“The other one is Yan Rui’s. I particularly like the poem from which our great leader Chairman Mao borrowed the image: “What will leave leaves, / What will stay stays. / When mountain flowers adorn my hair, / Don’t ask where my home will be.”

This was so characteristic of Ouyang, who never forgot to adorn his speech with poetic quotes. Chen listened to the message for a second time. Ouyang surely knew him well, quoting Li Shangyin-but why Yan Rui? The poem had survived in classical anthologies mainly because of a romantic story behind it. The poet was said to be a beautiful courtesan in love with General Yue Zhong. She was thrown into jail by Yue’s political opponent, but she refused to incriminate her lover by admitting their relationship. The poem was said to be about her unyielding spirit in the midst of her trouble. Could that be a hint about Xie Rong to let him know she would not incriminate him?

Of course, Ouyang was wrong about one thing. There had not been anything between Xie and Chief Inspector Chen. But Ouyang’s message confirmed Little Zhou’s information. Xie Rong had gotten into trouble-she was in custody. Not because of her massage business, but because of him, with Internal Security behind it.

Was it possible that Ouyang had also found himself in trouble? Perhaps not. At least Ouyang was still out there, with enough money to make the long distance call, and enough composure to cite Tang and Song dynasty poetry, though the way the message was delivered suggested he was in a difficult situation.

Chief Inspector Chen decided to ask Lu to call Ouyang for him, and to cite another poem for caution’s sake.

When he got back to the office, he thought of a couplet by Wang Changling: If my folks and friends in Luoyang ask about me, / Tell them: an ice-pure heart, a crystal vase.

That would do. He then settled down to work.

At seven o’clock, Chief Inspector Chen was about to leave the bureau. The doorman, Comrade Liang, leaned out of his cubicle by the gate, saying, “Wait a minute, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve got something for you.”

It was a large express envelope that had been lying on the top shelf.

“It came two days ago,” Liang said apologetically, “but I could not get hold of you.”

Express mail from Beijing. It might be critical. Comrade Liang should have called him. There had been no message at his office; Chen had checked his voice mail everyday. Perhaps the old man, like everybody else, had heard that Chen had ruffled feathers high up. Since the chief inspector was going to be removed soon, why bother?

He signed for the envelope without saying a word.

“Comrade Chief Inspector,” Comrade Liang said in a low voice, “Some people have been looking over others’ mail. So I wanted to give this to you personally.”

“I see,” Chen said, “Thank you.”

Chen took the envelope, but he did not open it. Instead, he returned to his office, closing the door after him. He had recognized the handwriting on the cover.

Inside the express packaging was a small stamped envelope, which bore the letterhead-The Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. The same handwriting was on this envelope.

He took out the letter.

Dear Chen Cao:

I’m glad you have written to me.

On receiving your letter, I went to Comrade Wen Jiezi, the head of the Public Security Ministry. He was aware of your investigation. He said he trusted you wholeheartedly, but there were some people in high positions-not only those you have crossed in Shanghai -very much concerned about the case. Wen promised that he would do whatever possible to keep you from harm. These are his words: “don’t push on with the investigation until further signal, be assured that something will be happening shortly.”

I think he is right. Time can make the difference. And time flies.

How long since we last met in the North Sea Park? Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed? It seems like ages.

I have remained the same. Busy, always busy, with the routine business of the library. Nowadays I work at the foreign liaison department; I think I’ve told you about it. In June, there will be a chance of accompanying an American library delegation to the southern provinces. Then we may see each other again.

There is a new phone installed at home-a direct line for my father. In an emergency, you can use this number: 987-5324.

Yours

Ling

PS. I told Minister Wen I was your girlfriend because he asked about our relationship. You know why I had to tell him this.

Chen put the letter back into the envelope, and then into his briefcase. He stood up, gazing out at the traffic along Fuzhou Road. In the distance, he saw the neon Volkswagen signs shining with a halo of violet color in the night: the “violet hour.” He must have read the phrase somewhere. It was the time when people hurry back home, throbbing taxis wait in the street, and the city becomes unreal.

He took out Guan’s file and started writing a more detailed report, compiling all the information. He was trying to confirm the next step he was going to take. He would not turn in the report; he was making a commitment to himself.

It was not until several hours later that he left the bureau. Comrade Liang had gone, and the iron gate looked strangely deserted. It was too late for Chen to catch the last bus. There was still a light in the bureau garage, but he did not like the idea of requisitioning a bureau car to take him home while he was unofficially suspended.

A cool breath of summer night touched his face. A long leaf, heart-shaped, fell at his feet. Its shape reminded him of a bamboo divination slip which had fallen out of a bamboo container-years earlier, at Xuanmiao Temple in Suzhou. The message on the slip was mysterious. He had been curious, but he refused to pay ten Yuan for the Taoist fortuneteller to interpret it. There was no predicting the future in that way.

He did not know what would happen to the case.

Nor what would happen to him.

He knew, however, he would never be able to repay Ling.

He had written to her for help. But he had not expected that she would give him her help in this way.

He found himself walking toward the Bund again. Even at this late hour, the Bund was dotted with young lovers whispering to each other. It was there that he had thought of writing the letter to her, as the big clock atop the Customs Tower chimed. A new melody.

The present, even as you think about it, is already becoming the past.

That afternoon in the North Sea Park. Remember that afternoon, the white pagoda shimmering against the clear sky in the green water, and your poetry book getting splashed? He remembered, of course, but since that afternoon he had tried not to. The North Sea Park. There he had first met Ling near the Beijing Library, and there, too, he had parted from her.

He had not known anything about her family when they first met in the Beijing Library. In the early summer of 1981, he had been in his third year at the Beijing Foreign Language Institute. That summer he chose to stay in Beijing since he could hardly concentrate in his Shanghai attic room. He was writing his thesis on T. S. Eliot. So he went to the library every day.

The library building had originally been one of the numerous imperial halls in the Forbidden City. After 1949, it had been converted into the Beijing Library. It was declared in the People’s Daily that the Forbidden City no longer existed; now ordinary people could spend their days reading in the imperial hall. As a library, its location was excellent, adjacent to North Sea Park with the White Pagoda shimmering in the sun, and close to the Central South Sea Complex across the White Stone Bridge. It was not ideal, however, as a library. The wooden lattice windows, refitted with tinted glass, did not provide enough light. So every seat was equipped with a lamp. The library had no open-shelf system either. Readers had to write the book names on order slips, and the librarians would look for them in the basement.