A Case of Two Cities

to Detective Yu. It was still early in the morning in Shanghai, so Chen had a good chance of catching him at home.
     
    Stepping out of the room, Chen saw Huang walking over in his direction.
     
    “The hotel sucks,” Huang muttered.
     
    “Why?”
     
    “The hot water does not come.”
     
    “Really? Try mine.”
     
    The hot water worked all right in Chen’s room. Possibly a problem only with Huang’s.
     
    “You may use my tub,” Chen said.
     
    “What about yourself?”
     
    “There’s a bookstore down in the mall. I may find some interesting mysteries.” That was true. A publishing house in Guiling had been pushing him for new translations. In spite of his workload, he had no objection to translation. It kept him reading and writing, even though mechanically, with his imagination crumpled like a dirty mop.
     
    The phone in Chen’s room rang. It was Shasha. She, too, was interested in the ultramodern bathtub. “You have a Jacuzzi in your room, I’ve heard.”
     
    “Try it if you like. Little Huang is in my room right now. Come in forty-five minutes,” Chen said before turning to Huang. “Take your time.”
     
    “Thank you, boss. It’ll take me no more than fifteen minutes.”
     
    “Don’t worry. Leave the door closed after you finish.” He spoke into the phone again. “I’ll leave my key at the front desk, Shasha. I’m going to take a walk—in the home city of T. S. Eliot.”
     
    “Oh yes, Eliot made you.”
     
    It was a well-meant joke, which also sounded like an echo from a poem. Perhaps by Eliot. He was not sure, however, whether it took an American poet to make or unmake a Chinese cop.
     
    Chen went down to the mall. It was late afternoon, and shoppers were pouring in. He saw a Chinese family walking in front, a young couple with a little boy. The woman wore silk embroidered satin slippers, shorts, and a silk vest like a dudou, and the man was in a white T-shirt with a gigantic beer mug imprinted on it. Both were carrying large plastic shopping bags. Holding a red balloon over his head, the boy jumped along, as if on invisible tracks, imitating the toot of the bygone trains. Presently Chen discovered the woman was American dressed in an overtly Asian way. Perhaps it was fashionable here, he did not know.
     
    There were several pay phones scattered throughout the building. He chose one partially sheltered in a corner, and he dialed Yu’s number. But no one picked up. Strange. It was still morning in Shanghai. At least Peiqin should be at home.
     
    He took out his address book and found another number—a local St. Louis number. But he hesitated. It might put him in a difficult situation— in China—if she contacted him. As a Chinese police officer, he had to report any call from an American police officer. He dialed the number. No one at home there either. A click, and the answering machine brought out her voice.
     
    “This is Catherine Rohn’s residence. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave your phone number and a detailed message, and I’ll call you back as soon as possible.”
     
    He hung up without speaking. Not a good idea to leave his cell phone number, and he hadn’t remembered to bring the hotel number with him.
     
    Leaving the public phone, he was in no mood for window-shopping. But there was no reason for him to hurry back. Huang might be still enjoying himself in the tub. And then it would be Shasha’s turn, like a lotus flower blossoming out of the water. He turned into the bookstore, where he saw several shelves marked “mystery.” All the authors were listed in the alphabetical order of their names. It was a far more popular genre here. In China, only in the last two or three years had a new type of literature called “legal system literature” emerged, as the legal system itself was new. Most of the writing in that genre, however, had little to do with the real police work, for the Party authorities always acted like a god at the last minute. Chen picked up a hardcover—a naked girl with Chinese characters tattooed on her back. Glancing through a few pages, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to choose in so little time. Instead, he picked up a newspaper and a map before heading to an affiliated Starbucks café. The familiar fragrance seemed to bring back what he had discussed with Gu at the franchises in Shanghai. Looking up, he saw a variety of names on the coffee list, in English and in other languages as well, which he hardly knew