“Do you really have to know, Chen?”
“Yes, I have to know what is motivating a potential client before I take on any job.”
Chen was betting that Qian would choose not to answer, and then he would be off the hook.
She cast a plaintive look at him.
The waitress came over again, ready to clear the table.
“We’re in no hurry,” Chen said. “We want to talk for a while. Bring us another pot of good tea.”
“Yes sir,” the waitress said.
“And here is twenty yuan for you,” Chen said, handing her a bill. “Once you bring the tea, I’d appreciate it if you could leave us alone to talk in peace.”
“I understand, sir,” the waitress said with a knowing smile. “For fifty, I can make sure that no other customers are seated near you.”
“That’s reasonable,” Chen agreed readily. “I’ll pay you when we leave.”
Qian looked on in amazement. She expected a private investigator to know the ways of the world, but the way he tipped was surprising.
The waitress brought over another pot of Dragon Well tea in no time, leaving them with an obliging smile.
“You really must have been paid well for your last job,” Qian said.
“Not too bad. The customer thought I did a good job.”
“I see. And to do a good job, you have to know why you’re being hired. I understand,” she said slowly. “It’s a long story. I’d better start from the beginning.
“In Suzhou opera, an actor might sing a couple of lines before starting into the narration. I don’t want to be that dramatic, but there’s a poem on the back of the CD cover, which might set up my story.”
Chen picked up the CD, on the back of which was the silhouette of a graceful woman dressed in ancient attire leaning against a pavilion. Beside that image was a ci poem set in a special font that looked like petals.
Thanks to the long willow shoot bending / itself for her, she succumbs / to the mistlike catkins caressing / her face, as if touched / by an old friend.
“Oh, it’s by Li Yu, the poet-emperor of Southern Tang in the tenth century,” he said. “He was a lousy emperor, but a brilliant poet…”
A group of customers appeared, laughing, talking, cursing, heading straight to their section, possibly having just come from an overnight mahjong party or a party at the Southern Heavenly World. It seemed the waitress wasn’t able to keep her word.
One of the new customers shouted out to the waitress, “Double toppings for each of us, a couple of the best cross-bridge dishes as well. And a pot of your best Before-Rain tea.”
“Sorry about that,” the waitress apologized to Chen and Qian.
Since it was no longer possible for them to talk privately there, they paid their bill and left.
It was just past eight in the morning, and neither the Lion Garden nor the bookstore had opened yet. Chen, instead, led Qian to the back garden of his hotel. Considering the time of year, it was surprisingly pleasant sitting on a bench out by the pond. Faint music came wafting over on a fitful breeze.
No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. By all appearances, they were merely a couple from the hotel, stepping out into the garden to watch the goldfish in the pond after enjoying an early breakfast.
“It’s a fairly long story,” she said quietly. “Like a Suzhou opera, I think it’s better told in the third person.”
“Perspective is what makes a story. Please go ahead.”
She was born in Suzhou. Her parents, both of them opera fans, dreamed of her growing up to be a Suzhou opera singer. She began showing a passionate interest in it as early as her primary school years. After middle school, she entered the Suzhou Arts School, where she was a top student. Soon she was hired by the Suzhou Number One Opera Ensemble. In the heyday of the opera, that would have meant a secure future. But times had changed. The audience, once huge in number, was shrinking rapidly, and frenzied real estate development led to the demolition of the old Suzhou opera theaters, one after another. As audiences dwindled, revenue fell, and once the government dropped their subsidy, the ensemble could hardly make ends meet. The dire financial situation meant the company could no longer continue as before.
Eventually, the ensemble had to resort to the old ways: having its members perform at whatever venue available. One night they performed at a restaurant, the next night a private performance for a wealthy family, and the day after, at a birthday party. Ultimately the members had to go their separate ways, with some of them going on the road and touring beyond Suzhou. Suzhou opera was said to have a considerable fan base in Shanghai, so Qian went there on her own, though nominally still a member of the ensemble.
In Shanghai, she came to play in a restaurant called Plum Blossom Pavilion, which was known for its inexpensive breakfast and was popular with the not-so-well-to-do retirees. The restaurant proprietor, a middle-aged man named Kang, invited Suzhou opera singers to perform every Tuesday morning. It was a marketing gambit-a free treat for customers to enjoy over a bowl of noodles or dumplings-but it gave the restaurant a reputation as “a conscientious enterprise intent on preserving the traditional arts.” The Foreign Liaison Office heard about the performances and started to bring foreign visitors to the restaurant. Then Kang made a suggestion to her.
“Continue to sing every Tuesday as before, but during the rest of the week, you can work as a hostess and get paid accordingly. You’ll also get free food and board, and a bonus whenever you sing for customers by special request.”
To Qian, Suzhou opera could not have sunk lower. But the rapidly rising rent in the city already took more than half of the money she earned. She had no choice but to move into the restaurant-eating leftovers in the kitchen and sleeping on the hard tables after the restaurant closed late at night.
About a week after starting her new role, she was told that there would be a group of distinguished Western tourists interested in Suzhou opera coming in that evening and that she had to do her best. That evening turned out to be a huge success. Articles covering it appeared in several newspapers, some with pictures, and among the tourists was a well-known American sinologist who spoke highly of the Shanghai government’s efforts to support the local dialect opera. For Kang, publicity like that meant more profit.
For her, however, it was more about a man whom, for the moment, she would call S. He was the one who arranged for the Western tourist group to visit the restaurant, initially as a gesture of support for the traditional art. He was in a position to make decisions for the Shanghai Foreign Liaison Office, and he arranged for several groups to come in quick succession.
In S., she saw “someone who understands the music,” an echo from the traditional romantic stories celebrated in Suzhou opera. And S. saw her as “the youthful, vivacious embodiment of the ancient art,” as he told her one evening after her performance. In him, she thought she’d discovered hope for a revival of Suzhou opera. He had the power to make impossible things possible. Because of the groups of foreign tourists who came to the Suzhou opera at the restaurant, and the coverage of it in the media, the opera started to attract some younger people.
All of this happened during a vulnerable time for her. She’d been in Shanghai for nearly a year, with very little to show for it. Her grandma had passed away back in Suzhou, worrying on her deathbed about her granddaughter. Qian was starting to wonder if there was any point in struggling any longer.
That was when S. stepped into the restaurant, and then, into her life. He brought with him flowers, red envelopes, and promises to make her a star in the revival of Suzhou opera. He was generous, though he might not have had to worry about the money, since it was all done under the cover of government business. He told her that he and his wife were separated and that they had filed for divorce. It wasn’t long before he arranged for her to move into a furnished apartment in Xujiahui. He even managed to secure her a “research subsidy for Suzhou opera,” which would be conducted under aegis of the Shanghai Foreign Liaison office.