Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo woke up before dawn.

He opened his eyes and saw a hazy gray sky outside the window, with a few remaining stars still faintly visible behind the clouds, like lights about to go out. The sofa was a bit narrow, and after sleeping all night, his back ached and his arms were numb, but he didn't care. He was going to Wuhu today. He was going to see the families, to say sorry to those who had waited for over thirty years. He sat up. Tangyuan was already awake, looking up at him with bright, sparkling eyes, its tail wagging and making a rustling sound as it swept the floor. He stroked its head, and it licked his hand—warm, wet, the barbs on its tongue tickling his palm.

There was already movement in the kitchen. Xiuying was cooking; the clinking of pots and pans was soft, as if afraid of waking him. She was always like this, doing everything quietly, as if afraid of disturbing someone. He walked over and stood in the doorway. She stood in front of the stove, her back hunched, cooking dumplings. The water in the pot was boiling, bubbling and steaming, white steam rising from the gaps in the lid, drifting away in the lamplight like mist, like clouds, like those who will never return. Her hair was casually tied back with a rubber band, revealing gray roots, the new hair growing at the roots even whiter, like frost. She wore an old cotton-padded jacket, the cuffs worn, revealing the cotton inside, the cotton already yellowed and stiff. Her movements were slow but steady, stirring the dumplings in the pot one by one with chopsticks, afraid they would stick together. Her back looked very thin and frail in the lamplight, like a piece of paper, as if a gust of wind could blow her away.

"Mom, let me do it."

Xiuying turned around, saw him, and smiled. The smile was light and faint, just a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth, but Jiang Bo felt a warmth in his heart. "No need. Get ready and go pick up your husband early. It's a long way, don't be late. The dumplings need to puff up to be cooked, don't rush, eat slowly." As she spoke, she turned the heat down a little, letting the water simmer. The dumplings tumbled in the pot, white and plump, like a flock of little ducks.

Jiang Bo stood beside her, watching her cook dumplings. Her profile looked thin in the lamplight, her cheekbones prominent, her eyes deep-set. Her hands were wrinkled, veins bulging, her nails trimmed short, almost blunt. But her movements were steady, unhurried, as if she were doing something she had done for many years, something very important. He remembered all those years she had walked so many roads alone, endured so much hardship, slept under bridges, begged for food, been chased away, been bullied. Now she stood here, cooking dumplings for him, cooking dumplings for her husband. She hadn't waited for his father, but she had waited for him.

"Mom, my husband said he's going to visit those families. He wants to apologize to them in person. He called me again last night, saying he couldn't sleep and kept memorizing the addresses of those families over and over again. He said he was afraid of remembering them wrong, afraid of going to the wrong house, and afraid of not being able to say anything when he met them."

Xiuying paused for a moment. She turned off the heat, used a slotted spoon to scoop out the dumplings, and placed them one by one into a thermal container. Her movements were slow and meticulous, as if she were completing a very important task, like preparing provisions for someone on a long journey. "Is he alright? Can he handle such a long journey?"

"He said yes. He said he owed them. He'd been saying it for thirty years, all in his notebook. They couldn't hear him. He wanted them to hear him. When he said that, his eyes shone, like my dad's eyes when he was young."

Xiuying was silent for a moment. She closed the insulated box, wrapped it in a cloth, and handed it to Jiang Bo. "Tell him for me to be careful on the road. And to the family members, please tell them I'm sorry. Those dumplings are for your husband. They're pork and cabbage filling, your dad's favorite. He said he likes them too. You can eat them on the road."

Jiang Bo took the insulated food container. "Mom, you have nothing to apologize for. You've traveled so far and suffered so much, you have nothing to apologize for."

Xiuying looked at him, her eyes reddening. The redness started from the whites of her eyes and slowly spread across her entire eye sockets, like blood seeping into water. "I'm speaking for Mr. [Surname]. He's been speaking alone for thirty years; it's time for someone to say something on his behalf. Those families have waited their whole lives; it's time for someone to say something on behalf of the person they've been waiting for. He can't speak for everyone by himself."

Jiang Bo held her hand. It was cold, thin, skin and bones, the fingers like withered twigs. "Mom, I'll speak for him. I'll speak for him."

Xiuying nodded. She wiped her eyes and turned to tidy up the kitchen.

