That section of Delmar was lined with bars and restaurants. He strolled past a café. A number of customers sat outside. A young girl was singing with an electric guitar near the entrance, her bare feet beating out the rhythm on the sidewalk, as if in correspondence to what had been already lost in his memory, distantly, with a string and a peg. Next to the neon sign was a secondhand bookstore. He resisted the temptation to step in.
Her apartment building was an old brownstone near the beginning of a quaint side street. One of the second-floor windows was decorated with a spreading cluster of dark green ivy underneath. He thought he recognized it from a picture she had once shown him.
He believed he had learned some things during the trip. Among others, people had to make appointments to visit here. No one simply dropped by, like in Shanghai. It wouldn’t do for him to knock on her door like this.
He pulled out his cell phone and called her home number. No one answered. Then he tried her cell phone, which was turned off, unfortunately. It was about four-thirty. She would probably come back soon. He thought he might as well wait awhile here. A nice surprise for her. And he found himself quite contented with the anticipation of it.
For the moment, he didn’t want to think about his responsibilities- being a government delegation head or being a chief inspector. Simply being a man waiting for a woman.
He turned into a street corner bar. Instead of sitting outside, he chose a table inside, leaning against the window, keeping her building in sight. It was a small, cozy bar; its walls presented an impressive array of old trophies and posters in a nostalgic statement against time. There was also a stuffed deer head gazing down, forever forlorn. A young waitress in high-heeled slippers came over, blowing out a gum bubble, and put a menu on the table. He wasn’t hungry so he had a glass of Chardonnay, and started sipping, watching out. He saw a bald man in shirtsleeves leaning out the window above hers, with a curl of smoke rising peacefully from a pipe.
Raising his glass, he became aware of the other customers there watching him. A Chinese sitting alone in an American bar, he didn’t feel comfortable. He wondered whether it was appropriate for him to sit here drinking without any appetizer. The bar was not as hilarious as in the TV show he had watched. No one said anything to him here.
He decided to think over the latest development in the Xing case. Sipping at the wine, he took out a notebook and drew several connected lines across a page. He tried to figure out what had really happened between Xing and the Beijing government.
Apparently, Beijing ’s agents had been working behind the scenes in the States before Chen’s arrival. Xing was a calculating businessman, everything being negotiable. However sordid the bargain, it would be justified as being in the interest of the Party. After all, it was a case concerning the very top, or the very basis, of the Beijing government. Its full consequences would be comprehensible, as Comrade Zhao had suggested, only if viewed from a higher position. That was probably why Zhao had copied out that Tang poem for him.
But if so, why send Chief Inspector Chen to the United States? To get him out of the way for one or two weeks? He didn’t think so. It would have been much easier to do that in China, one way or another. Nor did he believe he had been chosen for the delegation on his merit. So here was the heart of the matter. Why all the bother? To the agents working here, the presence of Chen could only prove to be obstructive.
For the first time another possibility occurred to him. He might have been dispatched for a different reason. To attract the attention of the Americans, who had long known about his law enforcement background, and to whom his last-minute delegation appointment must have appeared suspicious. Now it made sense that Party Secretary Li had talked about his investigation at a press conference-so the Americans would learn about it through the Chinese media. Then the agents could work on Xing without being noticed or discovered.
As Detective Yu had guessed from the beginning, it was a show investigation, perhaps never meant to be taken seriously. But Chen had thrown himself headlong into the role, like an earnest yet effective Don Quixote, flourishing his lance, to the annoyance of some people in the Forbidden City. First in China, then on the trip abroad. Literally following Comrade Zhao’s talk about a general’s free decisions, the chief inspector proved to be a serious threat to the red rats, especially through his exploration into Xing’s connection with Little Tiger, leading to the very top. That had triggered the pursuit of his mother in Shanghai, and the attempt against him in St. Louis. Unfortunately, Little Huang fell instead.
Now as for Xing’s return to China, it might be another ironic casualty of misplaced yin and yang. Chen’s effort here, while unpleasant to the secret agents, brought about some surprising results. Through unforeseeable circumstances, Chen and his partners managed to arrest Ming, which, at least on the surface, appeared to be the last straw for Xing. Chen knew better, though; far more complicated factors had been working behind the scene.
But Chen still had no clue how Xing and his associates had learned that Chen had suspicions about Little Tiger. One possibility pointed to Tian. Not that Tian would have talked to anyone, but Bao and his mysterious L.A. man knew Chen had spent an afternoon with Tian. Still, two friends’ unexpected reunion wouldn’t have appeared so suspicious. The fact that nothing had happened to Tian spoke for itself. Other than Tian, Catherine was the only one aware of his secret work. He didn’t have to consider the possibility. Some of the most crucial information had come from her.
A more likely scenario would be that his phone discussions with Yu had been overheard. After the first few times, they had largely given up their weather terminology. A necessary yet disastrous decision. He had gambled on Yu’s home line not being tapped. In one of their discussions, he had mentioned Little Tiger in the context of the Xing…
But then these thoughts began depressing him. There would be time enough for him to think, once back in China, about whatever he was going to do or not do, as a cop.
He rose and took a local newspaper from a rack. The waitress came to him again. He had another glass of wine. Reading rather absentmindedly, he noticed three or four grammatical mistakes in one short article. He recalled what American writers had said of his English writing.
You can be a good writer here.
Perhaps he would be able to launch a new career here. The long-faded dream of his college years, of writing whatever he wanted to, and of not worrying about politics and corruption. It wouldn’t be a choice, he told himself, made out of any materialistic consideration. It might not be too late-with a wonderful friend staying in the background.
These thoughts had barely come crowding into his mind when he started to drive them out. Even in the confusion of a fleeting moment, he knew he had moved too far from the cherished vision of his college years. Like a green light he had read about long ago, already beyond his reach there and then. Or perhaps like Tian, who, with his booming business in L.A., like it or not, had found a new self with a young wife and a million-dollar mansion. Chen, too, had come to find himself more and more, ironic as it might appear, through those fatal investigations.
Besides, what about the people who stood by him all the way?
Looking out, he tried to refocus his thoughts on her, which seemed to be the only thing that could possibly cheer him up. With so many gloomy things surrounding him, with the memory of a poet musing at such an evening, with something like a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floor of the subconscious, however, even those self-indulgent fantasies took on a self-debunking color…
He suddenly felt an impulse he had not experienced for a long time. Turning to a blank page in his notebook, he started scribbling-to his surprise, in English, in a quite different strain, almost like a parody.