A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (32 page)

“You see, your Chinese is more than enough,” he said.

“I was afraid I would be the only foreign devil here,” she said.

The narrow street was lined on both sides with booths, kiosks, stands, barrows, and stores. Some specialized in a particular product line, like purses and shoulder bags, T-shirts, or jeans; some displayed an eclectic mixture. Armies of small vendors had created a marketplace out of a former residential area in the last few years. This had been happening throughout the city. A lot of stores were makeshift extensions, or conversions, of the original residences. Some peddlers did business on tables under awnings and umbrellas with brand logos, or simply on the pavements, giving the street the appearance of a fair.

They asked about Bai, the peddler, but no one volunteered information. It was not surprising. There might be more than one knockoff market. She did not seem too disappointed. Nor did they find Valentino pajamas there. Old Hunter’s information had been reliable.

She stopped at a booth to examine a leather purse. She slung it over her shoulder and appeared satisfied, but instead of bargaining for it, she left it saying, “Let me comparison shop at a few other stores first.”

Entering a tiny shop, they saw various familiar-looking, inexpensive products on shelves at the entrance, most of them bearing “made in China” labels. The goods were the same as those in state-run stores. Further inside, however, appeared all sorts of copies of high-style goods. The owner, a broad-shouldered woman in her late forties, greeted them with a grin.

Catherine took his arm, whispering, “For the benefit of the owner, so she won’t take me for an American sucker.”

While the gesture made sense, it made him oddly pleased. She started to browse just like other customers with an intensity he had not expected.

Another store displayed traditional Chinese costumes. The street, frequented by foreign tourists equally interested in exotic Oriental products, was home to a couple of specialized boutiques. She lit upon a scarlet silk robe embroidered with a golden dragon. As she stroked the smooth material, the owner of the store, a gray-haired woman wearing a pair of gray-rimmed glasses, said affably, “You can try it on here, American lady.”

“How?” Catherine looked around. There was no fitting room.

“It’s easy,” the owner said, pointing at a piece of cloth folded back and hooked on the wall. “Pull it out, hook it onto the other wall, and it is a fitting room curtain. You can put on the robe behind it.”

“Ingenious,” Chen said. What stretched out across the corner of the room was, however, not exactly a curtain. The material was too thin, too short. It was more like a fashionable apron.

Beneath the curtain, he saw Catherine’s dress falling in a heap at her feet. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of her white shoulders before she wrapped herself in the scarlet robe.

“Take your time, Catherine. I’ll smoke a cigarette outside.”

As he lit a cigarette outside the store, he saw a young man in front of another store across the street dialing a cell phone and casting a long glance in their direction. A Chinese onlooker would be intrigued by the sight of an American woman changing her clothes behind the makeshift curtain. Chen did not feel comfortable in his temporary role, standing there like a bodyguard, a “flower protector” in classical Chinese literature.

Something else was bothering him, too. He was not sure what. He dropped the cigarette before he finished, stamping it out under his heel, and went back into the store. She pulled aside the curtain and emerged holding the robe wrapped in a plastic bag.

“I bought it.”

“The American lady speaks Chinese so well,” the owner said with an obliging smile. “I’m giving her the price for a regular Chinese client.”

They resumed their shopping, bargaining, comparing, making small purchases here and there. As they squeezed their way through the market, it started to rain. They hurried into a garagelike store, where a young salesgirl was perched on a high chair behind the counter. Probably in her early twenties, she was cute in a clean-cut way, and she wore a black DKNY top that showed her belly button, and a pair of shorts with a Tommy Hilfiger logo on the hip. She dangled her Prada slippers and smoked a brown More cigarette. She stood up to meet them, a collective image of contemporary fashion.

“Welcome to our store, Big Brother.”

It was a strange greeting, he thought. The young salesgirl appeared to focus her attention on him.

“It’s raining,” he said. “So we’ll look around.”

“Take your time, Big Brother. Your girlfriend deserves the best.”

“Yes, she does,” he said.

“Thank you,” Catherine said in Chinese.

The salesgirl introduced herself. “My name is Huang Ying. It means Oriole in Chinese.”

“What a lovely name!”

“Our products are no low-quality fakes. The companies themselves sell to us through an unofficial channel.”

“How?” Catherine asked, taking up a black handbag bearing the label of an exclusive Italian designer.

“Well, most of them have joint ventures in Hong Kong or Taiwan. This handbag, for example. They ordered two thousand. The Taiwan factory produced three thousand. The same quality, needless to say. And we get one thousand directly from the factory. For less than twenty dollars.”

“It’s genuine,” Catherine said, after taking a closer look.

Chen could not see anything special about it—except for the price tag. It seemed enormously expensive to him. Handing the bag back to her, he noticed a row of colorful fashionable clothes hanging on a stainless-steel rack in a corner. The price tags seemed staggering.

There was also a length of scarlet velvet—a fitting room curtain partially hiding a cushioned stool by the back door. This store was of better quality—at least in that respect. When people changed, they would feel more secure.
                            

