Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (45 page)

She started slowly toward the bed. He smelled the soap on her skin, still wet from the shower. Clean, fresh. Her body glowed.

“You are special,” she said.

He was so acutely aware of her, it took all his willpower to stop her from touching him.

“Let’s talk,” he said.

“No,” she touched a finger to his mouth, “you don’t have to say anything.”

“We don’t know each other yet.”

“Haven’t we talked enough?” she said. “Unless you want to talk about money.”

“Well—”

“Mr. Ouyang has paid for a whole day’s service, and you’ve given me a handsome tip,” she said. “So you can have the whole day, and the night, too. You don’t have to worry about it. If you want to buy me a dinner afterward—”

“No.” He sat up resolutely. It was not just all the years studying the People’s Police Morals Manual that had made Chen immune to such provocation. “I want to talk to you about something else.”

“What?”

“I’m a cop.” He produced his official I.D. “I’m here to ask you some questions.”

“You S.O.B!” She put one hand over her breasts and the other over her pubic hair.

It struck him as an absurd attempt at modesty, as if his being a cop had suddenly changed her identity, too.

“You won’t get into trouble if you cooperate with me,” he said. “I give you my word.”

“Then why didn’t you say so from start?”

“When I came to you, I was not prepared to see you like this. Ouyang had just told me that you were the one I’ve been looking for. I was surprised, and you did not give me a chance to say anything. “ He handed the bathrobe over to her. “Put it on before you get cold.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said, taking the bathrobe. “Why should I cooperate with you?”

“I can have you arrested,” he said, taking out the recorder from under the pillow. “Once you are put in jail, you’ll have to talk anyway, but that’s not what I want to do.”

“What a treacherous sneak!”

“I’m a police officer.”

“So why don’t you go ahead and put me there?”

“Ouyang is my friend. Besides—”

“Why did you lie to Ouyang about being a poet?”

“No, I didn’t. I am a poet.”

It took him some time to ferret out his Writers’ Association membership card from his wallet.

“Then what the hell do you want with me?”

“Just a few questions.”

“You are so horrible.” She broke down, sobbing with fear and humiliation. “When I was ready—”

He had attained authority over her with his surprise revelation of his official identity. But they were still involved in a highly dramatic scene. He, in his half-buttoned shirt and underpants; she, in a bathrobe. The knowledge of her nakedness under the robe, soft and bulging in the right places, was disturbing. He poured her a cup of tea to calm them both.

Sipping at the tea, her painted toes like fallen petals on the carpet, she regained some control.

The touch of her toes was still fresh in his memory.

“Let’s go to a restaurant,” he suggested. “I’m hungry.”

“What?”

“You mentioned dinner afterwards.”

“Why? More of your dirty tricks?”

“No. I lust want to buy you a meal. What about the White Swan Hotel? It is quiet there, Ouyang’s told me. As for your time—”

“Don’t worry about that. Ouyang has paid for the whole day.”

“So the least I can do is pay for the lunch.”

He had saved enough to be able to afford this gesture, thanks to Ouyang, who had bought him so many morning teas and dinners.

“Why can’t we stay here?”

“Listen, I’m a cop,” he said, “but I’m a man too. If I stay here with you, just the two of us, I won’t be able to help feeling distracted.”

“So I’m not repulsive to you?”

“We need to have a good talk.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want.”

She got up and went into the bathroom without closing the door. Her robe fell to the floor in a heap around her feet, her bare breasts and hips were vivid in the mirror. He turned to the window.

When she came back, she had put on a white summer dress and slung a small purse over her shoulder. She did not wear a bra, so her nipples were almost imprinted on the dress. He considered asking her to put on something else, but he held the door open for her.

On the street, he noticed she kept looking back over her shoulder, as if anxious to make sure there was no one following them. There was actually a man walking behind them at a distance, but Chief Inspector Chen did not see why they would be followed.

The White Swan Hotel was a new building on the southeastern coast of Shamian Island. It was an immense white tower, like a transplant from Hong Kong across the water. There was a dazzling waterfall in the lobby. Several Western-style restaurants were located in the eastern wing of the building, and the Chinese restaurant was tucked behind the waterfall. There was a slender hostess standing at its entrance, smiling.

He was not going to indulge himself, but he felt obliged to spend some money. He did not like the idea of having Ouyang pay for everything, even for Xie Rong’s “service.” And he had to admit the so-called foot massage had been an exciting experience,.

