A Case of Two Cities

living by herself in an attic with a dark, difficult staircase could easily have an accident.”
     
    “An accident—” Chen was more than alarmed. He wondered whether Dong had brought it up as a hint. “Thank you for your concern, Director Dong.”
     
    Without waiting for Chen to respond further, Dong continued, “You have been doing a great job, Chief Inspector Chen. You should have at least a three-bedroom apartment, so your mother could move in with you and you wouldn’t have to worry about anything happening to her at her age. You are son of filial piety, as we all know. And you know what? I might be able to put in a word for your special situation with the city government.”
     
    Now that was a hint, Chen had no doubt about it. All of a sudden, sitting before him was a diabolical triad gangster instead of a senior Party cadre. But it was also a turning point. If he backed away like that, Chief Inspector Chen would never forgive himself for being a coward.
     
    “Thank you, Director Dong. I will keep every word of yours in mind, but I really have to go now.”
     
    Chen rose to leave, thinking of a poem written before a battle by Wang Changling, a Tang dynasty poet:
     
    The bright moon of the Qing dynasty. . .
    The ancient pass of the Han dynasty. . .
    Soldiers after soldiers,
    not a single one of them ever returns
    from the long march — thousands
    and thousands of miles long.
    Oh with the winged general
    of the Dragon City stationed here,
    the Tartar horses would never
    have crossed the Yin Mountain.
     
    * * * *
     

4
     
     
    I
    N THE FIRST GRAY of the morning, Chen felt as if he were waking out of the ancient battle of iron-clad horses galloping through the ignorant night, and coming back to reality again. As a cop, he could put himself at risk, but not his mother.
     
    There are things a man should do, and there are things a man should not do.
     
    Nothing should happen to his mother. That was the bottom line for the son who, though far from being a Confucianist, remembered that Confucian maxim.
     
    He brushed his teeth vigorously. There was a bitter, ammonia-like taste in his mouth. For years, he had let his mother down, time after time. Through his career choice, his political allegiance, and his personal life. She had dreamed of her son pursuing an academic career like her late husband, staying away from politics, and settling down with a family of his own. She did not care about his Party position. It was only of late—while she was in the hospital—that he and his position proved capable of providing for her, at least materialistically. Now, because of his position, she would not even be able to enjoy her remaining days peacefully, like an ordinary old woman.
     
    According to another Confucian principle, however, one might occasionally find oneself unable to fulfill political and filial duty at the same time. If so, the former should take the priority. And his mother, though not the scholar his late Confucianist father was, would not forgive him for backing away from his investigation because of her.
     
    He had to find a way to pursue the investigation without exposing his mother to danger. But that seemed impossible. His work was no longer a secret to Xing’s circle. His next interview would be like a declaration of war among those officials.
     
    He dug out a copy of Thirty-Six Battle Strategies, a book of war stratagems over a thousand years old. Lighting a cigarette, he searched the table of contents before turning to a chapter entitled “Cutting through Chen Trail in Stealth,” which was about a battle in the early Han dynasty. General Han built a bridge, leading the enemy forces to believe he intended to maneuver his troops across it, but then he took a trail called Chen Cang instead and surprised them.
     
    The chief inspector had to find his own Chen trail. He was going to focus on the people considered unlikely as interviewees. No one would suspect that he was trying to break the case through them. In the meantime, he would start making formal phone calls, scheduling interviews with the officials on his list, but he would not approach them the same way as Dong. They would conclude that Chen was merely putting on a show.
     
    He took out the list before he started to brew a pot of coffee. It was the last spoonful from the jar of Brazilian coffee an American friend had given him. Hongyan zhiji. He whistled wistfully into a bitter smile. He had already kept the coffee for a