“Great. So you are like a general in ancient times, making arrangements for a crucial battle in a bathhouse,” she commented, also like a “little secretary,” before she left.
What herbal pills were in Chen’s medical gourd?
“I’ll go to a photo studio first,” Chen said. “This will be our night.”
“You must have figured all this out during the last few days, boss,” Yu said, apologetic for his earlier disappointment in Chen. “You got a lot of work done while you were keeping yourself out of sight.”
“Well, it was done mostly last night. I didn’t sleep a wink, wandering along Henshan Road like a homeless skunk.”
Perhaps Yu would never really figure out his boss. But here was the bottom line: for all his eccentricities, Chen was a conscientious cop.
So it was something to be the partner of Chief Inspector Chen, Yu thought, heading out.
TWENTY-NINE
CHEN HADN’T DECIDED EXACTLY what he was going to do that evening.
Coming out of the photo studio, he walked to the restaurant, thinking in the dusk that was enveloping him.
But there was no choice left for him. He tried to reconvince himself. The best course of action would be to leave Jia untouched until after the trial. It wasn’t wise to arrest him before it for people would take it as dirty political retaliation by the government. But in the meantime, he had to trap Jia for the night, and the way to do that was so unorthodox that he didn’t know how to explain it to Yu. Perhaps it was just like the metaphor made by Comrade Deng Xiaoping about the reform in China: “to waddle across the river by stepping on one stone after another.”
There was no delaying the showdown, however, with or without help from the bureau.
Inspector Liao would distance himself from it-not just out of self-protection, but out of long distrust for the chief inspector too. They had had several head-on collisions. After the death of Hong, Liao hadn’t so much as made a single phone call to Chen.
As for Party Secretary Li, Chen didn’t want to think about him for the moment. That would be a headache for later.
And then there was Director Zhong in the background too, with all the plots and counterplots being worked out in the Forbidden City.
It was more than likely that Jia wouldn’t succumb to his story. An intelligent and experienced attorney, he knew no one could convincingly prove anything against him so long as he didn’t budge.
As Chen turned into West Jinling Road, he saw an old woman burning afterworld money in an aluminum basin out on the sidewalk. Shivering in her black cotton-padded clothes, she kept throwing the silver paper ingots into the fire, one by one, murmuring, in a desperate effort to communicate with the dead. It was the night of Dongzhi, he realized.
In the Chinese lunar calendar, Dongzhi comes on the longest night of the year, important in the dialectical movement of the yin and yang system. As yin moves to an extreme position, it turns into the opposite, to yang. So it was conventionally a night for the reunion of the living and the dead.
In Chen’s childhood, Dongzhi meant a wonderful meal, except that the dishes on the ancestral offering table had to remain untouched until the candles burned out, a sign that the dead had already enjoyed the meal. He thought again of his mother, who must be burning afterworld money, alone, in her attic room.
But it might not be a coincidence that he was going to meet Jia on Dongzhi night. A sign that things were going to change. The Way can be told, / but not in an ordinary way.
He came in sight of the Old Mansion.
A hostess held the door for him respectfully. It was a different girl, one who did not recognize him.
Both Overseas Chinese Lu and White Cloud were already in the lobby. Lu was in his black three-piece suit with a florid tie and a couple of large diamond rings on his fingers, and she, in the red mandarin dress bought at the Old City God’s Temple Market.
“The restaurant owner has agreed to cooperate in every way,” Lu said exultantly. “He’ll let me take care of your room. So I’ll stay here and prepare an unbelievable feast for you.”
“Thank you, Lu,” he said, turning to White Cloud, handing her an envelope. “Thank you so much, White Cloud. Change into a different outfit for now, just like one of the waitresses here. You’ll serve in the private room. Of course, you don’t have to stay there all the time. Bring in whatever Mr. Lu prepares for the evening. At my signal, come in dressed like the woman in the picture.”
“The red mandarin dress,” she said, opening the envelope and examining the pictures inside. “Barefoot, the bosom buttons unbuttoned, and the side slits torn?”
“Yes, exactly like that. Go ahead and tear the side slits.” Chen added, “I’ll buy you another one.”
“Old Heaven,” Lu exclaimed, stealing a glance at the picture in her hand.
Chen then left and moved on to the hotel, which was only a two-or three-minute walk away.
Standing under the hotel arch, he didn’t wait long. In less than five minutes, he saw a white Camry rolling into the driveway. Another car, possibly Yu’s, pulled up behind it, at a distance.
Chen strode out and extended his hand to Jia, who was getting out of the car. He was a tall man in his late thirties, wearing a black suit, his face pale and troubled under the dancing neon light.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Jia. My secretary has reserved a room for us at the Old Mansion. It’s very close. You have heard of the restaurant, haven’t you?”
“The Old Mansion! You’ve spent some time choosing this restaurant for tonight, Chief Inspector Chen.”
It wasn’t a direct answer, but it bespoke his awareness that Chen had made a thorough study of his background.
At the gate of the restaurant, the hostess bowed to them gracefully, like a flower blossoming out of the old painting behind her. “Welcome. You’ll be at home tonight.”
The arrival of several beer girls in the lobby, however, served to highlight the changed times.
“At home,” Jia said sarcastically, observing the sashlike streamers flung slantingly across their shoulders. “Tiger Girl, Qingdao Girl, Baiwei Girl, Sakura Girl.”
The hostess led them across the hall, into an elegant room-possibly a sunroom in its original design, now converted into a private room for special customers. It overlooked the back garden, which appeared enticingly well kept, even in the depths of winter. The table was set for two, the silverware shining under the crystal chandelier like a lost dream. There was also a dainty silver bell placed on the table. Eight miniature dishes were already set on the lazy susan.
White Cloud came in and poured each of them a cup of tea, opening a menu for them. She wore a sleeveless, backless black dress.
“For our most extraordinary story, Mr. Jia,” Chen said, raising the cup.
“A story,” Jia said. “Do you really believe it to be more meaningful than your police work?”
“Meaning exists in your thinking. In my college years, as you may not know, poetry was the only thing meaningful for me.”
“Well, I’m an attorney, one-track-minded.”
“An attorney serves as a good example of this point. What is so meaningful to you in a case may be totally meaningless to others. In our age, meaning depends on an individual perspective.”
“It sounds like a lecture, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“For me, the story has reached a critical point, a matter of life and death,” Chen said. “So I think that the view of the garden may provide a peaceful background.”
“You seem to have a reason for everything.” Jia’s expression didn’t show any change as he cast a sidelong glance out to the garden. “It’s an honor to be invited by you, whether as a writer or a chief inspector.”
“I’m not that hungry yet,” Chen said. “Perhaps we might talk a little first.”