The sketch then moved on to Xiangru’s literary career and did not touch on the subject of his thirsty illness again. Given the seminal significance of Shiji, the story came to be retold in a number of literary versions, proving to be archetypal in its influence on the late genre of scholar-beauty romance.

Chen then started checking through anthologies and collections. One of the earliest literary versions of the love story appeared in Xijing Zaji, a collection of anecdotes and stories.

When Sima Xiangru returned to Chengdu with Zhuo Wenjun, he was poverty-stricken. He pawned his sushuang feather coat to Yang Chang and bought wine for her. She threw her arm round his neck and burst into tears. “I have always lived in affluence. Now we have to pawn your clothes for wine!” After much discussion, they set about selling wine in Chengdu. Wearing no more than short pants, Xiangru himself washed the utensils. He did so to embarrass Zhuo Wangsun. Wangsun was overwhelmed by shame and provided handsomely for Wenjun, thus making her rich.

Wenjun was a beauty. Her eyebrows were as delicate as the mountains seen from a distance; her face as charming as a lotus flower; her skin was as soft as frozen cream. She had been widowed at the age of seventeen. She was loose in her ways. So impressed by Xiangru’s talent, she trespassed the grounds of rites.

Xiangru had previously suffered from thirsty illness. When he went back to Chengdu, he became so enamored of Wenjun’s beauty that he had a relapse of the illness. Therefore he wrote the rhapsody “Beauty” to satirize himself. However, he could not mend his way and finally died of the illness. Wenjun wrote an elegy for him, which is extant today.

In the Xijing Zaji version, Chen observed, the term thirsty illness appeared in a context quite different from the Shiji’s. Instead of beginning from the beginning, the later tale started with the plight of the couple on their return to Chengdu, leaving out the romantic part and highlighting their materialistic motives. Xiangru was portrayed as a mercenary conspirator, and Wenjun, though a beauty, was a woman of suspect morals.

A substantial difference came in the semantics of thirsty illness: here, it was an illness caused by love. Xiangru was aware of the cause and effect, trying to satirize himself out of it, but to no avail. He died of his passion for Wenjun.

So here the meaning of thirsty illness was close to Bian’s-a consequence of romantic passion. That was what Bian jokingly meant by the romantic poet’s “kind of thirsty illness.”

Chen opened Ocean of Words, the largest Chinese dictionary, in which thirsty illness clearly meant diabetes. “It is so named because the patient feels thirsty, hungry, urinates a lot, and looks emaciated.” A medical term carrying no other association whatsoever-exactly the same as its use in Shiji.

He pulled over other reference books, thinking about the superstitious beliefs about sexual love in ancient China. As far as he could remember, the Taoist opposed sexual love-or, to be more exact, ejaculation-on the grounds that it deprived a man of his essence.

Whatever the philosophical or superstitious influence, an association between love and death appeared on the thematic horizon of the literary version. The romance thus contained within itself an “other,” which decried the romantic theme.

Also, the later version’s Wenjun appeared as a frivolous and sinister woman. Chen copied in his notebook a sentence: “So impressed by Xiangru’s talent, she trespassed the grounds of rites.” He underlined the word rites, thinking of a Confucian quotation, “Do all things in accordance to the rites.”

But what could have been the rites regarding people falling in love?

He went to request more books. Susu said that it could take some time to get them because of the staff’s lunch break. So he decided to go out for lunch. It was a warm afternoon for that time of the year.

People’s Park was close by, in which there was an inexpensive but nice canteen. Many years ago, his mother had taken him there. It took him a while to find it, but he finally did. He ordered a plastic box of fried rice, slices of beef in oyster sauce with green onion, plus a fish ball soup in a paper bowl. The same beef recipe, he hoped, as he had enjoyed in the company of his mother.

He also looked for a bottle of Zhengguanghe lemon water, but he saw only a variety of American brands: Coca Cola-Delicious, Enjoyable; Pepsi-Hundreds of Things Enjoyable; Sprite-Snow Pure; 7-Up-Seven Happiness; Mountain Dew-Excited Wave. At least the translations of the drinks were not so Americanized, he contemplated in wry amusement.

His cell phone started ringing again. It was Overseas Chinese Lu, his middle school buddy, now the owner of Moscow Suburb, a swank restaurant known for its Russian cuisine and Russian girls.

“Where are you, buddy?”

“In People’s Park, enjoying a box lunch. I have this week off for my Chinese literature paper.”

“You must be joking-a Chinese literature paper in the midst of your soaring career?” Lu exclaimed. “If you are really going to quit the police force, come and be my partner, as I’ve said hundreds of times. Indeed, customers will come pouring in because of your connections.”

But Chen knew better. His connections came from his position. Once out of that position, most of his “friends” would evaporate into thin air. He would probably never go to work with Lu, so he saw no point in discussing it.

“Come to Moscow Suburb,” Lu went on. “I have all my Russian waitresses wearing mandarin dresses. It’s a weird sight. Westerners look out of joint in mandarin dresses. Still, so mysterious, so exciting, so delicious that customers practically devour them alive.”

“The exotic flavor, I bet.”

For an entrepreneur like Lu, it was natural to seize any opportunity to make money without worrying about aesthetics, or ethics.

“Whatever flavor, the plastic box lunch in the park is definitely not edible. A disgrace to a renowned and refined gourmet like you. You have to come-”

“I will, Lu,” Chen said, cutting Lu short, “but I have to go back to the library now. Someone’s waiting for me.”

The box lunch was waiting, to be exact. It would soon get cold.

Before he opened the plastic box, however, his phone shrilled yet again. He should have turned it off during the break. It was Hong, the young cop in the homicide squad who worked as Liao’s assistant.

“This is a surprise, Hong.”

“Sorry, Chief Inspector Chen, I got your cell phone number from Detective Yu. I tried your home first, but no success.”

“You don’t have to say sorry for that.”

“I have to report a case to you.”

“But I’m on vacation, Hong.”

“It’s important. Both Party Secretary Li and Inspector Liao told me to contact you.”

“Well,” he said. A lot of things could have turned into important grains in Li’s political mill. As for Liao, his request that Hong call Chen was possibly no more than a deferential gesture.

“Where are you, Chief Inspector Chen? I can come over immediately.”

It could be another sensitive case, something not convenient to discuss on the phone. But, if so, then it wasn’t for the library, either.

“Come to People’s Park, Hong. Close to the entrance of the number three gate.”

“You’re enjoying your vacation. People’s Park. What a coincidence!”

“What do you mean?”

“A second body in a red mandarin dress was found early this morning. In front of the Newspaper Windows close to the number one gate of the park.” She added, “Oh, Detective Yu has joined the special investigation too.”

“A serial murder!” Chen recalled having seen a crowd there earlier, though he hadn’t paid any particular attention. It wasn’t an unusual scene for the Newspaper Windows.

“That’s what I’m calling about. They wanted me to be the one to contact you because they said that Chief Inspector Chen would not say no to a young girl.”