A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (15 page)

“Are you all right, Inspector Rohn?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said, disengaging herself. “Maybe I’m suffering from jet lag.”

Zhu rushed down holding a flashlight. “Oh, those ancient steps are totally rotten.”

One of the treads was broken. Whether Inspector Rohn had stumbled first, or that step had inexplicably crumbled, was not clear.

Chen was about to say something, but checked himself. He ended up apologizing mechanically, “I’m sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

“For what, Chief Inspector Chen?” she said, seeing his embarrassment. “But for your intervention again, I could have hurt myself.”

She took a step and swayed. He put his arm around her waist. Leaning heavily against him, she let him help her down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, as she tried to lift her damaged foot for a closer look, she winced at a sharp pain in her ankle.

“You need to see a doctor.”
                         

“No, it’s nothing.”
                            

“I should not have taken you out today, Inspector Rohn.”

“I insisted on it, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said a little testily.
                                                

“I’ve an idea,” Chen said with a determined expression. “Let’s go to a herbal drug store. Mr. Ma’s. Chinese medicine will help.”

* * * *

The herbal drug store in question was located in the old town of Shanghai. A golden sign above the door frame displayed two big Chinese characters in bold strokes: “Old Ma,” which could also mean “Old Horse.”

“Interesting name for a herbal drug store,” she said.

“There is a Chinese proverb: ‘An old horse knows the way.’ Old, experienced, Mr. Ma knows what he’s doing, though he’s not a doctor or pharmacist in the conventional sense.”

An elderly woman in a long white uniform came toward them and broke into a smile. “How are you, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Ma. This is Catherine Rohn, my American friend.” Chen introduced them to each other as they moved into a spacious room furnished as an office. Its white walls were lined with large oak cabinets sporting numerous tiny drawers, each of which had a small label on it.

“What wind has brought you here, Chen?” Mr. Ma, a white-haired, white-bearded man wearing silver-rimmed spectacles and a long string of carved beads, rose from his armchair.

“Today’s wind is my friend Catherine, a wind from across the oceans. How is your business, Mr. Ma?”

“Not bad, thanks to you. How is your friend?”

“She has sprained her ankle,” Chen said.

“Let me take a look.”

Catherine slipped off her shoes and had her ankle examined. It ached under his touch. She doubted whether the old man could tell anything without an x-ray.

“Nothing on the surface, but you never know. Let me apply a paste to your foot. Better remove it after two or three hours. If the inner injury comes to the surface, you don’t have to worry.”

It was a sticky yellow paste. Mr. Ma spread it around the injured part. It felt cool on her skin. Mrs. Ma helped to wrap her ankle in a roll of white gauze.

“She also feels a little giddy,” Chen said. “She has had a long trip. And she’s been busy since her arrival. An herbal drink may boost her energy level.”

“Let me take a look at your tongue.” Mr. Ma examined her tongue and felt her pulse for a couple of minutes with his eyes closed, as if lost in meditation. “Nothing seriously wrong. The yang is slightly high. Maybe you have too much on your mind. I’m writing you a prescription. Some herbs for balance, and some for blood circulation.”

“That’ll be great,” Chen said.

Mr. Ma flourished a skunk-tail-brush pen over a piece of bamboo paper and handed the prescription to Mrs. Ma. “Choose the freshest herbs for her.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, old man. Chief Inspector Chen’s friend is our friend.” Mrs. Ma started measuring out a variety of herbs from the small drawers—one pinch of white stuff like frost, another of a different color, almost like dried petals, and also a pinch of purple grains like raisins. “Where are you staying, Catherine?”
                             

“The Peace Hotel.”
                               

“It’s not easy to prepare traditional Chinese medicine in a hotel. You need to have a special earthen pot and to watch over the process. Let us prepare the medicine and send it to you by messenger.”
                                         

“Yes, that’s better, old woman.” Mr. Ma stroked his beard approvingly.
                                      

“Thank you,” Catherine said. “It is so thoughtful of you.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Ma,” Chen said. “By the way, do you have any books about triads or secret societies in China?”
                                     

“Let me check.” Mr. Ma stood up, went into a back room, and came out presently with a thick volume. “I happen to have one. You can keep it. I no longer run a bookstore here.”

“No, I’ll return it. You have saved me a trip to the Shanghai Library.”

“I’m glad my dust-covered books can still be of some use, Chief Inspector Chen. Anything we can do for you, you know, after—”

“Don’t say that, Mr. Ma,” Chen cut the old man short. “Or I dare not come here again.”

“You have so many books—not just medical books, Mr. Ma.” Catherine was interested in the curtailed conversation between the two men.

“Well, we used to run a used bookstore. Thanks to the Shanghai Police Bureau,” Mr. Ma said with undisguised sarcasm, twisting his beard between his fingers, “we’re running this herbal drugstore instead.”

