Don't Cry Tai Lake (34 page)

“What did he say about that night?”

“He said it wasn't premeditated. Shortly after Mi went back to the company, he sneaked into Liu's apartment. Sure enough, he saw the draft of the restructuring plan on the desk, and began to copy it with a scanning pen. According to him, he wanted to get the details of the plan, so he could file a report accusing Liu of plotting to turn a state-run enterprise into a private one run by his family. But Liu unexpectedly stirred, his arm stretching out—”

“Mi might have fed him a handful of pills,” Chen cut in, “but not enough to knock him totally out.”

“Panic-stricken, Fu snatched a statuette up from the desk and cracked Liu's head with the heavy marble base—”

“Hold on, Huang. The statuette was on the desk, not on the shelf?”

“That's what Fu said.”

“It's possible, I suppose. Liu could have had it to the desk for some reason, but it's also possible that Fu said that to make his actions seem less premeditated.”

“Afterward, Fu wiped away his fingerprints from the apartment and brought the statuette back home, along with the copy of the restructuring plan and the cup with the sleeping pills from Liu's desk. He burned the document, splintered the cup and threw the pieces away, but he didn't get rid of the statuette. Apparently, he didn't think anyone would notice it in his place, or if they did, would suspect it was the murder weapon. After all, the statuette was now rightfully his, since he was going to be the new head of the company.”

“What cruel karma!”

“What do you mean, Chief?”

“The award for the chemical company's success under Liu turned out to be the weapon that killed him. Now, with the company falling into Fu's hands, the statuette became the irrefutable evidence that will convict him. All from an award for increasing production and profit at the expense of the environment. Bad karma indeed.”

“You always see things from a different angle, Chief.”

“What about Mi?”

“Once she leaned that Fu had made a full confession, she also spilled everything. However, she insisted that she knew nothing about Fu's real plan, and that she didn't give Liu a lethal dose—just a large enough dose of sleeping pills so he would sleep heavily. She also confessed to arranging those threatening calls to Shanshan. That was Liu's idea—to use the hint of triad enforcers to silence her at the critical juncture before the IPO. He asked Mi to make the arrangements, so she paid a thug to call Shanshan from a public phone booth. When Liu died, there was no need to continue.”

“No wonder Shanshan stopped receiving those phone calls,” he said. “Though that's pretty much what I guessed.”

“But you must have realized it was an important clue. I should have followed it all the way back.”

It would be useless for Chen to explain. He'd asked Huang to check on the calls simply because of his interest in Shanshan. But to the young cop, the chief inspector must be like Sherlock Holmes, with his every move full of insight.

“Oh, I am calling from my car,” Huang continued. “I'm very close to the bureau now. I'll be taking Jiang to prison from there, you know. I have to end this call, but I'll keep you updated one way or another.”

“Thanks, Huang. If there's anything new, let me know.”

Setting his cell phone down on the table, and then taking another sip at the tea, Chen remembered the special delivery letter he had stuffed in his jacket pocket back at the center. Wondering who could have sent it, he tapped the cigarette ash slowly into a black shell-shaped ashtray.

He took the envelope out, opened it, and upon reading it, sat up in spite of himself.

Dear Chen:

I'm writing this letter because I don't think I can bring myself to say good-bye to you. It is an ending that you and I both should have known was inevitable.

Now looking back, I think it was during the night at your place I began to make up my mind—subconsciously, as you might say. Even at our first meeting at Uncle Wang's eatery, I was aware of something different in you—that you were a man of resources and connections, but at the same time, of integrity and idealistic passion. No, I'm not saying so just for the sake of this letter. What you have done for me, especially after learning that there was something between Jiang and me, speaks volumes for you.

You've never asked any questions about it. With so many things happening around us, and so quickly, I didn't even have an opportunity to tell you more about myself. Yes, I have known Jiang for a long while. We shared a lot of common interests, as you know, and our relationship developed. You must have read the files on him—a man obsessed with his vocation as an environmentalist, to such an extent that he landed me in a mess. I was so upset, I broke up with him. That was before I met you.

Then he got into serious trouble—more serious than he bargained for. It was beyond me to do anything to help. Not for one moment, however, have I suspected him of committing the crimes he was accused of.

For the last few days, I've also been thinking a lot about him. Perhaps I was wrong about him. He must have been aware of the risks, but having made his choice, he has accepted the consequences for what he believes in. That, too, happens to be what I believe in. If I left him in the lurch, I would never be able to have any peace of mind.

Besides, he's not strong, not like you. He needs me—more than ever.

I hope you understand why I'm making this decision. Believe me, it's not an easy one. Can you do me the favor of not making it more difficult for me?

I still don't know what work you are really engaged in. No, I am not complaining. You must have your reasons. But far from being the bookish schoolteacher as you have claimed to be, you are a man with great potential in our society. You can go a long way, I'm sure, within the system.

In contrast, I'm on a political blacklist for what I have done.

You believe you can get me out of trouble, and perhaps you can. This time. If we're together, however, I may bring you no end of trouble, for which I'll never be able to forgive myself. You are “in a position”—as you sometimes say—to make a difference in today's society. You've already demonstrated as much. For your career, you don't really need me—except as a temporary companion during one of your vacations, for a short moment.

Still, the memory of that moment will go a long way for me. One of these days, I may come to pride myself on having been once close with you, being nearly the one for you, even though a voice in the back of my mind said: No, I'm not the one for you.