As dawn broke, Jiang Bo went out. Tangyuan followed behind, running ahead, sniffing here and there, stopping at every tree and every telephone pole. The car stopped downstairs; dew glistened on the roof, like a layer of crushed diamonds. He opened the car door, and Tangyuan jumped in, nestled in the back seat, resting its head on its front paws, its eyes half-open. He placed the insulated food container in the passenger seat and started the engine. The car drove out of the residential area and onto Changjiang Road. The sky was overcast, the clouds low-hanging, but a patch of cloud in the east brightened, as if someone had torn a hole in it, and golden light leaked out in streaks, like fingers.

In the morning light, the old pontoon bridge resembled a forgotten ruin. The bulldozers still stood there, rusted and worn, raindrops dripping from their steel bodies like tears. Tall, yellowish-brown weeds swayed in the wind, dry and brittle like an old man's hair. The small house was still there, crookedly standing, its roof tiles patched up, new and old mixed together, different colors, but neatly arranged. The windows were new, the glass polished to a shine, reflecting images. The door was open, and the gentleman sat in the doorway, wearing his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, fluttering in the morning breeze like reeds on the river. On his lap lay a cloth bag, faded blue, its edges frayed, the zipper broken and held together with a safety pin. His hand rested on the bag, his fingers slightly curled, as if protecting something important, as if caressing something unseen.

Jiang Bo walked over and handed him the insulated food container. "These are dumplings my mom made. Pork and cabbage filling. She said you should eat them on the way. She spent the whole morning making them, getting up before dawn. She said she was worried they'd get cold, so she wrapped them in several layers of cloth."

The man took the insulated container and opened it. The dumplings were still steaming, white and plump, lined up neatly like soldiers, like names on a whiteboard. He looked at them for a long time, at each dumpling as if looking at each name. Then he closed the lid. "Your mother is a good person. Yizhou found a good person. She waited for Yizhou for so many years, and she waited for you. If Yizhou knew, he would be happy."

Jiang Bo helped him up. His movements were slow; he gripped the chair armrests, braced himself on his knees, and straightened up little by little. His knees creaked and groaned like rusty iron doors, like an old, worn-out staircase, as if they were about to fall apart. He stood up, letting out a long, labored breath, as if he had just climbed a mountain. "Let's go. It's time. They've waited for so many years; they can't wait any longer."

They walked towards the car. The man walked slowly, step by step, his right foot dragging on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound, one after another, like a heartbeat, like a timer. His hand remained pressed against the cloth bag. Tangyuan ran over and rubbed against his leg; he patted its head. It wagged its tail and followed him slowly, as if accompanying him, as if protecting him.

Once in the car, the man sat in the back seat, Tangyuan nestled at his feet. He placed his cloth bag on his lap, his hands resting on it, gazing out the window. The ruins, the small house, the New Year's picture—they grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller. He didn't turn back, just kept looking. The chubby baby in the New Year's picture, holding a fish, smiled eerily. In the morning light, that smile wasn't so eerie anymore; it looked like a child's smile, like a chubby baby's smile, like an ordinary New Year's picture's smile. The colors of the New Year's picture had faded considerably; the reds were no longer red, the greens no longer green, but the chubby baby's eyes remained—dark and bright—looking at the ruins, at the river, at the city.

The car drove off the old pontoon bridge and onto the Yangtze River Bridge. The river water shimmered in the sunlight, breaking into pieces of gold, dazzlingly bright. The gentleman gazed at the river for a long time. His eyes were bright, like the river water in winter, cold but deep.

"Xiao Jiang, your dad used to drive me around. He was young then, just learned to drive, and drove very slowly and carefully. He took me to investigate cases, to the old pontoon bridge, to the riverbank. As he drove, he told me what he had found out. He spoke very quickly and excitedly, like a child who had discovered a treasure. I listened, nodded, and said okay, and told him to keep investigating. I knew about the people and the things he had found out. I knew everything. But I didn't tell him. He knew nothing."

Jiang Bo looked at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes flickered in and out of the car window, like shimmering spots on the river.

"Sir, my father won't blame you. If he knew, he would thank you. Thank you for remembering those people, thank you for saying sorry, thank you for waiting all these years."

The man smiled. "I know. He won't blame me. He never blames me. He'll only blame me for not telling him the truth. He investigated for so long, found out about so many people, found out about so many things. He didn't know that the person he trusted most knew everything. He knew nothing. Every time he came to see me, he would tell me what he had found out. He spoke quickly and excitedly. I listened, nodded, and said okay. I didn't dare say too much, afraid of letting something slip. When he left, I called him back, wanting to tell him. He looked into my eyes, and I waited for a long time before only saying, 'Come back soon.' He didn't come back."

