Don’t Cry, Tai Lake Read Online Free Page B

down to work, he took out his notebook. He conceived some lines on the experience of being a non–chief inspector here. For the past few months, he had been writing less and less, with the always-present excuse of his heavy workload.
    Where else are we living—/ except in our assumed identities / in others’ interpretations. / So you and I are zoomed, posing / against a walnut tree whispering / in the wind or a butterfly soaring / to the black eye of the sun. / Only with ourselves in the proper light, / and the proper position too, / can we be recognized as meaningful, / as a woodpecker has to prove / its existential values / in the echoes of a dead trunk  …
    The lines moved in an unanticipated direction, growing inexplicably melancholy. He slowed down, yet he persisted. It was something worth doing, he told himself.
    Uncle Wang came over to add hot water to his purple sand teapot.
    It was probably close to the lunch hour, but Chen remained the only customer. It was none of his business, but he thought of the young woman again. Holding the pen, he was bothered by something she had said—about the irrelevance of poetry in today’s society. Maybe reflecting on identity was a sort of “luxury” affordable only to a nothing-to-do tourist like himself. People were too busy getting whatever they could in today’s society. Who would care about these metaphysical ideas? Besides, it hardly mattered whether being a cop was fulfilling or not. What else could he possibly do?
    “Take your time,” Uncle Wang said, coming back to the table with a menu. “No hurry.”
    Having read through the one-page menu describing local freshwater fish, shrimp, lilies, and chestnuts, Chen decided on the white water fish. It was “live, fresh from the lake, recommended,” according to a smaller line of print in parentheses. There was no way to add hormones to the lake, he figured.
    “Good choice, the fish is medium-size today,” Uncle Wang said. “Live.”
    It was quite an experience seeing the old man prepare the fish outside. It wasn’t a large one, but it was still struggling, its silver scales shining and tail thrashing. The old man finished his job in two or three minutes and he threw the fish into a wok full of sizzling oil.
    Soon after, the fish was served, still steaming hot, its skin golden and crisp, its appealing white meat tender. It was lying sensually atop a bed of red peppers.
    “Not too many people today, Uncle Wang?” Chen asked, raising his chopsticks.
    “Well, most of my customers come from the chemical company nearby. The food in their canteen is no good. But this morning something happened at the plant.”
    “What—you mean Shanshan’s company?”
    “Yes, several police cars rushed there early in the morning. Someone was murdered, I heard. I didn’t think the employees would come out for lunch today.”
    “Oh…” Chen said, putting down the chopsticks. He hastened to remind himself that it was not his business—not here in Wuxi.
    He was aiming his chopsticks at the fish again when Shanshan appeared, crossing the street to the eatery.
    Uncle Wang greeted her in a loud voice, “Shanshan, you’re late today. Your friend has been waiting here a long while.”
    It was true that Chen had been sitting here for quite a while, but he had not been waiting for her. He chose not to contradict the old man, instead smiling and waving his hand at her. She had to have taken him for a bookish tourist. Why not continue to play the role?
    She stopped and nodded at him before turning to Uncle Wang.
    “No time for lunch today, Uncle Wang. I have to hurry to the ferry. Leave the lunch in the refrigerator for me, please?”
    “But you have to eat something. Let me warm you a couple of steamed buns. You can eat them on the way.”
    Uncle Wang dashed into the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone. She took a glance at his notebook spread out on the table. A question seemed to start rippling in her large eyes, eyes that were