Beyond a stone bridge, Chen saw a group of tourists getting off a bus near the entrance to an old street, most of them holding maps and brochures in their hands. An elderly man wearing a fake pigtail over a gray cotton gown shuffled up to the tourists, as if he had just emerged out of an illustration of a story by Lu Xun, selling souvenirs from his bamboo basket.
The original Lu residence must have been large, presumably housing the whole clan. Apart from a considerable number of halls and rooms, Chen saw the Hundred-Flower Garden at one side of the street and the Three-Flavor Study on the other, both of them mentioned in Lu Xun’s writings. Chen managed to curb the temptation to walk over to them.
About half a block away, in front of a quadrangle house, was a vertical wooden sign reading Young Writers’ Base of Lu Xun Academy. The door stood ajar, through which could be seen a corner of the tranquil flagstone courtyard. It was probably something like a writers’ colony. If so, he might try to come and stay here for a week, basking in the feng shui of Lu Xun’s old home, though he was no longer a young writer. Hearing voices coming from within, he hurried away.
“Buy a scroll of Shaoxing brush pen calligraphy—Lu Xun’s poem.” A scholarlike peddler with a flowing silver beard intercepted him on the street. “The calligrapher is an undiscovered master: in a few years, the scroll could be worth a fortune.”
The scroll showed a quatrain in bold Wei style.
How can I afford to be passionate as of yore? / Let flower bloom or fall, I care no more. / Who could have thought that in the southern rain, / I’m weeping for a son of the country again?
It was a poem Lu Xun composed for Yang Xingfu, an intellectual who was killed in the fight for democracy. Unexpectedly, memories of Detective Wei came back, overwhelming Chen in the guilty realization that he was not a poet like Lu Xun, not having written a single line for the dead.
“Two hundred yuan,” the peddler declared. “You are a man of letters, and you know the true value.”
“One hundred,” he bargained without thinking.
“Deal.”
Back in Shanghai, the scroll could hang in his office, he mused, as a souvenir of the trip, and in memory of Detective Wei.
Like everywhere else in China, Shaoxing was inundated by wave upon wave of consumerism. Along the street, except for the houses marked as part of Lu Xun’s residence, all the houses had been turned into shops or restaurants named in connection to the great writer. One salesman held a brown urn of Shaoxing rice wine on top of his head while jumping in and out a ring of wine bottles like an acrobat. Chen couldn’t recall any such scene in the stories.
He wished he could find a small tea room, but at least he was relieved not to see a Starbucks. He stepped into a small tavern instead, where he ordered a bowl of yellow wine. At this time of the day, he was the only customer, so a waiter also brought him a tiny dish of peas flavored with aniseed. Picking up a pea, he debated with himself whether he should go to the festival, perhaps make only a quick appearance. But once he was there, it might not be easy to get away quickly.
He couldn’t see any real point in going, just to join in the chorus singing the praises of “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” Lu Xun, for one, would never have done that.
Chen thought about an article he’d read recently. It was about a surprising comment Chairman Mao had made regarding Lu Xun in the fifties, during the heat of the antirightist movement. When asked what Lu Xun would have been doing if he was still around, Mao said simply that Lu would be locked up and rotting in prison.
As he sat there lost in thought, Chen got another call from Tang.
“Yes, there is a property registered in the name of Fang, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s a villa near Lu Xun’s old home.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you in a minute. There used to be a phone line under her name, but it was canceled about half a year ago. Which isn’t too surprising, since more and more people use only mobile phones. Also, the property seems to be unoccupied most of the time. According to the subdivision security, a woman moved in just a couple of days ago. Possibly she’s none other than Fang. The security guard is pretty sure she’s there now.”
“Good, I’m on my way.”
There was nothing surprising about the property being registered under her name. Either Zhou was cautious, having purchased it for himself but put it under her name, or he was really smitten and bought it for her.
The subdivision was about two blocks behind Lu Xun’s home. From a distance, he glimpsed a stretch of new roofs shining in the sunlight.
There was no ruling out the possibility that she was kept under surveillance in that subdivision. If he was able to track her down there, so could others. Still, he had to approach her. He turned a corner on the street, looking over his shoulder one more time.