The car drove off the bridge and onto the highway. The fields on both sides of the road were a withered yellow, the harvested rice stubble still lying in the ground like rows of silent soldiers, like names on a whiteboard, one by one, waiting to be erased, waiting to be remembered. Smoke rose from the distant villages; some were cooking, some were living, some were waiting. The man looked out the window, no longer speaking. His hand rested on his cloth bag, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting something, as if caressing something unseen.

The car drove for two hours and entered Wuhu. Chen Fang's home was in an old alley. The alley was narrow, with densely packed residential buildings on both sides. The power lines overhead were tangled into a net, like countless snakes. Small stains covered the walls, layer upon layer, obscuring their original color. Puddles of water reflected the sky, making it appear hazy and gray. Jiang Bo parked the car at the alley entrance and helped the man out. The man walked very slowly, step by step, his right foot dragging on the ground. His hand remained pressed against the cloth bag, never letting go. His hands were thin, with prominent veins and large, withered knuckles.

Chen Fang's mother lived on the third floor. It was an old-fashioned walk-up building; the stairwell was dark, several motion-activated lights were broken, and only the dim, yellowish light filtering in from the windows illuminated the small GG logo on the wall and the stair railing. The railing was iron, the paint peeling off to reveal the rust underneath. The man walked slowly, holding onto the railing, climbing step by step. His knees creaked, his breathing became heavy, and a hoarse sound came from his throat, but he didn't stop. He climbed for a long time, as if it were a lifetime. Reaching the third floor, he stood before the door, panting for a long time. His hands gripped the wall, his fingers white, as if trying to dig into it.

Jiang Bo knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman, in her forties, opened it. She had her hair in a ponytail and wore an apron stained with oil and flour. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had just cried or hadn't slept well. She paused for a moment when she saw Jiang Bo, then paused again when she saw him. Her gaze shifted from confusion to wariness, then from wariness to something indescribable.

Who are you looking for?

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Is Chen Fang's mother here?"

The woman's eyes changed. Her gaze shifted from Jiang Bo's face to her husband's, then back again. "You...you called?" Her voice trembled slightly, as if confirming something.

Jiang Bo nodded. "Yes. We've come to see her. We promised we would."

The woman stepped aside. "Come in. She's inside. She just woke up. She woke up early today and kept calling Fangfang's name. She thought Fangfang was coming back, so she asked me to change her clothes and comb her hair. I did that for her. She's sitting there waiting."

The room was small, a one-bedroom apartment, furnished with old-fashioned furniture, but spotlessly clean. The sofa cushions were faded from washing, a crocheted tablecloth covered the coffee table, and a cloth covered the television. A black-and-white photograph hung on the wall; it was of a young woman with a round face, large eyes, and a sweet smile. Chen Fang. Beside her sat an elderly woman, her hair completely white, her back hunched, in a wheelchair. Her eyes were half-open, her lips moving slightly, as if she were speaking or reciting something. Her hands rested on her knees, her fingers moving incessantly, as if kneading something, like making dumplings. Beside the wheelchair lay a cane, its handle worn smooth and shiny.

The woman walked over and knelt down beside the old woman. "Mom, someone has come to see you."

The old woman looked up, glanced at Jiang Bo, then at her husband. Her eyes were cloudy, she couldn't see clearly, the whites of her eyes were yellowish, and her pupils were unfocused. "Who is it?"

The woman leaned close to her ear. "Police. They're here to ask about Fangfang."

The old woman paused, her lips trembling. It took her a while to manage a single sentence. "Fangfang? Fangfang's back?" Her voice was soft, as if it drifted from a great distance.

Tears streamed down the woman's face. "Mom, Fangfang isn't coming back. They said Fangfang isn't coming back. Fangfang has been gone for many years, she's never coming back."

The old woman stared at her for a long time. Her eyes blinked a few times, as if trying to make out something. Then she lowered her head and looked at her hands. Those hands were thin and old, with bulging veins, short nails, and large knuckles. "She's not coming back? Why isn't she coming back? I've waited for her for so long. Every year on her birthday, I make dumplings for her and set out an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl. Her favorite, pork and cabbage dumplings. Why isn't she coming back? Does she think I'm too old? Does she think I'm not good enough? Does she not want me anymore?"

The man walked over and knelt down in front of her. He knelt very slowly, his knees cracking as if they were about to break. He looked at her, for a long time. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was still a light. That kind of light—the kind that only those who have waited a long time have, that only those who have traveled a long way have, that only those who have finally waited for something have.

"Chen Fang...she's gone. She left many years ago. She was murdered. The murderer is dead. She's not coming back. It's not that she doesn't want you, it's that she can't come back."