“Take a look at this watch. Oriole took out a display case. “The company is not well known for its watch line. So why bother? It’s because they are manufactured in Taiwan, and sold here.”
                                                        

“Hasn’t the government tried to close this market?” Catherine said to him.

“The market patrollers come here from time to time, but things can be worked out,” Oriole said glibly. “Say he takes away ten T-shirts and says, ‘I’ve confiscated five of your T-shirts, right?’ And you say, ‘Five, that’s correct.’ So instead of hauling you in, he turns in five, pockets five, and lets you off.”

“Nothing else has been done here?” Chief Inspector Chen felt embarrassed.

“Occasionally the cops come by. They raided Bald Zhang’s at the end of the street last month, and sentenced him to two years. It can be dangerous.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why do you still do it?”

“What choice do I have?” Oriole said bitterly. “My parents worked all their lives at Shanghai Number 6 Textile Mill. Laid off last year. Broken iron rice bowls. No benefit of the socialist system anymore. I have to support the family.”

“Your store must make a good profit,” Chen said.

“It’s not my store, but with the money I’m earning, I cannot complain.”

“Still, it’s not a job—” he did not finish the sentence. He was in no position to be condescending or compassionate. Oriole might earn more than a chief inspector. In the early nineties, there was nothing like the opportunity to make money. Still, it was not a decent job for a young girl—

Catherine was busy comparing watches, trying their effect, one by one, on her wrist. It might take her some time to make up her mind. How long, he wondered. Rain beat on the partially rolled-down aluminum door.

As he looked out, his glance swept over a man across the street dialing his cell phone, staring in their direction.

The same light green cellular phone.

It was the man who had taken pictures for them in front of Moscow Suburb earlier in the afternoon, and also the man who had looked into the Oriental clothes store fifteen minutes earlier.

He turned and asked Oriole, “Can you draw the fitting room curtain? I like the black slip, the Christian Dior.” He took it from the clothes stand and put it into Catherine’s hand. “Would you try it on?”

“What?” She stared at Chen, aware of the pressure of his hand.

“Let me pay you the tag price, Oriole,” he said, handing several bills over to the salesgirl, “I’d like to see the effect on her. It may take a short while.”

“Sure, take as much time as you want,” Oriole took the money, grinned eloquently, and pulled the curtain for them. “When you have finished, let me know.”

Another customer entered the store. Oriole stepped toward him, repeating over her shoulder, “Take your time, Big Brother.”

There was hardly enough space for two behind the curtain. Catherine looked up at Chen with the slip in her hands and questions in her eyes.

“Leave through the back,” he whispered in English and opened the door, which led to a narrow alley. It was still raining, with thunder rumbling in the distance and lightning streaking across the distant horizon.

Closing the door after them, he led Catherine to the end of the lane, which merged into Huating Road. Turning back, he saw the flashing neon sign of Huating Cafe on the second floor of a pinkish building on the corner between Huating and Huaihai roads. On the first floor was another clothing store. A gray wrought-iron staircase at the back of the building led up to the cafe.

“Let’s have a cup of coffee there,” he said.

They mounted the slippery staircase, entered an oblong room furnished in European style, and seated themselves at a table by the window.

“What’s up, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Let’s wait here, Inspector Rohn. Maybe I am wrong.” He did not go on as a waitress approached, bringing them hot towels. “I must have a cup of hot coffee.”

“I could do with the same.”

After the waitress brought the coffee, Catherine said, “Let me ask you a question first. This street must be an open secret. Why does the city government allow its existence?”

“Where there is demand, there is supply—even for fakes. No matter what measures the city government may take, people will continue their business. According to Karl Marx, for a three-hundred-percent profit, a lot of people are willing to sell their souls.”

“I’m not entitled to be a critic today, not after I made my purchases.” She stirred ripples in her coffee with a silver spoon. “Still, something must be done.”

“Yes, not just about the market, but also about the ideas behind it, the excessive exaltation of the material. With Deng Xiaoping saying that ‘to get rich is glorious,’ capitalistic consumerism has grown out of control.”

“Do you think what people practice here in reality is capitalism rather than communism?”

“You have to find the answer to this question for yourself,” he replied evasively. “Deng’s openness to capitalist innovation is well-known. There’s a saying of his: ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s a white or a black cat, as long as it catches a rat.’”

“Cat and rat, rhyme and reason.”

“Few Chinese keep cats as pets, you know. For us, cats exist for the sole purpose of catching rats.”

The rain had ceased. Looking out the window, he could see into Oriole’s store. The velvet curtain was still drawn. He was not sure if Oriole knew they had left. His prepayment of the price as marked must have been suspicious enough. He caught Catherine glancing in the same direction.

“Fifteen years ago, those brands were never heard of here. Chinese people were content to wear one style of clothes: Mao jackets, blue or black. Things are so different now. They want to catch up with the newest world fashions. From an historical perspective, you have to say that it’s progress.”