Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

arranged by Huang. How long she had been in there, Chen had no idea. He didn’t think she’d seen him sitting behind the tree, waiting. She was waiting as well, but not for him.
    A black police van rolled out. It had barely turned to the right when it slowed to a stop close to the grocery store. Huang got out of the vehicle, waved to his colleague in the driver’s seat, said something inaudible there, and headed into the store.
    A window in the back of the vehicle rolled down and Shanshan hastened over in unsteady steps.
    From where Chen stood, he couldn’t see clearly. But she was leaning into the car, her face drawn, infinitely touching, and her bare shoulder dazzlingly white against the blaze of the transparent pear blossoms …
    For a split second, Chen felt as if he were watching a movie, spell-bound and from a distance, and the realization hit that she still cared deeply for Jiang, a fighter for a worthy cause.
    The moment belonged to the two of them.
    It was unthinkable for Chief Inspector Chen, who was but a spectator here, to step out from behind the scenes.
    He wondered if he was worthy of this moment. It was Jiang—together with Shanshan—who was fighting, suffering, and sacrificing for the cause of the environment. Chen might have unknowingly taken advantage of the situation—sweeping her off her feet when she was lonely and vulnerable, all by herself.
    It was a battle, however hard and difficult, that she wouldn’t give up and in which Jiang, with the common language and interest between them, might be the ideal comrade. If she could forgive Jiang for the upset and reach out to him again in his time of need, what was Chen supposed to do?
    Questions stretched on like those side streets, turning and twisting, leading him to an overwhelming question: would she ever be able to really forget about Jiang?
    For the sake of argument, what was it about her being eventually won over for the chief inspector? If they were together, she’d have to change herself for his sake. A rising political star couldn’t afford to have a dissident wife at his back. However “successful” he might prove to be in China’s one-party system, would it be fair to expect her to be a good wife and give up the fight that meant so much to her?
    Of course, Chief Inspector Chen could change himself for her sake—throwing to the wind all considerations about his career or position. But would he be a good companion for her? At the beginning of his vacation, he’d composed a couple of stanzas, playing with the idea of one’s identity existing in others’ interpretations. It was true, but not the whole truth. To Sergeant Huang and others, Chen was a capable cop; for all his idiosyncrasies Chen knew that he did make a difference, as he had in the present case, even if it wasn’t as much as he would have liked.
    In her letter, Shanshan was right about one thing. Chief Inspector Chen was in a position to do something, but probably not if he was by her side, not if he was engaged in something beyond his experience or expertise.
    Huang poked his head out of the store for a couple of seconds.
    “One more minute,” he shouted to the van driver before he disappeared from the scene again, perhaps disinclined to break the two lovers apart that soon.
    Chen thought about waiting around until the end of their meeting, but he was changing his mind. After all, what could he say after their meeting?
    For that matter, what could she say, while still gazing after the police van receding into the dust?
    He had no clue. It was too much for him to think about at the moment.
    His Wuxi vacation had started abruptly, and in the same manner, it ended. Forgetting I’m away from home, / in a dream, I was carried away / in a moment of pleasure .
    He was attempting to put the vacation behind him, recalling some lines he’d read long ago, anxious to use the ancient fragments to shore himself up against the present waste and to let the curtain fall over his conflicting impulses of struggle and flight.
    Nothing can avert the final curtain’s fall . A line from another poem came to him. It sounded like a far-off echo. He wondered if it could yield a clue, or a cue, to the acts being schemed around him.
    Then he remembered. It was from a Russian poem about Hamlet standing alone on the stage, praying that he might be released from the cast: To play the role to the end is not a childish task .
    The drama for the others would go on, of course.
    Fu would be