Shanghai Redemption (7 page)

“You're going to Wuning Road near the Inner Ring?” the taxi driver said, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes, I'm going to a nightclub there.”

“Wow, the Heavenly World.”

Chen didn't respond immediately. The notoriety of the club was a given, and he didn't have to justify going there to the cabdriver. Chen looked out the window instead. The streets seemed to be continuously rediscovered in the ever-changing fantasies of neon lights.

“The cover charge alone is more than what I make in a month. You're a rich man, sir.”

Shanghai taxi drivers could be either garrulous or grumpy. This one obviously belonged to the former group.

“I have no idea. I've never been there before.”

“
Spring warm, flowers blossom
. It's a different world, that Heavenly World,” the driver went on. “You'll enjoy yourself to the fullest.”

“Oh, I'm going there for business,” Chen said.

“Business, you say. And you're no ordinary businessman, I say.”

Perhaps it was sarcasm on the part of the taxi driver. But the ex–chief inspector wondered if his long immersion in the system had left something recognizable in his look or his manner.

“I'm going to a book launch party there this evening. I'm a translator.”

“A book launch party there?” The driver sounded incredulous. “What will the girls do tonight—demonstrate all the positions in the
Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor
?”

“You've read some books,” Chen said, surprised. The
Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor
was sometimes compared to
Kama Sutra
, though to do so was to take the work grossly out of context.

“Whatever kind of a party it is, the place is untouchable. It's connected with both the police bureau and the city government.”

Chen thought back on what he'd learned from White Cloud. Under Chinese law, organized according to what the government called “Socialism with Chinese characteristics,” prostitution was still forbidden. But customers at the Heavenly World didn't have be wary of police raids.

“Money-intoxicated, gold-dazzled,” Chen said, thinking of two Tang lines: “
Those Shang girls know nothing about the doom of the country, / still singing about the flower blossoming in the backyard.
”

“The flower blossoming in the backyard—that's so vivid, so true to life.”

“So true to life?”

“Come on. Don't play dumb with me.” The driver chuckled with great gusto. “They will do anything for you, from the front, to the back—”

“Oh that—”

“The club is expensive for a variety of reasons. Not just because of the service in the front or back. Some of the girls there are said to be highly qualified: college educated, fluent in English or French, able to cry out in whatever language you fancy when they come.”

The taxi driver brought his monologue to a reluctant stop at the sight of a tall building topped with an elaborate neon sign that read, “The Heavenly World,” which was just beginning to flash nocturnal conspiracies against the corner of the sky.

Chen got out and noted one thing immediately: the hustle and bustle of the valet parking. The attendants in red uniforms seemed to know their customers well, nodding and greeting each one by name. All the cars that pulled up were luxury models, and Chen alone arrived in a taxi.

Wuting was waiting near the front entrance, with another middle-aged man dressed in a black suit and a red bow. He was beaming at Chen.

The red-bowed man reached out his hand. “Director Chen, I'm Rong Pan, your loyal fan. It's a great honor for us to have you here.”

“Thank you for your generous support of literature, Rong. Wuting told me all about it.”

“Wuting may not have told you one thing, Director Chen. I began reading your translations as early as the mid-eighties. Oh, those were truly the good, golden years for literature.”

Rong was apparently aware of Chen's new position, though that didn't seem to have damped his enthusiasm.

“Let's move inside,” Wuting said with a smile.

The book launch party was being held in a large hall with a banner stretched across overhead, bearing the name and portrait of T. S. Eliot. Chen wondered about the original function of the room, noting a colored poster near a closed door to the left.

In the middle of the hall stood rows of leather chairs. In front of the first row, there were some marble coffee tables, and further up, a cordoned-off area with a dais in the middle. To the right of the dais was a long table with piles of books stacked on it.

It turned out that Rong did know something about Eliot. Not only were copies of the new volume displayed around the room, but there were also several girls dressed up like cats scampering around, just like in the musical.

The party started off with a fairly long introductory speech from Rong, one full of Eliotic lines. He did bring up one interesting detail about how the English poet was the catalyst for a crucial change in Rong's life.

“In those years, I would bring a copy of Director Chen's translation of Eliot to bed with me every night. I dreamed of becoming a poet myself, but it didn't take long for me to realize that, as a young college graduate, I had neither the time nor the money for poetry. One night, I happened to reread a paragraph in Director Chen's preface. It talked about Eliot's early career as a banker. Eliot became a banker because there is no money in poetry, but making enough money as a banker made it possible for him to write. This hit me like a bolt of lightening across a black sky. If Eliot could do that, then so could I. I took a job in a state bank and worked my way up, until eventually I left to start a private bank of my own. That part is a boring business story, which I don't need to tell here. But it all came about because of T. S. Eliot. And because of Director Chen too.”

Applause broke out across the room. People put down their drinks and their cigarettes so they could clap.

“Time flies. This all happened so many years ago,” Rong said. “Unfortunately, I couldn't make my way back to poetry, but through Director Chen's masterful translation, I might be able to relive my old dream tonight.”

Rong's likening his career path to Eliot's seemed far-fetched. Eliot never earned much at the bank, and he never quit writing. Nonetheless, it probably made sense from Rong's point of view. People interpret their own past however they want, seeing and believing their personal history through the perspective they've chosen.

It was now Chen's turn to speak. The lights were dimmed, and after a brief silence, they were brought back up, as if Chen were onstage.

“Speaking as a translator of T. S. Eliot's work, thank you, Mr. Rong. Or may I say, on behalf of T. S. Eliot?” Chen started with an awkward attempt at a joke, wondering to himself whether Eliot would have been amused at the book party.

