involved in some “little concubine” arrangement.
As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create
some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.
Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.
The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security
would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.
SIX
OLD HUNTER WAS GREATLY intrigued by Chen’s invitation to a tea house on Hengshan Road.
The chief inspector knew about his passion for tea but didn’t know much about tea itself, Old Hunter contemplated as he caught
sight of the magnificent tea house Tang Flavor. Such a fashionable place would charge for service, for atmosphere, for so-called
culture, but not for tea itself.
A slender waitress in a florid mandarin dress with high slits hurried over in her high heels, leading him to an antique-looking
private room where a mahogany table was already set up with an array of delicate tea cups, as small and exquisite as peeled
lychee.
Chen hadn’t arrived yet, so Old Hunter had a cup for himself. The tea tasted watery, disappointingly ordinary.
As the old saying goes, one does not come to the Three-Treasure Temple without praying for something. So what was Chen going
to talk to him about? A special case, presumably. If so, Chen shouldn’t discuss
it with him but with his son, Detective Yu, who had been Chen’s partner for years. The two were good friends.
Old Hunter had also been in close contact with Chen, of whom he had a high opinion. A capable and honest cop, Chen was a rarity
in an age of wide-spread corruption. Yu was really lucky to work with a boss and partner like him.
Still, there was something elusive about Chen — he was stubborn, scrupulous, and smart, yet shrewd and occasionally sly in his
way. His promotion to chief inspector when only in his thirties spoke for itself. A hard-working cop himself all his life,
Old Hunter was only a sergeant when he retired.
Old Hunter still had connections in the bureau, so he also knew Chen had received a phone call during the political studies
meeting, a message from Beijing regarding his HCC girlfriend. Chen had supposedly looked devastated. The next day, he took
a sudden leave of absence. The gossip about that spread through the bureau fast.
As Old Hunter was about to sip at his second cup of tea, the waitress returned, leading Chen into the room.
“Sorry, I must have kept you waiting,” Chen said, taking a cup of tea from Old Hunter. “Thank you.”
“No, that’s my job,” the waitress said, taking over the teapot in haste. She added hot water to the purple sand teapot before
pouring the tea in a graceful arc into the tiny teacups. Instead of serving them the tea, however, she poured it out into
the pottery basin beside her. “That was to warm up your teacups,” she explained, her fingers dazzlingly white against the
cup. “It’s the beginning of our tea ceremony. Tea has to be enjoyed in a leisurely way.”
Old Hunter had heard of the so-called Japanese tea ceremony, but he made a point of having nothing to do with anything coming
from Japan. His uncle had been killed in the Anti-Japanese War, and the memory still rankled. When the tea was finally served
in a tiny cup, he drained it in one gulp — in his way. She hastened to serve the second cup.
He noticed Chen was drumming his fingertips on the table, absent-mindedly. Possibly a sign of acknowledgement, but also one
of impatience. The way the tea was served, with the waitress standing and waiting, they wouldn’t be able to talk.
“In Japan, tea drinking is advocated as a sort of cultivated art. That’s bull. You enjoy the
As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create
some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.
Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.
The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security
would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.
SIX
OLD HUNTER WAS GREATLY intrigued by Chen’s invitation to a tea house on Hengshan Road.
The chief inspector knew about his passion for tea but didn’t know much about tea itself, Old Hunter contemplated as he caught
sight of the magnificent tea house Tang Flavor. Such a fashionable place would charge for service, for atmosphere, for so-called
culture, but not for tea itself.
A slender waitress in a florid mandarin dress with high slits hurried over in her high heels, leading him to an antique-looking
private room where a mahogany table was already set up with an array of delicate tea cups, as small and exquisite as peeled
lychee.
Chen hadn’t arrived yet, so Old Hunter had a cup for himself. The tea tasted watery, disappointingly ordinary.
As the old saying goes, one does not come to the Three-Treasure Temple without praying for something. So what was Chen going
to talk to him about? A special case, presumably. If so, Chen shouldn’t discuss
it with him but with his son, Detective Yu, who had been Chen’s partner for years. The two were good friends.
Old Hunter had also been in close contact with Chen, of whom he had a high opinion. A capable and honest cop, Chen was a rarity
in an age of wide-spread corruption. Yu was really lucky to work with a boss and partner like him.
Still, there was something elusive about Chen — he was stubborn, scrupulous, and smart, yet shrewd and occasionally sly in his
way. His promotion to chief inspector when only in his thirties spoke for itself. A hard-working cop himself all his life,
Old Hunter was only a sergeant when he retired.
Old Hunter still had connections in the bureau, so he also knew Chen had received a phone call during the political studies
meeting, a message from Beijing regarding his HCC girlfriend. Chen had supposedly looked devastated. The next day, he took
a sudden leave of absence. The gossip about that spread through the bureau fast.
As Old Hunter was about to sip at his second cup of tea, the waitress returned, leading Chen into the room.
“Sorry, I must have kept you waiting,” Chen said, taking a cup of tea from Old Hunter. “Thank you.”
“No, that’s my job,” the waitress said, taking over the teapot in haste. She added hot water to the purple sand teapot before
pouring the tea in a graceful arc into the tiny teacups. Instead of serving them the tea, however, she poured it out into
the pottery basin beside her. “That was to warm up your teacups,” she explained, her fingers dazzlingly white against the
cup. “It’s the beginning of our tea ceremony. Tea has to be enjoyed in a leisurely way.”
Old Hunter had heard of the so-called Japanese tea ceremony, but he made a point of having nothing to do with anything coming
from Japan. His uncle had been killed in the Anti-Japanese War, and the memory still rankled. When the tea was finally served
in a tiny cup, he drained it in one gulp — in his way. She hastened to serve the second cup.
He noticed Chen was drumming his fingertips on the table, absent-mindedly. Possibly a sign of acknowledgement, but also one
of impatience. The way the tea was served, with the waitress standing and waiting, they wouldn’t be able to talk.
“In Japan, tea drinking is advocated as a sort of cultivated art. That’s bull. You enjoy the
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