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The Case of the Shanghai Shamus

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That comes as no surprise to Keith Kahla, Qiu's American editor. Says Kahla: "He's not consciously trying to put forth a political point of view, but in a society that is dominated by politics, everything is political."

Just behind Qiu's St. Louis County home is a pond where, at the end of the workday, he likes to go fishing for crappie and bluegill. Although you can hear the rumble of nearby Interstate 270, it's a placid little pond, ringed by houses and dotted by the occasional dinghy. Casting a line into the water, Qiu notes that it's not so easy to go fishing in Shanghai — you generally need a car, which very few Shanghaiese possess.

At times like these, Qiu can't help but reflect on the historical flukes that have guided him to literary success in the middle of America. What if he'd never begun studying English in a park so many years ago? Would he have scored high enough to attend college? Would he have been able to study T.S. Eliot, the man who ultimately led him to St. Louis? What if he'd simply stayed in China?

"I try to think what I would have been doing myself. Maybe I would have been like Chen, still working in China. Not as a cop. But maybe I would have been like him, working within the system," Qiu says. "If that's the case, what he does — is that enough for my idealistic standards? Would I be satisfied?"

He makes another cast into the pond. When his shiny red bobber dives beneath the surface, he yanks hard on the rod. Sometimes he comes up with a bluegill. Other times, like now, he simply recasts.

"The problem with that life is if you stay in the system for really long, then you will no longer be you," Qiu says softly. "You'll just see yourself as part of the party system. That's what's happening to some of my friends.

"I hope it doesn't happen to Chen anytime soon."

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