CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 5 Writing in the Republic Era (4)

For his first work, Le Jing already had an idea: he planned to write a detective novel. This inspiration came from a serialized story in Miscellaneous News of Fengtian called The Adulterous Dismemberment Case.

When he first saw the words “dismemberment,” he thought it must be some kind of mystery or crime investigation story, which piqued his curiosity. So, even though the serialized sections in his hands looked more like erotic pulp, he still asked his servant to collect back issues of Miscellaneous News of Fengtian. He intended to dig out a plot from the smut and study the standard of detective fiction in the Republican era.

By coincidence, his servant’s roommate happened to be a devoted reader of that newspaper, so soon enough, a huge stack of papers was brought to him.

Under his servant’s strange gaze, Le Jing calmly began flipping through them.

Although the collection was incomplete, he still managed to piece together the main content of The Adulterous Dismemberment Case. What he found left him utterly dumbfounded by how “playful” the ancients could be.

Despite having the frightening words “dismemberment” in its title, the story had nothing whatsoever to do with criminal investigation or detective work. It was, in fact, a bona fide erotic novel.

Yes—this sort of racy smut, which in later times would only be censored out of existence, was not hidden away at all during the supposedly conservative Republican era. Instead, it was openly published in newspapers and even sold quite well. That, in itself, was a pitch-black kind of humor.

The story centered on a young man named Chen Wanpeng. He was naturally amorous, blessed with… unusual endowments, and strikingly handsome. Because he was too good-looking, every maiden and married woman alike threw themselves at him, and he slept with whomever he met.

Setting aside the endless erotic descriptions, the gist was that one time he seduced a pair of sisters-in-law, and the three of them indulged in wild debauchery.

But the good times didn’t last. Once their affair was exposed, the family’s men, in order to protect their women’s reputation, strangled Chen Wanpeng to death. To destroy the evidence, they even dismembered his body and buried the pieces in the wilderness. The author then used Chen Wanpeng’s tragic fate to admonish readers: those who lust after other men’s wives and daughters will come to no good end!

After finishing the story, Le Jing could only laugh and cry. From then on, he gained a deep understanding of just how shameless Republican-era tabloids could be.

So it turned out that even “scholarly” men were extraordinary when they set out to write like rakes. No wonder his servant’s eyes had looked so odd—wasn’t it obvious? Here was a former opium addict, his body still not fully recovered after quitting, already throwing himself eagerly into smut. Could anyone help but look down on such lechery?

Still, even if the story itself was unspeakably ridiculous, it sparked an idea in him.

Detective fiction had begun developing in Europe and America in the 1920s and 30s, and then swept through Japan from the 60s onward. In fact, the very term “detective fiction” was coined in Japan. China, by comparison, was a latecomer, and even then never produced work on the same scale as the West or Japan.

But Le Jing came from the modern world, an age of information explosion. Ever since Edgar Allan Poe published the world’s first detective story, over a century of innovation had seen crime methods in fiction constantly evolving. By his time, the genre had already branched into numerous mature schools and styles.

Each of those literary schools was the crystallization of countless predecessors’ wisdom, yet in this era, they were things unheard of by most Chinese.

A tabloid like Fengtian Miscellany was much like modern self-media accounts, always relying on sensationalism to grab attention. The intricate twists of detective fiction suited such tabloids perfectly, making it all the more likely to be published.

After pondering for a while, Le Jing picked up his fountain pen and neatly wrote eight characters on the white letter paper: “The Fengtian Locked-Room Murder Case.”

But because of his frail body, the strokes came out weak and powerless, resembling a child’s handwriting. Sending off a manuscript like this—it might very well be dismissed as a prank.

Le Jing sighed. He could only take things step by step.

※

Night fell. When Li Tingfang returned from school, he removed his coat with the help of his maid and casually asked the butler standing respectfully to the side:

“How is Jingran’s health today?”

The butler replied, “I heard he’s already able to get up and take a few steps.”

Li Tingfang’s brows lifted, and he smiled. “Oh? As expected of the young—recovery really is quick.”

The butler glanced at his master’s gratified expression, hesitated, but finally answered cautiously:

“This morning, Young Master Jingran had someone gather old newspapers for him to read.”

The servant attending to Li Jingran was his own son, so of course nothing Jingran did escaped his notice.

He didn’t know how this infamous playboy had managed to win the master’s favor, but he did know just how much pressure the master had endured in taking in that pair of siblings.

Now, rumors were already beginning to spread in the streets. The master’s lifelong reputation might very well be ruined by this matter. How could he not be anxious? But as a servant, how could he presume to interfere in his master’s affairs?

And yet here was Li Jingran—his health not even fully recovered—already thinking of such indecent things, even sending people to collect that kind of vulgar tabloid. Truly a betrayal of the master’s painstaking goodwill!

“Newspapers?” Li Tingfang raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “That boy is rather diligent, isn’t he? Still recovering, yet already eager to read the news.” Then he asked curiously, “If he wanted newspapers, why not read the latest ones?”

The butler lowered his head, not daring to meet his master’s eyes, and replied bitterly:

“Because the new papers don’t suit his taste. He specifically had the servant collect past issues of Fengtian Miscellany.”

At the mention of Fengtian Miscellany, Li Tingfang’s expression became subtle. As a proper scholar, he naturally disdained such vulgar tabloids.

