A Loyal Character Dancer

absentmindedly.
     
    To his dismay, his cell phone started ringing again as he was ready to leave. When he turned it on, he got a fax signal. The signal repeated. He turned the phone off in frustration.
     
    “I know you are doing well, Son, with your cellular phone, bureau car, secretary girl, and a general manager calling you during lunch,” his mother said, walking him downstairs to the door. “You are part of the system now, I understand that.”
     
    “No, I don’t think I’m part of it. But it is necessary for people to work within the system.”
     
    “Do something good then.” she said. “As Buddhist scripture says, ‘Something as small as a bird’s peck is preordained and has consequences’.”
     
    “I will keep it in mind, Mother,” he said.
     
    He thought he understood why his mother had kept talking about doing good things in. the Buddhist spirit. Worried about his prolonged bachelorhood, she had been burning incense to Guanyin every day, praying that retribution for any wrongdoing by the family would befall her instead.                          
     
    “Oh, Aunt Chen!” Little Zhou sprang out of the car with half of a steamed bun in his hand. “Whenever you need the use of a car, give me a call. I’m Chief Inspector Chen’s man.”
     
    His mother shook her head slightly as the car pulled away, noting her neighbors’ envious looks.                            
     
    Little Zhou started playing a CD of The Internationale in a rock version. Those heroic words failed to uplift his spirits. He told Little Zhou to pull up at the corner of Fuzhou and Shandong Roads. “I want to browse in a bookstore. Don’t wait for me. I’ll walk back.”
     
    Several bookstores were located there, both state-run and private. He felt tempted to go into the one where he had bought his father’s book on the contingency of history. He had forgotten the arguments in the book, except for the fable about how a pampered palace goat contributed to the overthrow of the Jing dynasty. He also remembered the colorful poster of the bikini-clad girl that had been offered to him, which he had not accepted. Indeed, he was an unfilial son; he had strayed so far from his father’s expectations.                                 
     
    Instead, he walked over to a dumplings bar across the street. Like that private bookstore, the small bar had been converted from a residence. A simple sign declared in bold characters: YANPI DUMPLING SOUP. In the front, a middle-aged man was dropping the dumplings into a large wok. There were only three tables in the bar. Before a cloth curtain at the back, a young girl stood kneading the cream-colored dough, mixing the rice wine and minced eel meat into it.
     
    On the wall was a red poster explaining the origin of Yanpi, the dumpling skin made of wheat flour, egg, and fish meal. Chen ordered a bowl, which tasted delicious, though it had a singular fishy smell. It became acceptable after he added vinegar and chopped green onion to the soup. He wondered what other non-Fujian customers would think of it. As he finished, he suddenly realized something else.
     
    The restaurant was close to Wen Lihua’s residence, the home in which the missing woman, Wen, had grown up. It was no more than a five-minute walk.
     
    He approached the owner, who was busy ladling dumplings out of the wok. “Do you remember someone who came to your place in a luxurious car a few days ago?”
     
    “This is the only place selling genuine Yanpi in the whole city. It’s not uncommon for people to drive halfway across Shanghai for a bowl of Yanpi. Sorry, but I cannot remember a particular customer because of his car.”
     
    Chen then handed him a card together with a picture of the victim found in the park. “Do you remember this man?”
     
    The owner shook his head in bewilderment. The young girl walked over, took a look at the picture, and said she remembered seeing a customer with a long scar on his face, but she was not sure if this was the same man.
     
    Chen thanked her. He decided to walk back to the bureau. Sometimes he thought more clearly while walking, but not this afternoon. On the contrary, he felt more confused than ever by the time he reached the bureau.
     
    There was only one message in his office from the state job agency, providing him with the names and numbers of several private employment agencies. After