Not exactly alone, though.
“I don’t think there’s a need for me to interpret at the Chinese groceries. Nor at the theater, people are not allowed to speak there. The minivan driver will take you there, and then bring you back after the opera. There are several Asian restaurants in the Grand area. Choose one you like.” Catherine went on, turning to Chen, “Let me drive you to the Central West End, Mr. Chen. We’ll discuss more about the schedule changes on the way.”
“Yes, that’s so considerate of you, Catherine,” Shasha commented. “Our poet has been working hard. He deserves a break in his favorite area.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chen said. “Comrade Bao, you’ll take care of the group.”
It was a practical arrangement. No one raised any objections, except Bao, who declared in a miserable tone, “It’s really yangzhui to watch opera. I would rather stay in the hotel.”
“Yangzhui?” Catherine repeated it in puzzlement. She hadn’t heard the Chinese expression before.
Literally, yangzhui meant “foreign or exotic punishment or torture.” In its extended usage, it could refer to any unpleasant experience. For Bao, an opera in a foreign language for three hours would be indeed long and boring. Chen chose not to explain. He simply said, “Comrade Bao may be a bit tired.”
But Bao changed his mind. In spite of his disinclination, he agreed to take the delegation to the theater. “One of us has to be responsible for the delegation, Chen. So you can go to the Central West End.”
Outside the hotel, Catherine had a greenish car of German make. Not Volkswagen, but a brand not available in Shanghai. Chen took his seat beside her. A seat belt slid across his shoulder automatically. The moment she put the key into the ignition, however, her cell phone rang. She started the car and began to drive with the phone in her hand. It didn’t sound like a business call, he thought. He leaned back and looked out of the window. In spite of the time he spent studying the St. Louis guidebook, he couldn’t make out the direction. Fumbling in his pocket for the city map, he noticed the car already slowing down.
“ Euclid,” she said, flipping closed the phone. “ Central West End is over there.”
Central West End was an area with a marked difference. Small streets, quaint buildings, sidewalk cafés, colorful boutiques. The streets also boasted the city’s oldest and most impressive private homes. To Chen, all this seemed to have changed little from Eliot’s day.
It took her quite a while, however, to find a parking place. As they walked out, turning into a side street, the evening breeze came like a greeting from a half-forgotten poem. They were in no hurry to talk about the delegation schedule. It was an excuse, they both knew.
For this evening, for the moment at least, at Central West End, he wanted to feel like a Chinese poet, walking along the streets an English poet had walked.
And to feel like a man walking in the company of a woman he cared for. It was the first time that they were really alone.
Whatever might come next, he didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk about their work, either.
“It’s pleasant to walk here on a summer evening,” she said.
“Yes, it’s so different here.”
Fragmented lines came with the evening spreading out against the sky, he contemplated, against all the possibilities…
Do I dare, do I dare?
Perhaps it was here a poet had once had the impulse to say the words, but failed to bring himself to the task. Perhaps too meticulous to roll the moment into a decisive ball…
He checked himself. It was absurd of him to think of Eliot. A cop, at this moment more than ever, he should be aware of his responsibility, with a homicide case on his hands, another related murder case in China, and in the company of another cop.
“What are you thinking, Chen?”
“I’m glad to be here with you.”
“Did you ever think about an evening like this?”
“Yes, a couple of times.”
She walked by his side, their shoulders occasionally touching. She wore a black dress with thin straps. Possibly the same dress she had had on the night of the Beijing opera at the Shanghai City Government Auditorium.
A squirrel jumped over a tiny rainwater pool. He saw a gray-haired woman walking toward them, and he approached her. “Excuse me, do you know where Eliot used to live?”
“Eliot? Who is he?” the woman said in surprise, pushing the gold-rimmed spectacles up her nose ridge. She looked like a schoolteacher, carrying a plastic grocery bag in her hand.
“T. S. Eliot, you know, the poet who wrote ‘The Waste Land.’ “
“Never heard of him. Eliot. I’ve lived here for twenty years. What is the waste land?”
“Thank you,” Catherine cut in. “ Central West End is quite a large area, Chen. We can ask at the bookstore.”
“Yes, the people there are nice,” the woman said, eyeing them for the first time with interest. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Don’t expect everybody to be so knowledgeable about Eliot,” Catherine said. “Let me tell you something, Chen. Last year, I saw a movie called Tom and Viv. A choice made under your influence. As it turned out, I was the only one in the audience.”
“Really! I’ve read about the movie. Too much of a feminist emphasis. Vivian might have been a poet in her own right, but praise of her shouldn’t come at his expense.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about feminism this evening,” she said with a wistful smile. “That evening, I wished that you were sitting there with me. I didn’t understand some references in the movie, but I could figure out Vivian’s crush on him. So let us go-to the bookstore. Eliot always comes first for you.”
“No, you know it’s not true,” he said, meeting her eyes, but she looked away. In the dusk, he was not so sure about the color of her eyes.
The bookstore in question proved to be nice, one of the few independent bookstores that survived in the city, she explained. The manager was young but knowledgeable. “Oh, it’s not too far away. Eliot’s old home is a brownstone,” he said amiably, accompanying them to the door. “Go straight from here. Westminster Place. You won’t miss it.”
Walking out of the store, Chen saw a café to its left, with white plastic tables and chairs set outside under colorful umbrellas. There were several people sitting there, talking at leisure, stirring memories or desires in their cups. It was like a scene he had read. Then it was juxtaposed with another he had seen. A picture she had given him at the end of their joint investigation in Shanghai. He turned to her.
“Oh, remember the picture you gave me? The one of you sitting at a sidewalk café.”
“That café is on Delmar,” she said. “My apartment is close.”
“I would love to go there,” he said sincerely.
The visit to Eliot’s home turned out to be a disappointment. It was one of the ordinary-looking old houses in a quiet, private neighborhood. The umber-colored front with the symmetrical black shutters gave the impression of an apartment building rather than a family house. Still, he climbed up the stone steps to the door, and she took a picture of him standing there, with a small historical-site sign behind him bearing the name of Henry Ware Eliot. He wondered whether it would be appropriate for him to knock at the door.
She solved the problem by taking his hand in hers and leading him into a lane to the back garden. There was an ancient board saying, “I’m in the garden” on the garden door. She stood on tiptoes on a ridge, peeking over the tall fence. He followed her example, looking over her bare shoulder. He saw nothing there except a tree draped with green vines.