don’t worry about that. We may not have the time.”
“Do whatever you think necessary, Peiqin. I sensed something, I think, before Chen left with the delegation.”
“Give this note to Yu,” Peiqin said to White Cloud. “He’s waiting for you at the back exit of the lane. He knows where to take you. You have to be with Auntie all day today. Don’t tell anybody. I’ll come over in the evening.”
“It’s for Chief Inspector Chen, I understand. I’ll do my best.”
Peiqin ran to the back door. There was no one out there. She came back to the table and showed them to the door.
It was not the end, she knew, but the beginning of her adventure.
The snuff bottle peddler was perched on the stool in the same old position, across the street, whistling a tune.
20
THE DAYS AFTER THEIR conference in L.A. were like repetitions with little variation, at least as far as the delegation was concerned.
The cities they visited were different, but what they did there was similar. Meeting after meeting, handshaking with a poet, business-card exchanging with a novelist, greeting a critic, discussing with readers. Chen had to make his much-rehearsed speeches again and again. The other members were also becoming more experienced in “literature exchange.” The initial culture shock turned into culture critique, and each of them spoke from his or her own perspective. Bao alone seemed to remain true to what he called the real color of a Chinese working-class poet, condemning whatever he saw in the United States as bourgeoisie decadent or as capitalistic rotten.
Their travel between cities was partially by air, partially by bus. The American host had arranged a special bus for the trips between nearby cities. It was a practical arrangement for the delegation. They enjoyed the view of large cities as well as small towns. Occasionally, the bus also stopped by rustic inns and roadside pubs.
While moving from one city to another, Chen also managed to move on with his investigation. There had been some progress in Shanghai, but not all of it positive. His mother had been moved to a safer place. Again, Yu didn’t go into details on the phone but Chen knew his assistant would not have done so without a reason. Perhaps it was even the very reason that had worried Chen. Jiang could have been behind it. The chief inspector was coming back with those pictures in hand, so it was not unimaginable that Jiang tried to get something in his own hand, something that could hold Chen in check. Or, in a worse scenario, it was orchestrated by somebody higher than both Jiang or Dong.
Yu’s work on An’s cell phone record seemed to have bogged down. According to Yu, those that An had contacted were all in powerful positions. It was out of the question for Yu to confront them; furthermore, the phone conversations were hardly incriminating.
Nor was there anything new from Tian, though what he had provided was already more than Chen had expected.
All along the way, Chen had been continuing his Internet searches and research, working on one computer after another in different cities. There were things he still did not grasp, but he had confirmed his impression that it wouldn’t be easy for Xing to get political asylum and that few really believed his stories of political persecution. Still, it could drag on for a quite long time before any ultimate decision was made in court. In the meantime, Xing made one statement after another, mixing false information with facts, to the great annoyance of the Beijing government.
Between his responsibility as a delegation head in public, and as a cop incognito, the days passed quickly. Somehow he could not shake the ominous feeling that things were moving, like water in the dark.
On the fifth or sixth day, Chen was sitting uncomfortably at the back of the bus. The imitation leather covering of the seat felt rather sticky against his back and the air was stuffy. The effect of the long, continuous journey was beginning to tell.
Dozing with his head against the window, he thought of two famous lines by Yue Fei, a patriotic general in the Song dynasty. “Riding through eight thousand miles under the moon and the clouds, / fight for thirty years with achievement in sand and dust.” Shortly after the composition of that poem, General Yue was ordered to die, in spite of his legendary loyalty to the emperor. Chen felt disturbed at the thought of it. Looking out, the bus was moving near the bridge spanning Illinois and Missouri.
Little Huang, the interpreter, was the first to point out, “Look. The Arch of St. Louis!”
For the first minute or two, Chen did not respond like a tourist upon arrival in a new city. The novelty of their trip had worn off. Then he realized that it was not just another city, like all other cities, scheduled on the delegation itinerary.
“Yes, Master Ma’s old home,” Bao said with a broad grin.
“Not in St. Louis, but in Hannibal,” Zhong said.
“It’s close.”
Once the bus crossed the bridge, the high buildings of the city made for an impressive skyline, but there were also occasionally poor, dilapidated buildings along the way, forming a sharp contrast in the downtown area of St. Louis.
It did not take them long to arrive and disembark at the Regency, a high-end hotel attached to an ex-railway station, which was remodeled into a large shopping mall. It was a clever design, Chen thought, for the hotel residents could look out at what had been a railway platform, musing about the bygone days.
A familiar smell dragged Chen back to the present. Possibly that of green onion sizzling in a wok. Sure enough, he discovered a food court at the other side of the mall. A variety of restaurants and snack bars, including a Chinese eatery under a glittering neon sign of a gigantic wok. It was an added convenience for the writers. They did not have to ask the local escort to take them out to Chinese restaurants.
The local escort showed up. He was a tall young American who spoke no Chinese and kept raving about the location of the hotel. “Look, the Arch is within walking distance, the landmark of this city, where the frontiersmen started their journey westward long ago.”
“Yes, we can walk there in the evening,” Little Huang added.
The escort helped at the front desk. Everyone had his or her room key in no time and all their luggage was piled up in a cart to be taken to their respective rooms. As usual, they exchanged room numbers. Chen had a suite with a Jacuzzi bath on the third floor. A privilege for the delegation head, which everybody took for granted now.