There's also something that may sound absurd, but it's important to me, so let me say it: even at our closest moment, I had a curious feeling that you were still thinking of something related to your work, something essential to you, but about which I know nothing.

Early that morning, I read the lines you'd written in the dark, as I lay beside you. It is a great poem, and you have to complete it—for me. You see, I'm already taking pride in being the one in your poem.

It reminded me of a favorite poem of mine. So let these lines say what I cannot say. After all, you have your destination, and I have mine, like in the poem.

 

A cloud in the sky, inadvertent, I cast

a shadow in the wave of your heart.

Don't be so surprised,

nor be so overjoyed—

In an instant everything is gone.

 

We meet on the night-covered sea;

You have your destination, and I, mine,

If you remember, that's fine,

But you'd better forget

The light produced in the meeting.

Because of the light produced in our meeting, however transitory, over the night-covered lake, can you forgive me for this upset and stay friends?

 

Shanshan

The poem quoted at the end of the letter was one entitled “Inadvertent,” written by Xu Zhimo, a celebrated modern Chinese poet. She, too, had liked poetry in college.

To his surprise, the letter didn't surprise him that much.

She said what she could say. It explained, at least partially, her unexpected visit to him that night, and her sudden decision this morning. Also, she touched upon things he himself had been contemplating. For one, the position that enabled him to make a difference in today's society. He didn't care enormously for the “position” per se, but when looking at the situation closely, he realized that there was a responsibility in being a chief inspector. As long as he held the position, he could strive for justice and security—however small, however limited—for the people.

Was there any point in pushing for a meeting now?

Better to hold on to the image of her in that unfinished poem, in the fragmented memory of the cloud turning into the rain, and the rain into the cloud, with the lake water lapping against the night.

It was time for him to leave, he thought. He folded up the letter.

An occasional siren reverberated in the distance. It began drizzling, just a little. Still, he remained sitting at the table, an empty cup beside him, staring at the gray iron gate in spite of himself.

You're leaving, a cloud drifting away / across the river, the memories / falling like a willow catkin / to the ground, clinging, after the rain
.

But was he going to give up so easily?

No, he didn't set that much store by his so-called position or career. Not if he couldn't make a difference in his own life by being with the woman he cared for.

Nor did he think that she made her decision simply because she cared for Jiang more than for him. Rather, it was in the best interests of Chief Inspector Chen, at least so she might have believed. That was why she came to his room that night, and why she let him go this morning.

The gray iron gate began to open with a loud scraping across the street.

She appeared, her face pale, her black hair streaming disheveled over a white dress, holding a plastic bag full of newly purchased food, striding hastily out of the grocery store.

It had been arranged by Huang. How long she had been in there, Chen had no idea. He didn't think she'd seen him sitting behind the tree, waiting. She was waiting as well, but not for him.

A black police van rolled out. It had barely turned to the right when it slowed to a stop close to the grocery store. Huang got out of the vehicle, waved to his colleague in the driver's seat, said something inaudible there, and headed into the store.

A window in the back of the vehicle rolled down and Shanshan hastened over in unsteady steps.

From where Chen stood, he couldn't see clearly. But she was leaning into the car, her face drawn, infinitely touching, and her bare shoulder dazzlingly white against the blaze of the transparent pear blossoms …

For a split second, Chen felt as if he were watching a movie, spell-bound and from a distance, and the realization hit that she still cared deeply for Jiang, a fighter for a worthy cause.

The moment belonged to the two of them.

It was unthinkable for Chief Inspector Chen, who was but a spectator here, to step out from behind the scenes.

He wondered if he was worthy of this moment. It was Jiang—together with Shanshan—who was fighting, suffering, and sacrificing for the cause of the environment. Chen might have unknowingly taken advantage of the situation—sweeping her off her feet when she was lonely and vulnerable, all by herself.

It was a battle, however hard and difficult, that she wouldn't give up and in which Jiang, with the common language and interest between them, might be the ideal comrade. If she could forgive Jiang for the upset and reach out to him again in his time of need, what was Chen supposed to do?

Questions stretched on like those side streets, turning and twisting, leading him to an overwhelming question: would she ever be able to really forget about Jiang?

For the sake of argument, what was it about her being eventually won over for the chief inspector? If they were together, she'd have to change herself for his sake. A rising political star couldn't afford to have a dissident wife at his back. However “successful” he might prove to be in China's one-party system, would it be fair to expect her to be a good wife and give up the fight that meant so much to her?

Of course, Chief Inspector Chen could change himself for her sake—throwing to the wind all considerations about his career or position. But would he be a good companion for her? At the beginning of his vacation, he'd composed a couple of stanzas, playing with the idea of one's identity existing in others' interpretations. It was true, but not the whole truth. To Sergeant Huang and others, Chen was a capable cop; for all his idiosyncrasies Chen knew that he did make a difference, as he had in the present case, even if it wasn't as much as he would have liked.

In her letter, Shanshan was right about one thing. Chief Inspector Chen was in a position to do something, but probably not if he was by her side, not if he was engaged in something beyond his experience or expertise.

Huang poked his head out of the store for a couple of seconds.

“One more minute,” he shouted to the van driver before he disappeared from the scene again, perhaps disinclined to break the two lovers apart that soon.

Chen thought about waiting around until the end of their meeting, but he was changing his mind. After all, what could he say after
their
meeting?

For that matter, what could she say, while still gazing after the police van receding into the dust?

He had no clue. It was too much for him to think about at the moment.