“Oh, our business is pretty good,” Mrs. Ma intervened in a hurry. “Sometimes more than fifty patients a day. From all walks of life. We have nothing to complain about.”

“Fifty patients a day? That’s a lot for a herbal drugstore that does not accept state-issued medical insurance.” Chen turned to Mr. Ma with a renewed interest. “What kind of patients are they?”

“People come here for various reasons. For some, because the state-run hospital cannot do anything about their problems, for some, because they cannot go there for their problems. For instance, injuries in a gang fight. The state-run hospital will immediately report it to the police. So I’ve helped a few of them.” Mr. Ma looked up at Chen before going on with a hint of defiance. “It’s your job to catch them, Chief Inspector Chen, if they are criminals. They come to me as patients, so I treat them as a doctor.”

“I see, Doctor Zhivago.”

“Don’t call me that.” Mr. Ma waved his hands hurriedly, as if trying to chase away an invisible fly. ‘Once bitten by a snake, forever nervous at the sight of a coiled cord.’”

“Some of these people must be grateful to you,” Chen said.

“You can never tell with them, but like in kung fu novels, they always talk about paying their debts of gratitude.” Mr. Ma added after touching the beads for a few seconds, “Nowadays, they are capable of anything. Their long arms reach to the skies. I have to do something for them, or my practice will be in big trouble.”

“I understand, Mr. Ma. You don’t have to explain it to me, but I have to ask you another favor.”

“Anything.”

“We’re looking for a woman, a pregnant woman from Fujian. A Fujian triad called the Flying Axes may be looking for her, too—she was an educated youth from Shanghai years ago. If you happen to hear anything about her, please let me know.”

“The Flying Axes—I don’t think I have met any of its members. This is Blue territory, you know. But I can ask around.”

“Your help will be invaluable to us, Mr. Ma, or shall I say, Doctor Zhivago?” Chen stood up to leave.

“Then you’ll have to be the general.” Mr. Ma smiled.

Catherine was intrigued with their talk, particularly the part about Doctor Zhivago. Years earlier, her mother had bought her a music box that, played “Lara’s Song.” The novel had since become one of her favorites. The tragedy of an honest intellectual’s life in an authoritarian society. Now the Soviet Union was practically finished, but not China. There was something fascinating about the background of the conversation, almost like a scroll of a traditional Chinese painting, in which the blank space suggested more than what was presented on the paper.

When they got back to the hotel, it was near six. She heard him telling Little Zhou to leave. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll take a taxi home.”

In her room, the chambermaid had prepared everything for the night. The bed was turned down, the window closed, and the curtain drawn. There was a pack of Virginia Slims by a crystal ashtray on the nightstand, an imported luxury that suited her status here. Everything had been prepared for a distinguished guest. As he helped her seat herself on the couch, she said, “Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen, for all you have done for me.”

“Don’t mention it. How do you feel now?”

“I feel much better now. Mr. Ma is a good doctor.” She motioned him to sit in the sofa. “Why did you call him Dr. Zhivago?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We are finished for the day, aren’t we? So please tell me the story.”

“You will probably not be interested in it.”

“I majored in Chinese studies. There’s nothing more interesting to me than a story about Doctor Zhivago in China.”

“You should have a good rest, Inspector Rohn.”

“According to your Party Secretary Li, you are supposed to make my stay a satisfactory one, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“But if you call in sick tomorrow, Party Secretary Li will hold me responsible.”

“I cannot take my evening walk along the Bund,” she pleaded in mock seriousness, but she felt a bit vulnerable, too, as she spoke. “I am alone, in this hotel room. Surely you could humor me.”

Perhaps he realized how she felt, her ankle sprained, her yin-yang system out of balance, in a solitary hotel room, in a strange city, where she had no one to talk to—except him. He said, “Fine, but you have to lie down, and make yourself comfortable.”

So
she slipped off her shoes, reclined on the couch, and laid her feet on a cushion he placed for her. Her posture was modest enough, she thought, her dress pulled down over her knees.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten all about Mr. Ma’s instructions,” he said. “Let me take a look at your ankle.”

“It’s better now.”

“You have to take off the paste.”

When the gauze was removed, she was astonished to see her ankle had turned black and blue. “The bruise did not show in Mr. Ma’s office.”

“This yellowish paste is called Huangzhizhi. It is capable of bringing the inner injury to the surface, so you can heal more quickly.”
                                       

He went into the bathroom and came back with a couple of wet towels.
                                      

“The paste is no longer useful now.” He knelt down by the couch to wipe off the remainder and to rub her ankle. “Does it still hurt?”
                                       

“No.” She shook her head, watching Chen examine the bruise, making sure there was no paste left.
               

“Tomorrow you will be able to run like an antelope again.”

“Thank you,” she said. “So, it’s time for the story.”