Enigma of China(37)

After all, who remembers Xinghua?

It’s by chance that I came across a poem by Xinghua. A stanza of it reads:

Trying to grasp a blade of grass, a piece of wood, to secure / the present moment, to avoid the flight of time, / to hold on, to fix oneself, / but in the distant mountains, autumn spreads out at the peaks, / storing infinite joy and sorrow. / After failure comes a stroke of luck.

It is a sad poem. Not only because one’s self has to be maintained by grasping a blade of grass or a piece of wood, but contrary to the heartrending wish in the last line, no stroke of luck came to the poet in the end.

Chen lit a cigarette, waving out the match forcefully. It wasn’t perhaps one of the blogs that would appeal to a large number of people. Most of them had probably never heard of Xinghua. The number of hits on the page spoke to that. But Lianping nonetheless did her research and wrote emotionally. It wasn’t just about one man’s suffering during the Cultural Revolution, it was also about today’s society.

Chen liked the poem quoted at the end of the article.

Now, what about his own luck as a policeman? Chen picked up the phone and called Jiang at the hotel.

At his insistence, Jiang confirmed one thing. The original post that landed Zhou in trouble appeared in a Web forum managed by a man named Melong, though Jiang appeared to be surprised that Chen had learned this through his own channels.

Chen then called Lianping.

“I want to thank you for your blog post on Xinghua. It’s a good piece. It’s a pity few remember him today.”

“I majored in English too. Don’t forget that.”

“So you must know a lot about blogs and blogging.”

“They aren’t difficult, but blogs aren’t uncensored. Web sites have to take a piece down the moment they get a notice from the netcops. Fortunately or unfortunately, Xinghua isn’t a name on their radar.”

“By the way, you mentioned someone named Melong yesterday. Do you post on his forum?”

“He runs a popular forum, and he’s asked me to write for him, but I choose not to. His forum is a bit too controversial, if you know what I mean.”

“So you know him well?”

“No, not well. I’ve only met him three or four times. But he’s clever and resourceful, a real computer wizard. That’s how he was able to start his Web forum single-handedly.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“Not offhand, but let me make some phone calls.”

“That would be great. Thank you in advance, Lianping.” Chen then said his good-byes.

Afterward, Chen tried to talk to Detective Yu, but Yu was out of the bureau with some other officers. Chen left a note for his longtime partner, saying that their squad shouldn’t take on any new cases during his absence. It was a rather unusual request. Yu was more than competent, but what could the squad possibly do with a case like the one on the artist Ai?

The time for the department meeting drew near, but Chen wasn’t in any mood for it. He decided instead to skip it and sneak out of the bureau. Being a special consultant at least gave him an excuse.

He didn’t request the services of a bureau car. On the corner of Yan’an and Sichuan Roads, he boarded bus 71, which was crowded, as always. The bus crawled along patiently in heavy traffic. Chen paid little attention to the changing scene outside, lost in a tangle of thoughts. Instead of getting off at the stop on Shanxi Road, he remained on the bus, standing, holding on to a strap overhead. The bus was heading toward East China Hospital, where his mother was.

She’d been there for weeks, recuperating from a minor stroke. His failure to take proper care of her was unforgivable, he couldn’t help telling himself again. He was sweating profusely, bumping up against an ovenlike, overweight woman as the bus lurched down the street.

He hadn’t visited his mother in several days, though on the phone she’d repeatedly assured him that everything was all right.

East China Hospital was located on West Yan’an Road, in a large compound enclosed by high red walls. It was a hospital for high-ranking Party cadres, with the most advanced equipment, utmost security, and privacy. It was accessible only to those of a certain rank—a rank higher than that of chief inspector.

His mother’s private ward was on the second floor of the European-style building. At the carpeted landing of the staircase, an elderly man in a white shirt and green army pants nodded to Chen formally. It was a gesture out of an old movie. Chen didn’t recognize him, but he nodded back.

Chen’s mother wasn’t in this hospital because of his position, which by itself was far from enough, he reflected as he knocked gently on the door. It stood ajar, with the afternoon sunlight peeping in through the windowpanes across the corridor. There was no response. He waited a moment or two before he pushed open the door. She was alone in the room, taking an early nap.