Li Jingran, reading that sort of paper?

Thinking back to the boy who had stood before him that day—neither arrogant nor servile, brimming with upright integrity—his first reaction was disbelief.

“Is this true?”

“Of course it is.” The butler paused, then dropped another bombshell:

“Defu said he even fixated on the erotic stories!”

Defu was his son, currently serving as Le Jing’s personal attendant.

The moment the butler said this, Li Tingfang was eighty percent convinced. His brows slowly furrowed—had he really misjudged the boy? “Come, let’s go see what Li Jingran is doing.”

…

When Li Tingfang arrived, Li Shuran was in the middle of persuading Le Jing to rest.

All day today, except during mealtimes, Le Jing had been writing his “The Fengtian Locked-Room Murder Case.”

Even with such effort, he had only written a little over two thousand characters. His body was still too frail—after sitting at his desk for a while, he would grow dizzy and blurry-eyed, his hands trembling so badly that he could barely hold the brush.

Unless he nursed his body for ten days to half a month, he wouldn’t recover. But time waited for no one, and he had none left to waste. So, though his body protested, he pushed himself to continue.

This distressed Li Shuran terribly. She pleaded, “Brother, your body hasn’t recovered yet. Please rest first. You can always write more tomorrow.”

Le Jing shook his head, explaining earnestly, “This story will be around fifteen thousand characters in total. At the pace I managed today, it’ll take me at least a week to finish. After that, I still have to send it in, and who knows how long the editor’s review will take? I know the chances are slim, but there’s always that possibility—if it gets rejected, I’ll have to come up with another plan.” He sighed. “I promised Uncle that I’d leave in a month. You see, time is already very tight.”

Li Shuran understood his reasoning. She had never even considered that her brother’s submission might be rejected—somehow, she had complete faith in him. She felt that as long as he submitted it, it would surely be accepted. But she also knew his worries weren’t groundless. After all, they couldn’t remain under their uncle’s roof forever.

Yet in the end, her concern for her brother outweighed all else. She whispered, “But Brother, your health is so poor. Uncle is the most reasonable person—if I beg him properly, he’ll surely give us more time…”

Her voice trailed off and grew fainter, until it vanished completely—because she had caught sight of her brother’s expression.

He was looking at her with a grave and solemn face she had never seen before. His calm, faintly disapproving gaze struck her like the harshest rebuke, leaving her flustered and at a loss.

After a few seconds of silence, Le Jing spoke in a low voice: “Shuran, from childhood until now, Brother has never disciplined you. That was my failing. But today, let me teach you one principle.”

Seeing her pale face, he softened his tone: “That is—help in an emergency, not in poverty. Uncle can help us for a while, but not for a lifetime. We must solve our problems ourselves. Shuran, remember this well: Uncle has no obligation to help us. That he lends us his aid is already out of kindness. We must always remember this favor. We must never take advantage of his goodwill to secure our own convenience—that is not the way of a gentleman.”

Ashamed, Li Shuran lowered her head and murmured like a mosquito, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I won’t do this again.”

Outside the window, Li Tingfang had heard every word between the siblings. Each sentence from the youth sank deeply into his heart, stirring waves within him. After a while, he chuckled softly. Beyond comfort, he felt pride—pride in his sharp eye for recognizing talent, and pride that the Li family had produced such a fine colt destined for a thousand miles.

He hadn’t been wrong about him after all.

The butler saw the master stand silently under the window for a long time before leaving as quietly as he had come.

This time, though, he understood the master’s actions. He, too, had heard the boy’s words just now, and they had dispelled some of his prejudice. The child truly was grateful, sensible, and wise.

Inside, Le Jing had no idea about the scene outside the window. He patted Li Shuran’s head, deliberately easing the atmosphere as he asked gently, “Shuran, would you like Brother to teach you to read?”

With a stepmother like Madam Wang, of course Li Shuran had been raised under the belief that “a woman without talent is virtuous.” She was truly an illiterate girl who couldn’t recognize even the simplest characters. For such a bright and perceptive little girl, it was far too great a pity.

Some color finally returned to Li Shuran’s face. She looked both excited and hesitant. “But, I—I’m a girl…”

“So what if you are?” A hint of mockery flashed in Le Jing’s eyes. “Why shouldn’t a girl learn to read? Remember this, Shuran: anything a man can do, a woman can do too. This is a new era—women can go to university, find jobs, hold official posts, choose to marry or divorce. Women and men are equals.”

The amber glow in the youth’s eyes carried encouragement and hope. “I don’t ask that you achieve fame or great success, only that you learn to read and understand reason—so that you can live this life with clarity.”

Li Shuran nodded slightly, half-understanding. Her brother’s words were too far ahead of her world, a girl raised behind deep courtyard walls. It was no wonder she couldn’t yet comprehend. Le Jing simply smiled and ruffled her hair. “One day, you’ll understand.”

Once you’ve experienced the beauty of freedom, you will understand.

Freedom is a poison, an addiction—the most potent opium in the world. Once touched, you can never quit.

_{Edgar Allan Poe is widely regarded as the father of the detective story. His short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” (1841), first published in Graham’s Magazine, is considered the world’s first modern detective story and introduced the fictional detective C. Auguste Dupin.}