To take his mind off police work, it would be best to do something different. He was not a man who could relax by doing nothing, as in Laozi’s Tao Te Ching. In a way, Gu’s translation job offered just what he needed, not to mention the monetary incentive.
The New World project proposal on his desk started with an introduction detailing Shanghai ’s architectural history from the beginning of the century. It did not take him long to realize that the success of the project would depend on a myth-on nostalgia for the glitter and glamour of the thirties, or, to be exact, on the recreation of that myth-blending the past into a delicious brew, a cup of cappuccino, to delight customers in the nineties.
But then, much about business success had proven mysterious to him. When Kentucky Fried Chicken had first come to Shanghai, he had laughed at the idea. The prices alone would scare away most Shanghainese, he believed, but he had been wrong. Kentucky Fried Chicken enjoyed a huge success. Several branch stores had opened in the city. Last summer, he had wanted to talk with his cousin Shan about his mother’s health problems, and Shan suggested that they meet in “ Kentucky ”: “It’s cool there. So clean and air-conditioned.”
An advantage of translating rather than writing was that he could keep working on a text mechanically even if its meaning was beyond him, putting words together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, without worrying about the whole picture for the moment. He had barely finished a half page when there was a light knock at the door. Opening it, he saw a girl standing there, her long hair hanging over her shoulders, a college badge on her scarlet jacket. He recognized her as White Cloud, the “little secretary” promised by Gu.
“Chief Inspector Chen, I am reporting for work,” she said, in a voice as tender and sweet as freshly peeled litchi.
She was a delicious girl with a watermelon-seed-shaped face, almond eyes, and cherry lips.
“General Manager Gu did not have to send you here. He shouldn’t have done so.” Chen did not know what else to say, but he felt he had to make some protest.
“He is paying me to come here,” she said in mock dismay. “You surely don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”
She could hardly help with the translation, as her major was Chinese literature, he remembered. What else was there for her to do? There might be phone calls, which a secretary could answer for him. But he thought better of this. He didn’t receive many calls at home, for one thing. And then, a female secretary in his room- what would others imagine? Afterward, he would have to spend more time making explanations than she could possibly save him.
But she seemed to be quite at ease already, almost at home. Taking off her jacket, she started to wash up the cups and the ashtray on the desk without waiting for his orders.
Perhaps Gu had given her his orders.
“What about your schoolwork?”
“I have only one class this evening.”
“I cannot think of anything for you to do at this moment. There are magazines on the shelf. You may pick one to read if you like.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Chief Inspector Chen.”
He did not feel comfortable with someone moving about in back of him. She had started to straighten the books on the shelf. It was hard to drive the associations he had with the phrase a little secretary out of his subconscious. She had on a white sweater with an extraordinarily large collar and sleeves. Very fashionable. He wondered whether there was a special name for the style. Then an idea came to him. He was not that familiar with the architectural styles of the thirties. If she could take a few pictures of a shikumen house, of a lane from the thirties, in the former concession area, it would help him visualize. He asked if she could do that for him.
“Sure. Can I have your door key?” She added, “In case you are out when I come back.”
“Okay.”
She left with a key ring dangling from her finger, apparently quite clear as to where she would take those pictures he had requested. Her retreating figure reminded him of “a traveling cloud,” an image with various connotations in Chinese poetry, but at this moment, he thought of A traveling cloud / that forgets to come back I unaware of the spring drawing to an end, from a poem by Feng Yansi that he had read not too long ago.
In classical literature, more often than not, the word “cloud” was accompanied by “rain,” evoking sexual love.
Once again he tried to settle down to his work.
It was not easy. He had to use a Chinese-English dictionary, and a picture dictionary as well. After an hour or so, he had another idea. Instead of typing on, doggedly, he took out an extra copy of the proposal, and, with a highlighter, underlined the words he was not sure about. That was not difficult, but it was time-consuming, requiring a close reading. Still, he was getting a more general-yet at the same time more concrete-picture of the New World.
He stopped only once, to make himself a cup of instant coffee, which he drank absentmindedly.
White Cloud came back around one thirty, with a dozen color pictures she had taken and had developed. One-hour service, perhaps. She also carried a plastic bag in her other hand filled with boxes of barbequed pork, and smoked eel, and a bag of mini-soup buns.
“Have you had your lunch, Chief Inspector Chen?”
“No, I haven’t been hungry.”
“I’m so sorry, I had no time to prepare lunch for you today. This is something I bought from a restaurant.”
“Thank you! How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing, Mr. Gu will reimburse me.”
He did not really like it, the way Gu had given her instructions-and money too.
“He does not have to pay for my lunch.”
“Mr. Gu pays me quite handsomely, as you know. Please, help me keep my job.”
He examined the pictures with approval. They appeared clear, well focused. He picked up the first soup bun. “Well, I can’t complain.”
“Please eat now,” she said. “The buns are warm.”
They looked as dainty as quail eggs, almost transparent, the minced pork stuffing mixed with minced crab meat, combining the flavors of land and river. The soup inside burst out at the touch of his lips, hot, and delicious.
“Be careful,” she said with a giggle, hastily wiping his chin with a pink paper napkin.
Her fingers wiping the soup from his chin embarrassed him, and he felt obliged to say something. “According to a recipe book I read, the soup bun is special because its stuffing is mixed with pork skin jelly. When steamed, the jelly turns into hot liquid. You have to bite into it very carefully, or the soup will splash out, or even scald your tongue.”
In spite of his book knowledge, he had made a small soup mess on the desk, and she brought a towel to clean it up with.
He changed the subject. “You are really helping a lot. But you are a college student, White Cloud. I do not think-”
“I have to earn my college tuition. Both my parents have been laid off. I have to work, if not as a little secretary for you, then as a K girl at the Dynasty Club, or somewhere else.”