“After the Cultural Revolution, Shang married a young singer-she was more than twenty years younger than he-and they had a cute son, Little Shang, just like the little revolutionary in Little Red Star. For a while, Little Shang appeared to be growing up to be the red revolutionary teenager they expected him to be. About a year ago, however, he got into a car accident, and then savagely beat up the other driver. When police arrived, he started shouting, ‘My father is General Shang.’ The police officers hesitated, afraid to do anything to the son of a high-ranking cadre, but a passerby recorded the scene with his cell phone. When he uploaded the video online, it became an instant scandal. Before even that scandal blew over, Little Shang got into more trouble. He and some of his buddies dragged a young, drunk girl out of a bar. Took her to a hotel and gang-raped her.”
“That’s outrageous. Why haven’t I read anything about it?”
“It only happened a couple of weeks ago. But you’ll never read anything about it in the newspapers. The only place it’s being discussed is on the Internet. Someone even made a playlist of all the red songs Shang had sung, and paired them with pictures of him standing on various stages, accepting congratulations from Party leaders.”
“Like a bad apple, society is really rotten to the core,” Old Hunter said, shaking his head. “In those red songs, only the Communist Party can save China. No one can ever question it. Now, corruption has been exposed as being deep-rooted in the one-party system. People can’t help but be disillusioned and cynical.”
“Right before I was removed from my position at the police bureau, Shang’s son’s case was sent on to our squad. Quite possibly it was sent to us as a public example of the Party’s propriety, or as just another damage-control job. Or both.”
“I don’t know what to say, Chief Inspector. Today’s China is beyond my understanding,” Old Hunter said, draining his tea. “Perhaps I’m meant to be just a private investigator. I’ll get Tang talking and see what I can find out for you.”
EIGHT
THE NEXT DAY, CHEN made his way back to Suzhou and the cemetery with his father’s grave. This time, he brought with him a hardcover book.
It was a study of neo-Confucianism written by his father and published posthumously just last year. The publication quite possibly had something to do with Chen’s then-position as chief inspector and rank as a Party cadre. Now it was his mother’s request that, once the renovation of his father’s grave was complete, the book be buried in the casket.
There had been almost a supernatural aspect to his first trip to Suzhou, Chen reflected. Because he went to visit his father’s grave, because he decided that he needed to have his father’s grave restored and renovated, and because he took pictures of the grave and sent them to his mother, he’d gotten a call from his mother while he was at the nightclub. All these things seemed to be connected through the inexplicable links of yin and yang, as if guided by an invisible hand.
Had he told his mother about what happened at the nightclub when he stepped out to return her call, she would have declared that he’d been protected by his late father. It seemed the least he could do to return the favor was to pay personal attention to the restoration. The trip might also serve as a signal to anyone who might be trying to ruin him that the ex-chief inspector had given up, and instead of trying to fight back he was simply keeping himself busy among the graves in Suzhou. Providing them with a sideshow wouldn’t hurt, whether they believed it or not.
If no one else, his mother believed in Chen’s trip to oversee the renovation of his father’s grave. She wasn’t materialistic, but the knowledge that the grave of her late husband would be properly tended to would help her sleep at night. Her request that Chen have his father’s book buried with his remains originated in a dream of hers in which the late Confucian scholar was frantically searching for his copies of the classics stored in the attic room, worrying that they had been burned. During the Cultural Revolution, one of the crimes his father had been accused of was his condemnation of the first Qing emperor’s burning books as a means to control people’s minds. Mao happened to admire the first Qing emperor.
At the cemetery, on the hillside with his father’s grave, Chen saw two farmers in their early fifties standing nearby. They were smoking and talking, but not working. These were the workers supposed to be doing the restoration job. Chen introduced himself and lit cigarettes for them. Then, as Chen stood watching, the workers picked up their tools with undisguised reluctance.
Chen decided to stay there for a while, take a look around, making a comment every now and then and pretending to supervise. At one point, Chen walked over to a moss-covered stone step, sat down, and opened the book he’d brought with him. But he couldn’t concentrate on all that Confucius said. Soon he got up and started pacing about, making a renewed effort to visualize the details of the renovation.
Around eleven, the farmers declared they had to leave for lunch, tossing down their tools. It was still early, but Chen chose to say nothing.
With the workers gone, Chen, too, walked down the trail, casting a look around and wondering if he was being followed. So far, he hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. It was more than possible, however, that somebody would check with the cemetery office. Chen might as well stop in and let the office confirm that Chen was in Suzhou.
Manager Hong welcomed Chen to the office with open arms, leading him to the same sofa as the last time.
“Let’s talk about the project,” Chen started, moving straight to the point.
“We’re doing our best, Director Chen. You can be assured that progress is being made. And that the work is of good quality, too.”
“I have a week before I must get back to work in Shanghai. So I plan to spend some of that time here in Suzhou.” Chen showed Hong the book he was carrying. “This book was written by my father. It’s my mother’s request that I place this copy of the book in my father’s casket myself.”
“Let me say it again, Director Chen, a filial son like you will be blessed. But you don’t have to worry about the restoration work on your father’s tomb.”
“For the work to be completed in time, however, the farmers might have to work overtime. I understand that this might cost extra, and I want to reassure you that that’ll be fine. Just make sure to give me an itemized list of expenses.”
“To be honest, Director Chen, some of the local farmers might not be pulling their own weight. But I will visit your father’s grave site frequently and keep an eye on the workers for you. I give you my word on it. If you want to stay in Suzhou for a short vacation, there is a lot to see in the ancient city.”
A lot to see in the ancient city-that’s what his father had said when they were in Suzhou many years earlier.
“Thank you, Manager Hong,” Chen said, his tongue suddenly dry. “Time alone will be able to show my gratitude. The blue mountains always stand, the green water flows along the unchanging course.”
Chen’s response sounded like something from a martial arts novel, but his mind had suddenly gone blank, and that was all he could come up with.
He gave Hong his regular cell phone number, which Hong entered into his own cell. Hong then called a taxi for him.
“Where are you staying, Director Chen?”
“It’s a hotel called-” He had not booked a hotel yet, thinking that he could find a cheap one close to the cemetery. But that wouldn’t fit the persona of a high-ranking director. “Southern Garden, I think that’s the name.”
“That’s a nice hotel, the Southern Garden. It’s just about twenty minutes from here. That should be very workable for you.”
Chen said his farewells and walked out of the office to see a taxi driver waiting, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling between his lips.