Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

reverentially, nodding all the time like a puppet. Do you still want to tell me that you met him by chance in a barbershop?”
    “I owe you an apology,” he said, deciding to reveal his connections, if not his identity. “I have connections with the police here. That’s not something I really want to show off, or talk to you about, but in today’s China, you can’t do anything without connections. You know that.”
    “You don’t have to waste your breath explaining anything,” she said, walking on with her head down. “I’m surprised that a master of connections like you actually has time for me.”
    “You don’t have to say that, Shanshan. As for Sergeant Huang, he happens to be a fan of the mysteries I’ve translated. That part is absolutely true, and that’s the reason he calls me a master. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know Huang before this vacation. After meeting you, however, I thought I had to establish and develop the connection here.”
    “You’re full of connections, both old and new, as you’ve already told me,” she said, with a distrustful edge still in her voice. “What do you want from me?” She seemed to be gradually recovering from her initial shock.
    “We need to talk, Shanshan. Let me tell you something I’ve just learned from Huang. According to him, things are getting uglier for Jiang.”
    “How?”
    “He’ll be convicted of murder in Liu’s case.” He resumed after a pause, “I don’t know Jiang from Adam. Whatever happens to him, it’s not my business. But it involves you. That was why I had to tell you that it was a chance meeting between me and Huang. Because it wouldn’t do anyone any good to reveal such a connection. Especially at this juncture.”
    They must have walked for some distance without paying attention to the direction. At an intersection ahead, another turn brought them to the beginning of the small, quaint road that lead back to the center.
    She slowed down before finally coming to a halt, hesitant as to whether to walk any further with him. This was the only road in the city of Wuxi that was familiar to him. He remembered some of the tourist attraction signs he had seen.
    “There’s a pavilion, I think, halfway up the hill. It should be a quiet place to talk.”
    She followed him without saying anything. They started up the steps, which were half-covered in moss and weeds.
    To their left, the flat surface of the rock cliff had lines engraved in red- or black-painted characters left by people years earlier. Among them was a couplet by Qian Qianyi, a Qing-dynasty minister who had first served in the Ming dynasty. The couplet was partially blocked out by “Long March,” one of Mao’s poems, which had been carved by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. Beneath Mao’s poem, a young couple had recently chiseled out a romantic pledge, with their names carved under a red heart. Perhaps they believed their names would last forever this way.
    The trail, winding between clumps of larches and ferns, became rugged, slippery, even treacherous in places, with the stone steps in bad repair. Fortunately, as they labored up the trail in the heat, a breeze occasionally found its way through the groves of small spruce.
    An old, ramshackle pavilion came into view. It had a yellow-glazed tile roof supported by vermilion posts, and the posts were set into curved wooden benches with exquisite lattice railings above. Chen was momentarily confused by a sense of déjà vu. Which was odd. It was nothing like the dilapidated pavilion overlooking the lake and its turtle-head rock in Yuantouzhu.
    Shanshan sat down, leaning sideways against the post, fanning herself with a newspaper that she pulled out of her pocket. He sat down beside her, his arm stretched out onto the railing.
    In the trees behind them, small birds chirped. Among the trees, there was an ancient stump surrounded by an abundance of yellowish weeds and a flattened white fungus across the top.
    “I’m afraid Jiang will be charged and convicted,” Chen started, “in a couple of days.”
    “How could that possibly be?” she demanded. “They don’t have a shred of evidence.”
    “They think they have. And that’s what matters. They aren’t ordinary cops, you know. They are Internal Security.”
    “But why?”
    “It’s the politics behind the case, Shanshan,” he said carefully. “Jiang is a troublemaker, not only in Wuxi, but to the people high above in Beijing too.”
    “Because of