They selected a private room—the Sampan Chamber. It proved to be a cozy room shaped like the cabin of a sampan on the Pearl River and decorated like one, too. The table and chairs were made of cedar—rough, unpolished, like those he’d seen in early black-and-white movies. The soft scarlet carpet on the floor was the only difference, but it was a necessary one, to give the customer a feeling of luxury. They could talk here without fear of being overheard.

A young waitress came in. She was wearing an indigo blue homespun top and a miniskirt, barefoot, with silver bangles jingling around her ankles, exactly like a fishing girl in the southern provinces—except for the menu in her hand.

He turned the menu over to Xie. She surprised him by choosing several inexpensive dishes, and shaking her head at one of the chefs specials—fish-fragrance-sauced pigeon—recommended by the waitress.

“No, it’s too expensive.”

“Anything to drink?”

“lust a cup of water for me.”

“Well, we’ll have two iced beers then.”

“You shouldn’t. They charge three or four times more than they should for drinks,” she added after the waitress had left, almost like a virtuous wife who wanted to save every penny. Good. Chief Inspector Chen was starting to worry about the expense.

“I thought you’d take me to the police station,” she said.

“Why should I?”

“Maybe you will.” She reached into the leather handbag, took out a cigarette, but did not light it immediately. “Sooner or later.”

“No, whatever you do, it’s not my business—not here. But I don’t think it a good idea for you to stay ... in that profession.”

“You are being genteel,” she said. “I do not like what you do either, but it is not so bad that I won’t have lunch with you.”

Smiling, she raised her glass toward him, relaxing as more dishes arrived on the table. The restaurant was known among Guangdong people for its excellent cooking.

At one point, their chopsticks crossed each other in an attempt to get hold of a large scallop on a bed of green snow beans.

“Please, you have it,” she said.

“It’s yours,” he said, “after all your work.”

The scallop looked like her big toe. White, soft, round.

She ate with relish, finishing four pancakes rolled up with roast duck and green onion, a bowl of shrimp dumplings, and almost the entire serving of beef tripe. He himself did not eat much but he put morsels in her saucer and sipped at his cup of Qingdao beer.

“Do you always eat this little?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, afraid there would not be enough food for both of them.

“You are so romantic,” she said.

“Really?” That was a strange compliment, he thought, to a police officer.

There was something touching his knee under the table. As it slowly traveled up, he knew it was her bare foot. She had removed her shoes. He clasped her leg where it was thinnest, and his hand became an ankle bracelet, slipping down. The shape of her smallest toe, bending with the adjoining ones, was distracting him in a way beyond his comprehension. Gently, he put her foot down.

Confucius said, “To eat and to mate is human nature.”

“What about a special dessert?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

They shared segments of a Mandarin orange and sipped at the jasmine tea—compliments of the restaurant.

“Now I’m full,” she said. “You can start your questioning. But tell me first, how did you find me here?”

“Well, I had met your mother. She has no idea what you’re doing in Guangzhou. She’s so worried.”

“She’s always worried—all her life—about one thing or another.”

“She’s disappointed, I believe, that you did not take her path.”

“Her path, indeed?” she said. “Dear Comrade Chief Inspector, how can you go about investigating people without seeing the change in society? Who’s interested in literature anymore?”

“I, for one. In fact, I’ve read a collection of her essays.”

“I do not mean you. You’re so different, as Old Ouyang said.”

“Another of your bogus compliments?”

“No, I think so, too,” she said. “As for my mother, I love her. Her life’s not been easy. She got her Ph.D. in the United States. What happened to her when she came back in the early fifties? She was declared to be a rightist, and then a counterrevolutionary in the sixties. Not until after the Cultural Revolution was she allowed to teach again.”

“But she is teaching at a prestigious university.”

“Well, as a full professor at Fudan University, how much can she earn in a month? Less than what I made as a tourist guide for a week.”

“Money is not everything. But for a joke of fate, I might have studied comparative literature.”

“Thank heaven for that joke—whatever it was.”

“Life can be unfair to people—especially so for your mother’s generation—but we have reasons to believe that things won’t be so bad in the future.”

“For you, maybe not, Comrade Chief Inspector. And thank you for your political lecture, too,” she said. “I think it’s time that you start asking your questions.”

“Well, some may be difficult. But whatever you say will be kept confidential, I give you my word.”

“I’ll tell you whatever I know—after such a meal as you’ve just given me.”

“You had worked as a tourist guide before coming to Guangzhou.”

“Yes, I quit that job a couple of months ago.”

“On one of the Yellow Mountain trips, you met a man named Wu Xiaoming?”