He fumbled, struggling to find his rhetorical footing in this talk. With the exception of Rong, who kept nodding and grinning, there was barely any real response from the audience. As he looked around the room, Chen couldn't help but think of some of the characters from Eliot's poems. There was a red-faced, middle-aged man in the front row with a girl nestling against him like a pussycat, purring as his finger caressed her shoulder-length hair. A gray-bearded, cigar-chomping man in the back spilled red wine on his silk Tang dynasty costume, and another young girl dressed as a cat hurried over to lick up the wine. Spiraling cigarette smoke from all corners of the party began to spread out like a shroud over the room. Distracted by the tableau in front of him, Chen continued to stumble, make more mistakes, ultimately deciding to rush through to the conclusion of his speech.

As Chen stepped down from the dais, a well-known actor stepped up and started to read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” in a rich, self-possessed voice that was absurdly incongruous with the persona in the poem. In the dimming background, a mermaid floated out of nowhere, naked except for green gauze wrapped about her loins, and began dancing, moaning, singing, groaning …

“
For me … for me…”

At the conclusion of the reading, Wuting stood up and announced, “Now it's time to sign some books.”

To Chen's astonishment, once this announcement was made the room was plunged into darkness. He could hear hurried movements about the room, like ragged claws scuttling across a sea floor.

When the lights came back on, the hall had been turned into a ballroom. Most of the chairs were folded up and leaning against the back wall; only the long table with stacks of the book on it remained unmoved. From the side of the ballroom came pouring in yet more attractive cat girls. Unlike in the musical itself, they were practically naked, covered mainly by body paint.

It was a bizarre scene. The girls were not singing, swirling, swaying in tight choreography as in the musical
Cats
. Instead, they were each dancing with various Big Bucks.

Once again, Rong stepped into the limelight and began addressing the crowd. “I still have a copy of Director Chen's earlier translation. Someone on Confucius.com offered to purchase that cherished copy for one thousand yuan and, mind you, it's not even a signed copy. Of course, I didn't sell it. Here it is—the same life-changing poetry collection. I brought it with me tonight so I could ask Director Chen sign it for me. With his signature on this collectable item, it'll be worth at least five times as much as before.” In one hand, he raised his copy of the older edition high. Then, with a flourish, he waved a check in his other hand. “And this is for five hundred copies of the new edition, all of which I'll get signed. What a great investment!”

Wuting, all smiles, walked over next to Chen and whispered in his ear, “Confucius.com is an online site for rare and old books.”

“You don't have to sign all of those copies tonight,” Rong said. “But if you could, please sign my personal copy now, Director Chen. Wuting, please send all the other copies to his home so he can sign them at his leisure.”

Chen heaved a sigh of relief. It would break his wrist if he were to sign five hundred copies at one sitting. And that wasn't to mention the rest of the copies that others wanted signed. Chen walked over to the table where a line was quickly forming.

He took up a position in the middle of the table, and two of the girls in cat costumes came to squat beside him, one on each side. The one on the right, Red Coral, opened each book to the signature page, while the other, Green Jade, wrote down the buyer's name on a piece of paper. Sandwiched between the two, Chen scribbled his name on one book after another, brushed on the cheek by Red Coral's long hair, and tickled by the tail dangling from the bare buttocks of Green Jade.

“The party's a huge success,” Wuting said, wandering over to Chen's side again to comment. “People are snatching up copies like potato chips. We'll sell almost as many copies as a memoir of a celebrated movie star.”

The assistance of the two cat girls helped keep the signing line moving. Several customers bought a bundle of copies, “giving face” to Rong, and some of them didn't even bother asking Chen to sign their copies. The cat girls carried their books out for them.

In the room the girls come and go, / talking about anything but Michelangelo
.

After another tall pile of copies was gone, Chen looked up to see Rong sidle up to Wuting and whisper something before heading out of the room.

“Rong had to leave for an urgent business meeting,” Wuting said, coming over to speak to Chen. “He asked me to pass on his regrets.”

Chen nodded. It made sense that a busy banker would have to leave early, having delivered what he'd promised.

People began to leave. They'd come as a favor to Rong, and with the host gone, there was no reason for them to stay. Some of them might continue to enjoy themselves at the club, but they were done with the book launch party. A couple of them even left with a cat girl on their arm.

There weren't many copies of book left, and Wuting looked pleased.

Then Wuting got a phone call and stepped aside to take it in relative privacy. It was a fairly long call, and by the time he finished, the last Big Buck was limping out, leaning heavily on the bare shoulder of a slim cat girl.

“Sorry, I can't stay,” Wuting said, closing the phone with an embarrassed smile. “I have an emergency conference call with the City Propaganda Ministry. I have to hurry back to the office. But please stay. Rong will be back around ten for a celebratory banquet. Some other Big Bucks will be coming as well, and if the conference call doesn't last too long, I'll be back here for it. Everything has been arranged. So please, for the sake of Eliot, stay. It's essential for the success of the book.”

Once again, Chen felt he had no choice but to comply.

After Wuting left, Chen was the only one remaining—except for the two cat girls who had helped him with the signing.

The lights was starting to dim again, suspiciously.

“Mr. Rong thought you might want to take a break in the inner room before the banquet,” Red Coral said.

“It's much more comfortable there,” Green Jade said.

They dragged him through a side door into the inner room, which turned out to be a bedroom furnished with a large bed, a leather sofa, and an antique dresser with a large mirror on top. As soon as they entered the inner room, the two girls started shedding their remaining clothes.

“Now you can enjoy a break in privacy,” Green Jade said.

“Why don't you relax on the bed?” Red Coral added.

Chen retreated to the sofa.

“Let's sit and talk,” he said in a hurry,

Red Coral moved in beside him, kneeling on the couch. “You must be tired, sir. Let me give you a massage.”

For other customers at the nightclub, this might be a natural part of any party, like a cold appetizer before the banquet.