A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02] (39 page)

“Why should she go with you?” Liu demanded.

“Wen’s husband is there,” Chen said. “At his request, Inspector Rohn has come here to escort her to him. Wen will be put in a witness protection program there. She will be safe. You should persuade her to leave with Inspector Rohn.”

“Witness protection program?”

“Yes, she may not know how the program works,” Chen said. “The program has been arranged for her family’s protection.”

Liu did not respond at once. Instead, he turned to Wen, who met his gaze without saying a word. Liu nodded, as if having read the answer in her eyes.

“Comrade Wen Liping is my guest. Whether she wants to leave or stay, is really up to her to decide,” Liu said. “No one can force her to go anywhere. Not anymore.”

“You have to let her go, Mr. Liu,” Catherine said. “Her husband has made the request to the U.S. government. The Chinese government has agreed to cooperate.”

“I am not preventing her from leaving, absolutely not,” Liu retorted. “Go ahead and ask her.”

“No, nobody is keeping me here,” Wen said. “I want to stay.”

“Have you heard her, Inspector Rohn?” Liu said. “If her husband broke your law, he should be punished. No one has any objection to that, but how can the U.S. government determine a Chinese citizen’s fate against her own will?”

Catherine was not prepared for such hostility from Liu. “She can start a new life in the United States. A better life.”

“Don’t think each and every Chinese wants to crawl to the United States,” Liu snapped.

“I have to inform the Chinese authorities of your attitude. You are obstructing justice,” she said.

“Go ahead. You Americans are always talking about human rights. She has the right to stay where she wants. Gone are the days when you could order Chinese people around. Here is my attorney’s number.” Liu stood up, giving her a card, then gesturing toward the door. “Now please leave, both of you.”

“Chief Inspector Chen, your government has promised full cooperation.” Catherine also rose to her feet. “The local police bureau has to act.”

“Calm down, both of you,” Chen said, turning to Liu. “Inspector Rohn has a point, and you have one, too. It’s understandable that people look at things from their own perspectives. Can we have a talk, just you and I?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Chief Inspector Chen.” Liu thought for a moment. “How did you find her?”

“Through your poem. ‘The Fingertip Touching.’ I, too, belong to the Writers’ Association.”

“So you are Chen Cao.” Liu said. “I thought the name was familiar, but it does not change anything.”

“Have you heard of Wu Xiaoming’s case?” Chen asked.

“Yes, it was in the headlines last year. That HCC bastard.”

“I was in charge of it. It was a difficult case. I pledged that justice would be served. And I kept my word. As a poet as well as police officer, I give you my word. I will not force you or Wen to do anything. Let’s have a talk, and then you can judge whether she should discuss her options with me.”

“Chief Inspector Chen,” Catherine protested.

“Hasn’t she made herself clear enough?” Liu said. “Why waste any more time?”

“Wen should decide for herself, but it will not be a sound decision unless she has a good grasp of the situation. Otherwise she will make a decision you are both going to regret. Some of the factors involved are serious, I assure you, and neither of you are aware of them. You won’t let her run headlong into danger, will you?”

“Then talk to her,” Liu said.

“Do you think she will listen to me right now?” Chen said. “You are the only one she’ll listen to.”

“Are you going to keep your word, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Yes, I will write a report to the bureau to explain her decision, whatever it may be.”

Catherine wondered at his approach. The Chinese authorities had never seemed enthusiastic. They had found Wen, but now Chen did not appear very anxious to make her leave China. Why had Chen brought her with him then?

“Fine, let’s talk in my study upstairs,” Liu said to Chen before he turned to Wen Liping. “Don’t worry. Have lunch with the American. No one will force you to do anything.”

* * * *

Chapter 29

iu’s office was far more spacious than Chen’s at the Shanghai Police Bureau. More luxuriously furnished, too: a huge U-shaped steel desk, a swiveling leather rediner, several leather armchairs, and shelves filled with hardcover books. There was a mini-tower computer with a laser printer on the desk. Liu seated himself in an armchair and asked Chen to sit in another.

Chen noticed several miniature gilded Buddhist statues on the shelves. Each of them was clothed in a colorful silk robe. It reminded him of a scene he had witnessed years earlier in his mother’s company, in an ivy-mantled temple in Hangzhou, of a gilded clay image of Buddha sitting high in the hall, while pilgrims in miserable rags knelt in front of the gold and silver silk robes. The ceremony was called “Donning Buddha,” his mother explained. The more expensive the robe, the more devoted the pilgrim. Buddha would then produce miracles in accordance with the donor’s devotion. Following his mother’s example, he lit a stick of incense and made three wishes. These wishes he had long since forgotten, but not the puzzlement he had experienced.

Believe, and anything’s possible. Chief Inspector Chen did not know whether Liu believed in these statues’ powers or kept them merely for decoration, but Liu seemed to be convinced that he was doing the right thing.

“Sorry about my temper,” Liu said. “She does not understand how things are in China, that American officer.”

“It’s not her fault. I learned some details about Wen’s life as late as last night. Inspector Rohn does not know about them. That was why I wanted to have a talk between ourselves.”

