A Case of Two Cities

on her interviews of celebrities. Judging from the reviews, the book provided some interesting anecdotes as well as a number of photos. Popular because of people’s interest in the celebrities. Chen had purchased a copy and skimmed it—there was no need for him to read it through. In those pictures, An looked elegant, professional, in sharp contrast to those in the package.
     
    Jotting down some notes on a piece of paper, he picked up the phone.
     
    “Hi, I want to speak An.”
     
    “Who is it?”
     
    “Chen Cao, your old friend.”
     
    “Oh, it’s you, our famous detective,” An said with a surprise of recognition in her voice. “What has made you call this evening?”
     
    “Your book, I’ve just read it,” he said, “and I’ve looked at your pictures too. So stunningly beautiful, all the geese and fish would dive out of your sight in self-consciousness.”
     
    “Come on, Chen. You’re not calling to make fun of me like that.”
     
    “No, I’m not. People buy the book like crazy because they like you so much. And count me in, one of your greatest fans.”
     
    “Well, that I do not know. You must have long forgotten about me.”
     
    “How could that be? I’ve been busy, as you know, but I kept seeing you on TV and I grabbed the book as soon as I heard about it.” He added emphatically, “I like your prose style.”
     
    “You really do?”
     
    “Definitely. So let me buy you dinner, An, in celebration of your literary success.”
     
    “You’re overwhelming me tonight, Chief Inspector Chen. When?”
     
    “How about tomorrow evening?”
     
    “Fantastic. I know a restaurant, Golden Island. Still quite new. Not too many people go there, but it’s excellent. On the Bund.”
     
    “Golden Island. I’ve heard of it too. On the Bund. You’ll sign the book for me, won’t you?”
     
    “I would love to. I’ve been thinking about interviewing you for my show.”
     
    “It would be a great honor for me. On your show, in your scarlet cheongsam, you have always reminded me of Li Bai’s ‘Qingping Tune.’ ‘The clouds eager to make I your dancing costume, the peony, I to imitate your beauty, the spring breeze I touching the rail, the petal I glistening with dew —’ “
     
    “Cut it out, Chen,” she said with a giggle. “You’re being hopelessly romantic.”
     
    “See you at the restaurant.” He added, imitating her tone, “See me on TV.”
     
    “Oh, you still remember that.”
     
    See me on TV was a phrase she had used years earlier. It was a little flirtatious on her part, then. Still a little flirtatious on the phone, now.
     
    The way he talked shouldn’t have alerted anyone. He was notorious for quoting poetry, and perhaps for being romantic too.
     
    She’d better not be prepared for the evening.
     
    * * * *
     

6
     
     
    G
    OLDEN ISLAND WAS ONE of the new restaurants on the Bund.
     
    For most Shanghainese, the Bund still constituted one of the most glamorous areas in the city, with its picturesque waterfront and the magnificent buildings stretching along Zhongshan Road. In Chen’s childhood, most of these buildings, though in government use then, were seen as evidence of the imperialist exploitation, for they had housed prestigious Western companies in the pre-1949 era. In the nineties, the city government had released those buildings to the original or new Western companies. Consequently, high-end restaurants reappeared around the area.
     
    Golden Island was popular not only because of its location but also because of its architectural design. The swelling restaurant had been converted from the original rooftop of an old business building, with ceilings, tall windows, and walls added on a modern note.
     
    As Chen stepped out of the elevator, a young waitress came over to him. “Have you made your reservation, sir?”
     
    “Under the name of An or Chen.”
     
    “Oh, Miss An has already reserved a special room. Lovers’ Nest, please.”
     
    “Oh—”
     
    He had heard of the Lovers’ Nest. While the main dining hall did not look so different from other restaurants, across the entrance, on the side overlooking the Bund, stood a row of cubicles named Lovers’ Nest, well-known among young people. He had learned about them from White Cloud.
     
    It was a tiny room, with only two bench seats inside, a wood table in between, and hardly enough space for two to dine without accidentally touching each other. Lovers might not mind that, though. The