Chapter 29

Liu’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.