Emerging from Sima’s office, Chen decided to walk for a while and try to sort out what he’d learned from Sima. The story of the dead pigs was absurd, conceivably another blow to the prestige of the local Party government, but he couldn’t see how it could possibly be related to him. He was still wondering what the invisible connection was, when he got a phone call from Wuting, the acting head of the Shanghai Translation Publishing House.
“I’ve got great news, Chen. The new T. S. Eliot translation is coming out. We are going to have a book launch party tonight. As one of the main translators, you have to come to the party and speak about it.”
Chen had started translating Eliot in the mid-eighties. His collection of translations had turned into an accidental bestseller at the moment China was becoming interested in the concept of modernism. The surprise success was attributable to a misleading statement by an old scholar: “Without modernism, without modernization.” The latter referred to the Party’s call for four modernizations-in industry, agriculture, national defense, and science-which was the principle political slogan at the time. But it befuddled censorship officials, who approved the translation as a result. Afterward, however, the translation disappeared from the bookstores for more than a decade because of copyright issues. Now, the publishing house had finally cleared the rights to the poems, and a new edition was coming out. It included most of Chen’s earlier translations, along with some by other translators.
“It was a compromise born out of necessity,” Wuting said, going on at the other end of the call. “We had to include some work from other translators so we could present it as a collective effort, but yours are definitely the best, so we put your name on the cover.”
“That’s great. A variety of translation styles collected in a single volume,” Chen said, though he didn’t really believe it. But it was by no means easy to get a collection of poetry in translation published these days, so Chen felt obliged to at least attend the party. “I’ll come, of course, but you can’t expect me to give a talk on such short notice. I haven’t even seen a copy of the book.”
“We can’t afford to let the opportunity slip by, Chen. Guess who is sponsoring the party tonight?”
“Who?”
“Rong Pan, a Big Buck fan of T. S. Eliot-and to be exact, of your translations of Eliot. He’s going all out for the launch party tonight, sparing no expense. Do you know where he wants to hold it?”
“Where?
“The Heavenly World.”
“You’re kidding, Wuting. I’ve heard about that place. It’s a notorious nightclub, rumored to be exotic and obscenely expensive.”
“Obscenely expensive, indeed! You’re right about that. And quite exotic as well.”
“Then why drag T. S. Eliot to such a place?”
“In today’s age of conspicuous consumption, an invitation to this nightclub is worth a lot of face. Just to be invited is a recognition of one’s elite status. Those who are invited will definitely come. What’s more important, they are financially able to buy books-a lot of books. Rong promised to buy five hundred copies himself as an encouragement to others. Now, if the party were held somewhere appropriate, like a library, then some people might still come, but how many copies do you think they’d buy?”
It was an invitation to which Chen couldn’t say no, not when it involved five hundred presold copies of the book. The party was essential to book sales. Poetry couldn’t make anything happen in this age, but money always could.
Personal reasons were also contributing to Chen’s feeling that he couldn’t decline the invitation. It was his translation of Eliot that had first made him known among then-young readers, and it was under Eliot’s influence that Chen himself started writing.
“You owe it to Eliot to give a talk at this party,” Wuting concluded. “You don’t have to speak for very long. Ten to fifteen minutes will be more than enough.”
“When you put it that way, I don’t have any choice.”
Chen flapped the phone closed. Whatever reasons he might have for not going to the party were outweighed by his desire for the collection to succeed.
So he hurried back home to prepare for the talk he’d have to give at tonight’s party.
The more he worked on it, however, the more unsure he was about tonight’s event. At a bookstore, he’d have no problem holding the interest of the audience. Not so at the Heavenly World. What would the Big Bucks who showed up there want to know, particularly about a modernist poet like T. S. Eliot?
Also, he didn’t know how to dress for the occasion. Looking at his disheveled reflection in the mirror, he thought he’d better at least get his hair cut.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Oh, thank you so much, Chief Inspector Chen,” White Cloud said, recognizing his number. “I’ve just received your flowers.”
“Thank you for the invitation to your opening, White Cloud. My hearty congratulations, and my apologies too. Sorry to miss it-I wasn’t in Shanghai.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re always busy, traveling here and there. But it’s been such a long time. You may have forgotten what I look like.”
“How can that possibly be?”
“Then come see me at my salon.”
There seemed to be a subtle complaining note to her words. Did she think he’d been avoiding her? Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had been, for a number of reasons. It wouldn’t do a high-ranking police officer any good even to be seen in the company of White Cloud, given her background as a karaoke girl, let alone get entangled in a close relationship.
But now that he was no longer a cop, was he still going to worry about what people might think?
He put the question aside: right now, he had a more immediate agenda. White Cloud, in addition to helping with his hair, might also be able to tell him something more about the nightclub, since she moved in those circles.
“Drop by any time you like,” she repeated. “I’ll be here every day-and at your service.”
“I will. You’ve come a long way, White Cloud. The first time we met was at a salon, as I recall, and now you have your own salon.”
“You still remember, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I’m no longer a chief inspector, as you might have heard.”
“Mr. Gu has mentioned that, but so what? You’re still a Party cadre. If anything, you might have more time for yourself, and you’ll be able to do what you really want.”
“I hope so. In fact, there’s something I have to do this evening. A new volume including my translations of T. S. Eliot is coming out, and the publisher wants me to attend a book launch party at the Heavenly World.”
“A party for T. S. Eliot at the Heavenly World? That’s mind-boggling.”
“It really is, isn’t it? So let me ask you a question. What can you tell me about the nightclub?”
“Well, a lot of Big Bucks go there. There are a lot of high-ranking Party officials there too, but they usually keep a low profile. The officials, that is, not the Big Bucks. There are a lot of stories about the place, so many that it’s hard to know which, if any, are true.
“The owner is a middle-aged man named Shen, and he allegedly is connected to people both at the top of the Party and to people in the black way. He’s untouchable, and his customers don’t have to worry about police raids or anything like that. That’s why the elite are willing to pay so much for an evening at the Heavenly World. I’m told that there’s even a secret passage connecting the garage and the club’s most ‘private suite.’ So for those that really want privacy, they can get in without being seen. I can find more about it you if you like-”