‘I don’t know much about its scheduled release date, but I’ve heard people talking about their preference for a date after the conclusion of the National People’s Congress in Beijing. In two or three weeks, I think.’

Chen understood their preference for its release after the ending of the session. Though it was nothing but a routine practice of rubber stamping in the name of the people’s power, the government did not want anything to interfere with the grand political show. The Party authorities could be so upset with a documentary about smog-smothered China, an immediate ban would be implemented.

‘Under the normal circumstances, I would say it’s a workable idea, your original plan about the release date.’

There was no direct response from Bian, who then said, looking straight into Chen’s eyes, ‘I don’t really understand what you’re talking about, Chief Inspector Chen. But if the situation is that serious, you may have to talk to Shanshan in person. She’s the one in charge.’

‘There’s a point in your argument.’ Only he was in no position to go to Shanshan in person, for personal as well as political reasons. But how could he tell this to Bian?

On the spur of the moment, he pulled out of the large envelope the copy of Shanghai Literature.

Opening the magazine to the page with the poem on it, he wrote on the upper right corner, ‘To my muse at the dorm room and the Cadre Recreation Center by Tai Lake.’ Then he signed his name underneath.

‘When you give her the message about the urgency of posting the documentary online, show her the magazine. Tell her the message is from a man who was inspired by her for the writing of the poem. She will understand, and make the decision accordingly.’

He put the magazine back into the envelope, which bore the letterhead of the Shanghai Police Bureau, he noted. It did not matter, though. She must have long guessed his true identity. It was perhaps the very reason that she had tried not to contact him, even after she set up the office in the city of Shanghai.

Around nine, Inspector Chen walked into an eatery advertising ‘four authentic Shanghai morning snacks’ – the earthen oven cake, fried dough stick, fried rice cake and bean soup. These used to be cheap yet popular street snacks in the days of his English studies at Bund Park, but in a collective nostalgia of the city, they were staging a comeback.

The eatery was quite a shabby one, where he took the hot earthen oven cake and fried dough stick from the chef standing by the stove. But instead of digging into the snacks while walking away like most customers, he seated himself at a wobbly, greasy table inside.

In fact, it was the one and only table there, with him as the only customer. With the noise of other customers as well as the fumes and heat from the stove and woks, it was not comfortable to sit inside, he knew.