That clinched it for him.
“Let’s meet at Nanxiang Soup Bun Restaurant.”
It was for the sake of the investigation, he told himself. She might serve as a fashion consultant in a field study, though he was slightly uneasy about it.
Was it because of something he had been studying for the paper-a femme fatale? There seemed to be a weird echo from the story he had just read. According to one critic, Yingying, in “The Story of Yingying,” was actually someone of dubious background, like a K girl in today’s society.
Chen started dressing for brunch.
About twenty minutes later, he found himself walking in under the familiar entrance arch of the Old City God’s Temple Market.
For most Shanghainese, the temple represented not so much of an attraction in itself, but simply a name for the surrounding market of local snacks and products-originally booths and stalls for the temple festivals. For Chen, the attraction came from those eateries, whose offerings were inexpensive yet unique in their flavors, such as chicken and duck blood soup, soup buns in small steamers, radish-shred cakes, shrimp and meat dumplings, beef soup noodles, fried tofu and vermicelli… All these he had liked so much, in the days when society was still an egalitarian one, in which everyone made little money and enjoyed simple meals.
Things were also changing here. There was a new tall building rising behind the Yu Garden, which had originally been the back garden of the Shanghai mayor in the late Qing dynasty and was built in the traditional southern architecture style of ancient pavilions and grottos. In Chen’s childhood, his parents, unable to afford the trip to Suzhou and Hangzhou, had taken their son to the garden instead.
Moving past the garden, he stepped up onto the Nine Turn Bridge -allegedly with nine turns so that the evil spirits wouldn’t be able to find their way around. An old couple stood on the bridge, throwing breadcrumbs to the invisible golden carps in the pond and nodding at him. It was too cold for the fish to come to the surface, but the old couple remained standing there, waiting. The last turn of the bridge brought him to the Nanxiang Soup Bun Restaurant.
The first floor of the restaurant appeared little changed: a long line of customers waited outside for their turn to get in, watching through the large kitchen window, the never-boring scene of the kitchen assistants picking out the crab meat deftly on a long wooden table and mixing it with minced pork meat. He took the winding stairs up to the second floor, which was quite crowded in spite of the double price charged there. So he climbed up another flight of steps to the third floor, which charged three times as much for the same soup buns. The table and chairs were of imitation mahogany, not too comfortable, but there weren’t too many people there. He took a seat overlooking the lake.
As a waiter came to pour him a cup of tea, White Cloud walked up the staircase, tall and slender in a white imitation-fur overcoat and high heels. Helping her take off the overcoat, he saw her wearing a modified backless pink mandarin dress. The dress fit her well, accentuating her curves. Once more he was reminded of that famous Confucian statement, A woman makes herself beautiful for the man who appreciates her.
“You are floating over like a morning cloud,” he commented before ordering four steamers of soup buns stuffed with minced crab and pork meat. The waiter took the order from him, stealing a look at her.
“Your appetite is good today,” she said, placing on the table a pink silk purse that matched the color of her dress.
“A beauty is so delicious that people want to devour,” he said, quoting Confucius.
“You are being romantic.” She tore open a small packet with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball that she carried in her purse, wiped his chopsticks first, and then hers. Nanxiang was one of the few old Shanghai restaurants that still resisted using disposable chopsticks.
“Nostalgic, perhaps,” he said, immersing the ginger slices into saucers of vinegar. One of the saucers was cracked, just like in the old days, as on that afternoon with his cousin Peishan.
In the early seventies, Peishan had been one of the first educated youths to “go to the countryside for reeducation by the poor and lower-middle-class peasants.” Before leaving Shanghai, Peishan took Chen to this restaurant, which, like other restaurants at the time, was supposed to serve only working-class people “in the Party’s glorious tradition of hard working and simple living.” Culinary enjoyment was denounced as a decadent bourgeois extravagancy. People were supposed to eat simply for the sake of making revolution. A number of high-end restaurants were closed. Nanxiang Soup Bun survived as a lucky exception owing to its incredibly cheap price: a bamboo steamer for only twenty-four cents, affordable by any working-class standard. That afternoon, Peishan and Chen patiently waited no less than three hours for their turn. Consequently they gave a huge order: four bamboo steamers for each of them, after the long wait and Peisan’s sentimental comment, “When, when can I come back to Shanghai -to the delicious soup buns?”
Cousin Peishan did not come back. In the far, far away countryside, he suffered a nervous breakdown and jumped into a dry well. He might have starved to death there.
Twenty years has passed like a dream.
What a surprise I am still here, today!
Chen chose not to tell White Cloud of this episode from the Cultural Revolution, which was not fashionably nostalgic. A young girl of another generation, she probably wouldn’t understand.
But the soup buns appeared and tasted the same, fresh, steaming hot in the golden bamboo steamers, rich in the combined flavor of the land and river, with the scarlet crab oval so tantalizing in the afternoon light. The soup inside the bun came bursting out at the touch of his lips, the taste so familiarly delicious.
“According to a gourmet book, the soup in the bun comes from the pork skin jelly mixing with the stuffing. In a steamer over the stove, the jelly turns into hot liquid. You have to bite carefully, or the soup will splash out, scalding your tongue.”
“You have told me about it,” she said, smiling, nipping gingerly before she sucked the soup.
“Oh, you brought a bag of them to me during the New World project.”
“It was a pleasure to serve as your little secretary.”
“I have to ask you another favor today,” he said. “You are a computer pro, I know. Can you do an Internet search for me?”
“Of course. If you want, I can also bring Mrs. Gu’s laptop back to you.”
“No, I don’t think I have the time,” he said. “You must have heard of the red mandarin dress case. Can you do a search on the dress-a comprehensive search, about the history, the evolution, and the style during different periods? Anything directly or indirectly related to such a dress-not just currently, but also in the sixties or fifties.”
“No problem,” she said, “but what do you mean by anything directly or indirectly related?”
“I wish I could tell you more specifically, but let’s say any movie or book that has a mandarin dress as an important part of it, or somebody known for it, either wearing or making it, any relevant comments or criticism about it, and of course any mandarin dress bearing a resemblance to the one in question. And I may need you to run a couple of errands for me too.”
“Whatever you want, Chief.”
“Don’t worry about the expense. A portion of the chief inspector fund hasn’t been spent this year. If I don’t use it up soon, the bureau will cut the fund next year.”
“So you are not going to quit, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Well-” He cut himself short, the soup spurting out of the thin-skinned bun despite his caution. She was perceptive, handing over a pink paper napkin to him. It was not too bad to be a chief inspector, after all, to have a “little secretary” sitting beside, like an understanding flower.
At the end of the meal, she asked the waiter for a receipt as Chen was producing his wallet.