“Yes?” Chen said, turning to one side. “You mean the outcome of the trial?”
“It’s a difficult case, but it’s also an opportunity to show our Party’s determination to fight corruption. The people see Peng as representative of it. So let’s make an example of him.”
“I haven’t been helpful with the case. I am sorry. But I will be there tomorrow. Those corrupt officials should be punished.”
Zhong had no idea that the phone conversation was going on in the presence of Jia.
“Then I’ll see you in the courtroom tomorrow,” Zhong said.
Turning back at the end of the phone call, Chen said, “Sorry about the interruption, Mr. Jia.”
It was then that the mahogany clock started striking, sounding like the bell in the temple.
Twelve o’clock.
THIRTY
IT WAS A NEW day, technically speaking.
Chen finished his wine in a gulp, looking up at the mahogany clock. The restaurant owner had done a good job reviving the money-intoxicating and gold-glittering atmosphere of old Shanghai, paying extra attention to the details. The clock appeared to be a genuine one, having survived all those years, with its brass pendulum burnished like new.
He might have broken the cycle. It was Friday now. There was practically no possibility of Jia’s trying to claim another victim before the trial.
So he picked up the silver bell from the table and rang it.
White Cloud came to the table in a floating florid dress, blossoming like a night flower. “Yes?”
“The special course for the night,” Chen said. “Don’t forget any details.”
“All the details,” she said, lighting two candles on the table before leaving.
Jia watched, making no comment about Chen’s unusual instruction to her.
Chen lit a cigarette. A sudden silence wreathed the room; only the pendulum of the antique clock remained audible.
Suddenly, the lights went out in the room and there was only candlelight, shivering in the draught as the door reopened.
She returned in a red mandarin dress, with its slits badly torn, several of her bosom buttons undone, and her bare feet shining on the carpet.
Jia stood up, his face suddenly bleached of all color, as if having seen a ghost.
In a Song dynasty tale of Judge Bao that Chen had read, a criminal was shocked into confession by the apparition of a murdered woman. At that time, people were still superstitious, groveling before the fury of a ghost.
Jia was making an effort, however, to pull himself together as he slumped back in his seat. He kept his head low, wiping his forehead with a paper napkin, to avoid the sight of her.
She carried a glass pot on top of a gas stove in her hands. As she put the stove on the table, leaning over to light it, her breasts became visible through the opening of her unbuttoned dress.
There was a turtle swimming in the pot above the stove. Unaware of the water temperature that was beginning to change, it looked out at leisure. Another cruel course, that live turtle soup. With the fire turned on low, it could cook for quite a long while.
“A special soup made of chicken and scallop broth,” she explained. “The turtle absorbs the essence of the soup in its struggle, so its meat, when cooked, will have an extraordinary flavor. Its movement will also make the soup more delicious.”
“A strange course, an unusual restaurant,” Jia said, regaining his composure, though still sweating profusely. “Even the waitress is dressed so dramatically.”
“This used to be a mansion, and its mistress was a legendary beauty, especially in an elegant red mandarin dress,” Chen said. “I wonder if she ever wore the dress like this. Or if she ever served such a cruel course, which is like a murder, with the young girl suffering, struggling against a sense of inevitable doom.”
“You’re full of associations,” Jia said.
In a way, Jia had suffered a similar fate, helpless, doomed in spite of all his struggles. Looking into the glass pot, Chen had a momentary vision of the turtle turning into a boy, holding out his hand against the inevitable. He felt a sick knot churning on his stomach.
But as a cop, Chen was responsible for punishing the man for his crime against Jasmine, against the other girls, and against Hong, his colleague.
“So inhumanly cruel,” he muttered in spite of himself, “but I can do the same.”
“You are lost in the flight of your imagination, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“No, I’m not,” Chen said.
He rose, scooped up his trench coat from the clothes tree, and put it over White Cloud’s shoulders. Reaching his hand out, he buttoned a breast button for her before he said, “Thank you so much for all your help. You are done here. Keep yourself warm. It’s Dongzhi night, and you may want to join your family.”
“No.” She blushed, looking more attractive than he had ever seen before. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
After she left the room, he said to Jia, “No, it’s not a night for stories, or special courses, you know, Mr. Jia.”
“You mean it’s Dongzhi night? Yes, I know.”
“I want to thank you first for filling in the holes in the red mandarin dress case,” Chen said, “but it’s time for a showdown between us.”
“What? What are you driving at? You said you wanted to tell a story. Perhaps there’s something else in the story, that much I guessed, but now it is becoming the red mandarin dress case!”
“We don’t need to pretend any longer. You are the protagonist in the story, Mr. Jia, and also the murderer in the red mandarin dress case.”
“Now, Chief Inspector Chen. You can write any story you like. But such a fictional accusation-you don’t have anything to support it. Not a single shred of evidence, or the shadow of a witness.”
“Evidence and witnesses there will be, but they may not even be necessary. The murderer will talk-with or without them.”
“How? Now you’ve crossed the line into fantasy. As a reader, I don’t see how you as a cop could do anything to prosecute such a case as described in your story.” Jia remained calm, hanging onto his role as a reader. “If a cop were really so confident, he would be writing a case report instead of fiction.”
“You keep using the word fiction, Mr. Jia. But there is also nonfiction. Nonfiction sells better in today’s market.”
“What do you mean by nonfiction?”
“A real story about Mei and her son. Authentic, nostalgic, graphic, and tragic as the Old Mansion itself. A lot of people will be intrigued. For the time being, I may not even have to elaborate on the mandarin dress case aspect. Just some hints here and there. You can bet it would be a sensational bestseller.”
“How could you stoop so low, Chief Inspector Chen, for the sake of making a bestseller?”
“It’s about the tragedy of the Cultural Revolution, and its tragic repercussions even today. As a cop and a writer, I don’t see anything low about it. If it becomes a bestseller, I’ll donate the money to a private Cultural Revolution museum in Nanjing.”
“A nonfiction writer has to be wary of being sued for slander, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I am a cop, and I write like a cop, basing every detail on evidence. Why should I worry about a lawsuit? It will bring in a lot of publicity, and a large number of reporters too. They are hunting for anything related to the red mandarin dress case. Don’t expect them to miss the point in the book. And along with the text, I have something that will grab their interest.”
“What cards have you not yet put on the table?”
“Remember the pictures I’ve told you about on the phone-oh, I’m so sorry. I should have shown them to you earlier,” Chen said. “The old photographer used five or six rolls of film. I’ll have all of them published.”
He produced the pictures from his briefcase and spread them out on the table.
It must have taken all Jia’s willpower not to snatch up the pictures. Instead, he cast a casual glance at them in nonchalance.