A Loyal Character Dancer

leave,” she said. “Now for the relationship between Liu and Wen. Can you tell me more about it? It’s still hazy to me. You may have given your word to Liu—promised confidentiality perhaps. Tell me what you can.”
     
    She was sipping at her tea as he began, but soon she was so absorbed that the tea turned cold in the cup. He included what he considered to be the important details. In addition, he added things from Yu’s interview tapes, which focused more on the miseries Wen had suffered with Feng.
     
    Catherine had gathered some of the information but now the various pieces were forming a whole. At the end of his account, she gazed into her cup for several minutes. When she raised her head again, the hall appeared to be even more gloomy. She saw why he had been so depressed.
     
    “One more question, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “About the connection between the Fujian police and the Flying Axes—is that true?”
     
    “It’s very probable. I had to tell her that,” Chen said evasively. “I might be able to shield her for a week or two, but more than that, I doubt. She has no choice but to go to the United States.”
     
    “You should have discussed this with me earlier.”
     
    “It’s not pleasant, you know, for a Chinese cop to admit this.”
     
    She grasped his hand.
     
    The moment of silence was broken by the sound of the old woman cracking water melon seeds behind the screen.
     
    “Let’s go outside,” Chen said.
     
    They stepped out, carrying their tea and cakes. Walking across the bridge, they entered the pavilion with the yellow glazed tile roof and vermilion posts. The posts were set into a surrounding bench with a flat marble top and lattice railings. They placed the thermos bottle on the ground and sat with the cups and cakes between them. Small birds chirped in the grotto behind them.
     
    “The Suzhou garden landscape was designed,” he said, “to inspire people to feel poetic.”
     
    She did not feel so, though she relished the moment. Someday in the future, she knew she would look back on this early evening in Suzhou as special. Leaning sideways against the post, she went through a sudden shift of mood, as if they had undergone another role reversal. Chen was almost his usual self again. And she was becoming sentimental.
     
    What were Wen and Liu doing at this moment?
     
    “Soon Liu and Wen are going to part,” she said wistfully.
     
    “Liu may go to the United States someday—”
     
    “No, he will never be able to find her.” She shook her head. “That’s the way our program works.”
     
    “Wen may come back—for a visit—” he cut himself short. “No, that would be too risky for her.”
     
    “It’s out of the question.”
     
    “It’s difficult to meet, and to part, too. / The east wind languid, the flowers fallen,” he murmured, “Sorry, I’m quoting poetry again.”
     
    “What’s wrong with that, Chief Inspector Chen?”
     
    “It’s sentimental.”
     
    “So you have turned into a hermit crab retreating into a rationalist shell.”
     
    Instantaneously she knew she had gone too far. Why had she burst out with this? Was it because she was upset with the outcome of the investigation, because neither he nor she could possibly do anything that would really help Wen? Or was it because of a subconscious parallel rising to the surface of her mind? Soon she, too, would be leaving China.
     
    He made no response.
     
    She bent over to rub her aching ankle.
     
    “Finish the last piece,” he said, handing the cake to her.
     
    “It’s a strange name, Bamboo Leaf Green Cake,” she said, studying the box.
     
    “Bamboo leaves may have been used in the cake. Bamboo used to be a very important part of traditional Chinese culture. There must be a bamboo grove in a Chinese garden landscape, and a bamboo shoot dish in a Chinese banquet.”
     
    “Interesting,” she said. “Even Chinese gangsters use the word bamboo in the name of their organizations.”
     
    “What are you referring to, Inspector Rohn?”
     
    “Remember the fax I got at the hotel last Sunday? It contained some background information about international triads involved in human smuggling. One of them is called Green Bamboo.”
     
    “Do you have the fax with you?”
     
    “No, I left it at the Peace Hotel.
     
    “But you’re sure?”
     
    “Yes, I remember the name,” she said.
     
    She changed her position. Turning toward him, she reclined against the post.