The old woman stared at him for a long time. Her eyes blinked, and her lips trembled. "Who are you?"

Tears streamed down the man's face. They welled from his sunken eyes, flowing down his wrinkles like a dried-up riverbed, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto his hands. "I'm someone she knew. I knew her. She was a good girl. She worked at a riverside restaurant, very hardworking, and always smiling. When she smiled, her eyes curved like crescent moons. She looked beautiful in floral dresses; she loved floral prints, pink, blue, they all looked good on her. I've always remembered her. For over thirty years. I'm sorry. I didn't protect her. I knew everything, and I did nothing. I'm sorry. I apologize on behalf of those who hurt her. I apologize on behalf of those who watched. I apologize on behalf of myself."

Tears streamed down the old woman's face. She reached out and touched her husband's face. Her hands were thin and old, moving slowly across his face, from his forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to his eyes, from his eyes to his cheeks, as if recognizing him, as if remembering him.

"Do you know Fangfang? Do you know her? Do you remember her?"

The man nodded. It was a slow, heavy nod. "I remember. I've always remembered. Her name is in my notebook, in my heart, in my dreams. Every night I recite her name before I can fall asleep. I've been doing this for over thirty years."

The old woman smiled. It was a very soft, faint smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth, but Jiang Bo felt a warmth in his heart. "That's good. It's good that someone remembers her. I thought no one remembered her anymore. I thought she was gone, gone. No one remembered her. But you do. Thank you."

The man took the notebook out of his cloth bag, turned to Chen Fang's page, and handed it to the old woman. On that page, the handwriting was neat and tidy, each stroke deliberate and forceful: Chen Fang, female, 8 years old, unemployed. Missing on August 12, 1992. The old pontoon bridge. She knew nothing; she was just passing by. She saw his face. I'm sorry.

"This is her. I've remembered her for over thirty years. She's here. She won't disappear."

The old woman took the notebook and looked at that page. The words, the dates, the apologies. She stared at it for a long time, her fingers slowly tracing the lines on the paper, as if touching her daughter's face. Then she closed the notebook, hugged it to her chest, like holding a baby, like holding her daughter.

"Fangfang, someone remembers you. Someone has remembered you for over thirty years. You can rest in peace now. Mom can finally relax."

Jiang Bo stood to the side, tears streaming down his face. He thought of those names, those notebooks, those apologies. The gentleman had remembered them for over thirty years, written apologies for over thirty years. Now he had said it to their faces, in front of their families. They heard it. They knew someone remembered them. Those who had died could rest in peace.

Leaving the old lady's house, the gentleman walked very slowly. He held onto the railing, descending step by step. His legs trembled, and so did his hands. He didn't speak, he just walked. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stood in the alley and let out a long, labored breath. He looked up at the sky. The sky had cleared, and sunlight shone through the clouds, warming his face. His eyes were bright, like the river in winter, like the river in spring, like the river in summer, like the river in autumn.

"Xiao Jiang, next. There are many families waiting. There are many people waiting."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Sir, you must be tired. Take a rest. Have some food before you leave. I haven't eaten the dumplings my mom made yet."

The man shook his head. He patted his knees and straightened up. "I'm not tired. Let's go. They've waited for many years. We can't wait any longer. We can eat dumplings on the way; it won't delay us."

They boarded the bus and headed to the next stop. The man sat in the back seat, holding his notebook. He opened the thermos, took out a dumpling, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if savoring something, as if memorizing something.

"It's delicious. Your mom's dumplings are delicious. Yizhou used to bring me some too. Every time he came to visit me, he brought dumplings. Pork and cabbage filling. He said his wife made them. He smiled very happily. He was young then, with bright eyes, just like you. He said, 'Teacher, I found a good wife. Aren't her dumplings delicious?' I said they were. He smiled and said, 'If they're delicious, eat more.'"

Jiang Bo looked at him in the rearview mirror. His lips were glistening with dumpling filling. He wiped them with his sleeve, a slow and careful motion.

"Sir, thank you. Thank you for remembering them. Thank you for saying sorry. Thank you for letting me see this. After this is all over, I'll take you to eat my mom's dumplings. You can eat as many as you want."

The man paused for a moment. Then he smiled. "Okay. Go eat your mom's dumplings. Eat Yizhou's favorite dumplings. Eat your fill."

The car continued on its way. The sunlight shone warmly on the car. Tangyuan lay quietly at her husband's feet, keeping him company. Those names, those apologies, were still in the notebook. But they were no longer silent. They had been spoken, heard. Those who had died could rest in peace. Those who had waited a lifetime could finally let go.