“I don’t know if the interviews will lead to anything,” Yu said.
“We may at least learn something more about Yin.”
“That’s another thing. Her neighbors seem to have known very little about her. She was a writer, she had published a book about the Cultural Revolution. That’s about it. Otherwise, she was an outsider in the building.”
“What about her colleagues?”
“I’ve talked to her department head. I got nothing really informative from him. As for the file provided by her school authorities, it contains little except a bunch of official clichés.”
“Anybody would be nervous discussing a dissident writer,” Chen said. “The less said, the better. It’s understandable.”
“But to substantiate the insider-murderer theory, and to rule out people who knew her at the college, I would have liked to have interviewed some of her colleagues.”
“My guess is that they will not say much either, but it’s too early to exclude any possibilities.”
At the end of the conversation, the clock said one thirty.
But for the translation project, Chen thought as he made a cup of soybean milk for himself, it might have been a good idea for him to visit some of the scholars who had known Yin or Yang. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed Professor Zhou Longxiang, who had worked at the same college as Yin. Chen had once consulted Zhou about classical Chinese poetry, and had since kept in touch.
Professor Zhou, apparently lonesome after his retirement, was glad of Chen’s call. He launched into a lecture about the death of poetry for fifteen minutes before Chen was able to bring the conversation to the subject of Yin. At once Zhou’s voice showed irritation. “She was a shameless opportunist, that Yin Lige. I should not speak ill of the dead, I know, but when she was a Red Guard, she showed no mercy at all toward others.”
“Perhaps she was too young then.”
“That’s no excuse. What a disaster of a woman! She brought nothing but trouble to people close to her. Including Yang, who was a fine scholar.”
“That’s a very interesting point, Professor Zhou,” Chen said. “As you are not superstitious, please enlighten me.”
“It’s simple. But for the affair with her, he would not have been subject of criticism meetings at the cadre school,” Zhou said. “Karma. By her actions during the Cultural Revolution, she brought her troubles upon herself.”
It was a cruel thing to say, whether one was Buddhist or not. The old professor’s opinion must have been fixed there and then in the furnace of the Cultural Revolution. It did not throw much light on the investigation, but it reconfirmed the impression of her unpopularity even among her colleagues.
Looking at his watch, Chen told himself he could not afford to make many phone calls like that. Then he had an idea: he might try an approach of a different sort. It would be something else for White Cloud to do. It was surprising that she kept floating into his mind like a cloud that hovered over his work, and not just the translation work. He was not without a touch of self-satisfaction as he thought a little more about it. He could send her to talk to Yin’s former colleagues. He was, as in the proverb, A general who makes plans in his tent, and determines the outcome of a battle thousands of miles away. Even on his vacation, he was still able to contribute to the investigation.
A few minutes before four, White Cloud returned carrying two plastic bags. She had changed her clothes, and wore jeans and a leather jacket over a low-cut white sweater. On her feet were a pair of short, shiny black boots.
“I’ve got something for you.” She put one of the plastic bags on the desk.
“You’ve been really quick. Thank you so much. I know I can count on you, White Cloud.”
“I have photocopies of Yang’s poetry translations. You may read them for yourself.” Still carrying the other bag, she added, “I’ll fix something for you in the kitchen.”
“What do you have in your hand?”
“A surprise.”
He had no clue as to what the plastic bag contained. It was large and black, and there seemed to be a faint, indistinct sound coming out of it.
He started reading the photocopied pages. Yang’s poetry translations had been published in a number of English study journals, mostly in the last few years. Such journals had an enormous circulation in China, where so many people were now engaged in learning English.
In most cases, to Chen’s surprise, the editors had put in a few words as to why people should read Yang’s poetry today. According to one magazine editor, it would be a good way to impress Americans. According to another, it would become fashionable, especially among lovers, to quote these translated poems on Valentine’s Day, which was being introduced into China. There were also several short introductions by Yin, about the techniques employed in the translation of these poems, which might be helpful to beginners. However, he failed to find any clue to the mysterious abbreviations.
White Cloud was making noises in the kitchen area. She must be cooking, even though it was still a bit early for dinner.
She finally emerged, carrying a large tray with a broad smile. “From the Dynasty Club,” she announced, placing on the folding table an impressive dinner that included some delicacies he had never seen before. One was a small dish of fried sparrow gizzards, golden crisp. How many sparrows had gone into the making of that dish, he wondered. The other dish, of duck, was also original-it was duck heads with the skulls removed, so people could easily reach the tongues, or suck out the brains. It was the sauna shrimp, however, that really impressed him. River shrimp were brought to the table in a glass bowl, live, still jumping and wriggling. She also provided a small wooden pail whose bottom was covered with red hot stones. She poured some wine into the bowl of shrimp, then took the drunken shrimp from the bowl and put them into the pail. There was a shrill hiss, and, in two or three minutes, a plate of sauna shrimp appeared.
Gu must have given her many instructions, including how to prepare the sauna shrimp. She might not be an excellent cook, but she knew how to procure delicious food, and that was good enough for him.
“Is that what you wanted?” she said, picking up one copied page of the poetry translation.
“It may be a piece of the puzzle. I will have to try to fit it in.”
“You will,” she said. “I hope you like the shrimp too.”
“Thanks. You are spoiling me.”
“Not at all. It’s a great honor to work with you, as Mr. Gu tells me.”
To Chen, however, it sounded somewhat like a reminder to concentrate on the translation lying on the desk, and to remember that theirs was a business relationship.
He recalled their first meeting in a private room in the Dynasty Club. She, too, had been quite professional-as a K girl. The least he could do now was to show his appreciation. He picked up another shrimp with his fingers.
Chapter 10
Detective Yu arrived at the neighborhood committee office early. He wanted to do some reading, even after Peiqin had told him the story of Yin’s novel. Peiqin had also underlined some parts for him to study more closely. The first few pages he turned to described Yang reading to Yin at night behind the pigsty, with piglets grunting off and on as a chorus.
The cloud seems to be changing its shape. / Insubstantial, soft, wrapping itself against the other, / curling up. Then comes the rain. … It took Yu a minute to figure out the metaphor. It was clever of Yin to write in such highly suggestive language, without being explicit. He wondered, however, if Yin and Yang could have really done anything while they were at the cadre school. They both lived in the dorm, with many roommates in their respective rooms. Even if their roommates were out of the way for an hour or two, it would have been too risky for the two to attempt anything. In those years, if people were caught having extramarital sex, they could be sentenced to years of imprisonment. He read the lines one more time. After close study, it was even more provocative. Chief Inspector Chen, who wrote his own poetry more or less like that, might appreciate it.