“If you know what a hell of life she had with that bastard of a husband, do you still insist on sending her to him? You cannot imagine how we admired her in high school. She led us in everything, her long plait fluttering on her bosom, and her cheeks rosier than the peach blossom in the spring breeze... God, why should I tell you all this?”

“Please tell me as much as you can. So I can write a detailed report to the bureau,” Chen said, taking out a notebook.

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” Liu said in bafflement. “Where shall I start?”

“From the beginning, when you first met Wen.”

* * * *

Liu entered high school in 1967, at a time when his father, an owner of a perfume company before 1949, was being denounced as a class enemy. Liu himself was a despicable “black puppy” to his schoolmates, among whom he saw Wen for the first time. They were in the same class. Like others, he was smitten by her beauty, but he never thought of approaching her. A boy from a black family was not considered worthy to be a Red Guard. That Wen was a Red Guard cadre magnified his inferiority. Wen led the class in singing revolutionary songs, in shouting the political slogans, and in reading
Quotations from Chairman Mao,
their only textbook at the time. So she was really more like the rising sun to him, and he was content to admire her from afar.

That year his father was admitted to a hospital for eye surgery. Even there, among the wards, Red Guards or Red Rebels swarmed like raging wasps. His father was ordered to stand to say his confession, blindfolded, in front of Chairman Mao’s picture. It was an impossible task for an invalid who was unable to see or move. So it was up to Liu to help, and first, to write the confession speech on behalf of the old man. It was a tough job for a thirteen-year-old boy, and after spending an hour with a splitting headache, he produced only two or three lines. In desperation, clutching his pen, he ran out to the street, where he saw Wen Liping walking with her father. Smiling, she greeted him, and her fingertips brushed against the pen. The golden top of the pen suddenly began to shine in the sunlight. He went back home and finished the speech with his one glittering possession in the world. Afterward, he supported his father in the hospital, standing with him like a wooden prop, not yielding to humiliation, reading for him like a robot. It was a day that contained his brightest and blackest moment.

Their three years in high school flowed away like water, ending in the flood of the educated youth movement. He went to Heilongjiang Province with a group of his schoolmates. She went to Fujian by herself. It was on the day of their departure, at the Shanghai railway station, that he experienced the miracle of his life, as he held the red paper heart with her in the loyal character dance. Her fingers lifted up not only the red paper heart, but also raised him from the black puppy status to an equal footing with her.

Life in Heilongjiang was hard. The memory of that loyal character dance proved to be an unfailing light in that endless tunnel. Then the news of her marriage came, and he was devastated. Ironically, it was then that he first thought seriously about his own future, a future in which he imagined he would be able to help her. And he started to study hard.

Like others, Liu came back to Shanghai in 1978. As a result of the self-study he had done in Heilongjiang, he passed the college entrance examination and became a student at East China Normal University the same year. Though overwhelmed with his studies, he made several inquiries about her. She seemed to have withdrawn. There was no information about her. During his four years at college, never once did she return to Shanghai. After graduation, he got a job at
Wenhui Daily,
as a reporter covering Shanghai industry news, and he started writing poems. One day, he heard that
Wenhui
would run a special story about a commune factory in Fujian Province. He approached the chief editor for the job. He did not know the name of Wen’s village. Nor did he really intend to look for her. Just the idea of being somewhere close to her was enough. Indeed,
there’s no story without coincidences.
He was shocked when he stepped into the workshop of the factory.

After the visit, he had a long talk with the manager. The manager must have guessed something, telling him that Feng was notoriously jealous, and violent. He thought a lot that night. After all those years, he still cared for her with unabated passion. There seemed to be a voice in his mind urging:
Go to her. Tell her everything. It may not be too late.

But the following morning, waking up to reality, he left the village in a hurry. He was a successful reporter, with published poems and younger girlfriends. To choose a married woman with somebody else’s child, one who was no longer young and beautiful—he did not have the guts to face what others might think.

Back in Shanghai, he turned in the story. It was his assignment. His boss called it poetic. “The revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of our society.” The metaphor was often quoted. The story must have been reprinted in the Fujian local newspapers. He wondered if she had read it. He thought about writing to her, but what could he say? That was when he started to conceive the poem, which was published in
Star
magazine, selected as one of the best of the year.

In a way, the incident was like a grinder rasping at his illusions about a career in journalism and contributed to his decision to quit. His timing could not have been better. In the early eighties, few made up their minds to let go of an iron rice bowl—a job in a state-run company. That gave him a good start, and the
guanxi
he had accumulated as the
Wenhui
reporter helped a lot, too. He made tons of money. Then he met Zhenzhen, a college student. She fell in love with him. They got married, had a daughter the following year, and his business further expanded. He had no time for poetry by the time the anthology came out. On impulse, he sent Wen a copy with his business card enclosed. There was no response. He was not surprised.

On one occasion, he asked a Fujian businessman to take to her three thousand Yuan anonymously. She would not accept the money. Engaged in one business battle after another, he had no time for sentiment. He thought he had forgotten about her.