“I can’t imagine that. They might have met once or twice, but I don’t know of anything recent.”
“According to Internal Security, he tried to blackmail Liu recently.”
“No, that’s not possible,” she said.
She didn’t elaborate. Nor was Chen in a good position to push her, having not yet revealed himself to be a cop.
“Don’t call him again. At least, not before telling me first if you think you must,” he said instead. “I’ll keep you posted on the latest developments.”
“Things are really serious, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“But do you know how serious the environmental crisis is for our country?” She went on heatedly, without waiting for a response: “The government talks a lot about the improvements in human rights. I don’t know much about that. But I do know that at the very least people should be able to breathe pure air, drink clean water, eat good food, and see the stars at night. These are the most basic human rights, aren’t they? But not in China. Let me give you an example. When the Beijing government called for a ten percent reduction in sulfur dioxide in China’s air, I was still in college. Now, five years later, sulfur dioxide pollution has
“Hold on a minute, Shanshan. Are all these figures based on research?”
“Yes. They are no state secret, I can assure you. If you do your research, you can find all of this in the officially published material.”
“It’s shocking.” He searched his pockets for a scrap of paper, but without success. “Can I have a piece of paper to write down some of those figures?”
“Why, Chen?”
Chen was thinking of the report he had to turn in to Comrade Secretary Zhao. At the moment, the chief inspector didn’t have any solid evidence to support his argument. However, he wasn’t going to tell her the real reason, even though he would never do anything to get her into trouble.
“I’ve been trying to write a poem about the pollution in China, but I’m not an expert like you. Still, I don’t want to publish something unsupported by facts.”
“Are you serious?” she said. “That might get you into trouble. Besides, I doubt if such a poem would be publishable.”
He was serious and had, in fact, already written several stanzas.
“I have the connections to get it published, I think. Connections aren’t something to be proud of, but they do help get things done.” After a short pause, he went on. “After our conversation in the sampan, I did some serious thinking about the issue. Environmental protection must be an uphill battle. It is as difficult as it is complicated. But what is at the root of the ever-worsening pollution problem? Human greed. Pollution isn’t a problem that pertains to our country alone-as the proverb says, crows are black all over the world-but the shape the problem takes here is certainly characteristic of China.”
“Characteristic of China,” she said, looking him in the eye, “as the newspapers say about China’s socialism.”
“Because China lacks any history of a sound legal system and because of the general ideological disillusionment, particularly resulting from the disastrous Cultural Revolution, people take whatever they can grasp in their hands, by hook or by crook, in this brazen ultra-acquisitive age. Some economists even declare greed a necessary evil for our economic development. Marx himself said something to that effect too, though he was very critical about it.”
“Wow, you even dragged Marx into it, Chen. But I know the passage you mean. According to Marx, for a three hundred percent profit, a capitalist would do anything, commit any crime, even at risk of being hanged.”
“Exactly. I don’t think doing everything possible for profit will lead to anything good-not for the environment or anything else. But the issue is complicated. The Party authorities must be aware of the environmental problem, but, to some extent, the legitimacy of the Party’s regime depends on maintaining economic growth, so any regulatory effort that gets in the way of growth will be suppressed.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Chen!” she said, her eyes bright.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about all this, Shanshan,” he said earnestly, “because of your company, and because of the poem I’m working on. I’ve just started, but it could be a longer, more ambitious poem than any I’ve ever done before.”
“Let me get my folder for you.”
She got down on all fours, reached under the bed, and pulled out a cardboard box, her bare legs sticking out and her elegantly arched soles faintly dabbed with dust. She emerged out from under the bed with a blue folder in her hand and a smudge on her face.
“Anything you might want to know,” she said. She seated herself at the table and opened the folder.
Chen moved his chair nearer to the table so he could read the small print on the pages in the folder.
He was reminded again of his college years, when he spent hours bent over a similar table in a similar small dorm room: idealistic, passionate, and doing what he believed to be the right thing.
Outside the room’s small window, the color of the sky was changing, dimming into a deep blue with sparse glittering stars starting to show.
He didn’t know how long they had talked. He was only aware of her hair touching his cheek, once or twice, like a refrain in a half-forgotten poem, and of her slender finger pointing at the material, as she explained it all in detail.
She then sat up, drawing one foot under her in a casual pose. But then she immediately thought of something else and leaned over the table again. As she bent over the folder, her robe parted slightly. He thought he caught a flash of her breasts. If she was aware of his glance, she said nothing.
A spell of silence fell over the room when she finished going over all the material in the folder.
“I really appreciate your coming over tonight,” she finally said, her eyes lambent in the flickering fluorescent light.
He glanced at his watch. It was past nine. She didn’t say anything about it’s being late, so he could choose to stay, perhaps, for a bit longer.
It wasn’t comfortable to sit in the same unchanging position for long, particularly in the cramped space between the desk and the bed. He was reminded of a so-called lovers’ room in a restaurant on the Bund in Shanghai. The tiny size lent itself to intimacy. He had been there with another woman-though not his lover-who was murdered shortly afterward. He shivered at the sudden, inexplicable premonition. He shifted on the chair, which warbled with a screeching sound.
She sat further back, her back touching the bare wall, her arms no longer clasping her knees, and her legs parted. She patted the bed, an invitation for him to sit alongside.
As his glance fell to the bed, he noticed a sauce stain from the noodles she had made earlier in the evening on the fleshy spot below her big toe. In the soft light, her toe looked rounded and snowy like a creamy scallop in a chef’s special. The absurd association only made her look appealingly vulnerable. As a Jin dynasty poet said, she’s so beautiful that she could be devoured. He thought he could read a message rippling in her eyes, reflecting back what he fantasized.
Instead he rose to leave.
They looked into each other’s eyes.
“It’s late, Shanshan. I think I have to leave. The center locks the entrance around twelve.”
It would be out of the question at this stage, Chief Inspector Chen knew, for him to do anything unacceptable for a cop, particularly for an incognito cop on vacation.
If he was going to help, he had to stick to his role as a policeman. There could be no conflict of interest, even if he kept his identity a secret from her.
ELEVEN
