other executives and some local officials too.”
“No, please don’t do that, Director Qiao. You have so many things on your plate already.” Though not a stranger to lavish meals at the government’s expense, Chen shunned the prospect of spending two or three hours at a banquet table, saying things in official language that he didn’t want to say, in the company of officials he was in no mood to spend time with. He came up with an excuse. “Besides, I have a lunch appointment today.”
“Then another time,” Qiao said, moving to the door. “Enjoy your day in Wuxi. There is a lot to see.”
After Qiao’s visit, Chen felt obliged to leave the villa and head out to his “lunch appointment.”
He had planned to go to the park, but he changed his mind when he saw that it was packed with tourists. He could go there another time, preferably in the evening, when it would be less crowded. Instead he made a right turn again, following the same route as the day before.
He noticed weather-beaten tourist attraction signs along the way, but there were no tourists walking there. At a turn in the road, a black limousine sped past him at full speed. He had to quickly flatten himself against the hillside. The road must have been built so that Party officials could enter and leave the center without having to walk through the crowded park.
He cut through the small square and took several unfamiliar turns, but to his surprise, he found himself heading toward Uncle Wang’s place again.
It couldn’t be because of her, Chen assured himself. The food there was not bad, he thought, trying to rationalize his return to Wang’s. Also, there was the quiet, anonymous atmosphere. He was nobody there, and there was nobody else there, either.
As for the possible food contamination she had warned him against, it would probably be the same everywhere.
Uncle Wang didn’t seem surprised at his reappearance.
“You’re early, Mr. Chen. What would you like today?”
“It’s not quite lunchtime yet. Perhaps a pot of green tea first.”
“Sure, a cup of tea to start. Whenever you’re ready to order, let me know.”
Soon, a pot of tea was placed on the table, along with a dish of fried sunflower seeds and a light blue ashtray half full of cigarette butts, presumably the same one as yesterday.
He sat sipping his tea and looking around the street.
Not far away, a family of three was eating brunch out on the street, sitting in a circle consisting of a plastic chair, a wooden stool, and a bamboo recliner, without a table in the center. The little boy was gazing up at a brightly colored kite dangling from a tree while being chided by his mother, who was insistently pushing the bowl up to his mouth. His father was enjoying a leisurely smoke, looking over his shoulder. All of them seemed contented and at peace with their surroundings.
Past the family, there was a middle-aged peddler squatting over a piece of white cloth, on which he exhibited an array of souvenirs and knickknacks. It was a strange place to have chosen. On a side street not frequented by tourists, there would hardly be any customers for his goods. Still, the peddler, dressed neatly in a short-sleeved white shirt, looked contented, like someone relaxing in front of his own house. But then Chen didn’t know this area, so his interpretations of these people could well be wrong.
Anyway, they seemed to be ordinary people and ordinary scenes, and they calmed him.
Ready to settle down to work, he took out his notebook. He conceived some lines on the experience of being a non-chief inspector here. For the past few months, he had been writing less and less, with the always-present excuse of his heavy workload.
The lines moved in an unanticipated direction, growing inexplicably melancholy. He slowed down, yet he persisted. It was something worth doing, he told himself.
Uncle Wang came over to add hot water to his purple sand teapot.
It was probably close to the lunch hour, but Chen remained the only customer. It was none of his business, but he thought of the young woman again. Holding the pen, he was bothered by something she had said-about the irrelevance of poetry in today’s society. Maybe reflecting on identity was a sort of “luxury” affordable only to a nothing-to-do tourist like himself. People were too busy getting whatever they could in today’s society. Who would care about these metaphysical ideas? Besides, it hardly mattered whether being a cop was fulfilling or not. What else could he possibly do?
“Take your time,” Uncle Wang said, coming back to the table with a menu. “No hurry.”
Having read through the one-page menu describing local freshwater fish, shrimp, lilies, and chestnuts, Chen decided on the white water fish. It was “live, fresh from the lake, recommended,” according to a smaller line of print in parentheses. There was no way to add hormones to the lake, he figured.
“Good choice, the fish is medium-size today,” Uncle Wang said. “Live.”
It was quite an experience seeing the old man prepare the fish outside. It wasn’t a large one, but it was still struggling, its silver scales shining and tail thrashing. The old man finished his job in two or three minutes and he threw the fish into a wok full of sizzling oil.
Soon after, the fish was served, still steaming hot, its skin golden and crisp, its appealing white meat tender. It was lying sensually atop a bed of red peppers.
“Not too many people today, Uncle Wang?” Chen asked, raising his chopsticks.
“Well, most of my customers come from the chemical company nearby. The food in their canteen is no good. But this morning something happened at the plant.”
“What-you mean Shanshan’s company?”
“Yes, several police cars rushed there early in the morning. Someone was murdered, I heard. I didn’t think the employees would come out for lunch today.”
“Oh…” Chen said, putting down the chopsticks. He hastened to remind himself that it was not his business- not here in Wuxi.
He was aiming his chopsticks at the fish again when Shanshan appeared, crossing the street to the eatery.
Uncle Wang greeted her in a loud voice, “Shanshan, you’re late today. Your friend has been waiting here a long while.”
It was true that Chen had been sitting here for quite a while, but he had not been waiting for her. He chose not to contradict the old man, instead smiling and waving his hand at her. She had to have taken him for a bookish tourist. Why not continue to play the role?
She stopped and nodded at him before turning to Uncle Wang.
“No time for lunch today, Uncle Wang. I have to hurry to the ferry. Leave the lunch in the refrigerator for me, please?”
“But you have to eat something. Let me warm you a couple of steamed buns. You can eat them on the way.”
Uncle Wang dashed into the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone. She took a glance at his notebook spread out on the table. A question seemed to start rippling in her large eyes, eyes that were serene, clear like lake water. The metaphor came to mind before he realized it was inappropriate given what he’d heard of the lake water here.
“I thought you might come here for lunch,” he said.
“Something happened in the factory. A mess. Now I have to catch a ferry.”
She wouldn’t talk to an almost stranger about a murder, a reluctance that was quite understandable.
“Well, what do you think of my choice today?” he asked, trying to change the topic. “It’s one of the three special whites in Wuxi.”
“Not good.”
“Really! The white fish came fresh from the lake. It was recommended on the menu.”
“You’re from Shanghai, so you don’t know. Local farmers raise fish in enclosed ponds, and they add drugs to
