A Case of Two Cities

“the United States,” and “different perspectives.” It suddenly occurred to him that Xing was there too. Was that a hint? There seemed to be something else Zhao could have said, but he didn’t.
     
    Instead, Zhao produced a silk scroll and spread it out on the desk. The scroll presented a poem entitled “The Guanque Pavilion,” written by Wang Zhihuan, a seventh-century Tang dynasty poet.
     
    The white sun declining
    against the mountains, the Yellow River
    running into the oceans, you have
    to climb even higher
    to see further — thousands
    of miles to the distant horizon.
     
    “I copied out the poem last night. Since retirement, I have learned only one small skill—how to make silk calligraphy scrolls. So this is one for you. Keep it, or give it to one of the American writers there. It may make a good gift.”
     
    “No, I will never give it away, Comrade Zhao. It is special for me. I’ll hang it on the wall.”
     
    Chen was no judge of Chinese calligraphy, but he liked the poem. A silk scroll in Zhao’s handwriting with his red chop seal on it would be spectacular on Chen’s wall. He appreciated the gesture made by the old man.
     
    “Let me add one line,” Zhao said, standing up and writing with his brush, “To Comrade Chen Cao, a loyal anticorruption soldier.”
     
    Was the poem also a subtle hint?
     
    A hint about the necessity of climbing higher to see further. It could be just another reference to the political catch phrase daju weizhong —to take into consideration the interest of the situation in general. Or to the necessity of approaching the investigation from a different perspective.
     
    There would be no point in pressing Zhao for an explicit explanation. The old man had said all that could be said, as well as the unsaid, as in a classical Chinese poem. Politics could be like poetry. A figure of speech whose meaning Chen had never considered before.
     
    “I have one more question, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, pushing a little again. “So far I have made no real breakthrough, but there are some leads that should be followed, I think, during my visit abroad.”
     
    “Well, you’re in charge of the investigation. Do whatever you think necessary.”
     
    “Thank you.” That was better than he had expected. “Comrade Detective Yu Guangming has worked with me for years. A capable and loyal comrade. During this period, can he act on my behalf if need be?”
     
    “Of course. If need be, he can also come to me. I think I’ve heard of his name.” Zhao added, “Any special idea or target?”
     
    “No, it’s just that the case can be complicated. Anything could happen in two weeks, I’m afraid. And I’ll keep in close contact with you, Comrade Zhao,” Chen said, rising, “while in the United States.”
     
    “It may not be so easy to make phone calls there. An old Chinese saying puts it well: When a general is fighting along the borders, he does not have to listen to every order given to him by the emperor far away in the capital.”
     
    That had to be a hint, Chen concluded.
     
    And he was going to think a great deal about it. He left the hotel, carrying the scroll. After a while, he put it on his shoulder, like an imperial sword.
     
    There was a flash of light in the tree—a hummingbird flapping up toward the sun.
     
    * * * *
     
    On his way home, Chen called Peiqin, the wife of Detective Yu.
     
    “Tomorrow morning, I would like to have breakfast with Yu.”
     
    “Come to our restaurant,” Peiqin said. “Our new chef is good.”
     
    “Old Half Place is closer,” Chen said. “Yu has become a loyal noodle eater there, you have told me.”
     
    “Then he will be there.” She added, “Second floor, there are nice private rooms there. I’ll make a reservation for you.”
     
    Peiqin was a smart woman. Chen didn’t have to say more. She must have guessed why he had chosen to call her. In one of their previous investigations, he had also contacted her when he had to take extra precautions.
     
    * * * *
     

12
     
     
    T
    HE FIRST FLOOR OF Old Half Place was as crowded as Detective Yu had anticipated, and even more noisy than he had remembered.
     
    The restaurant was known for its noodles with the legendary xiao pork, and perhaps more for its exquisite taste at a relatively inexpensive price. So it attracted a large number of not-so-well-to-do gourmets.
     
    Looking around, Yu couldn’t help shaking his head as he moved upstairs. There was a huge