Shanghai Redemption by Qiu Xiaolong

translators, you have to come to the party and speak about it.”
    Chen had started translating Eliot in the mid-eighties. His collection of translations had turned into an accidental bestseller at the moment China was becoming interested in the concept of modernism. The surprise success was attributable to a misleading statement by an old scholar: “Without modernism, without modernization.” The latter referred to the Party’s call for four modernizations—in industry, agriculture, national defense, and science—which was the principle political slogan at the time. But it befuddled censorship officials, who approved the translation as a result. Afterward, however, the translation disappeared from the bookstores for more than a decade because of copyright issues. Now, the publishing house had finally cleared the rights to the poems, and a new edition was coming out. It included most of Chen’s earlier translations, along with some by other translators.
    â€œIt was a compromise born out of necessity,” Wuting said, going on at the other end of the call. “We had to include some work from other translators so we could present it as a collective effort, but yours are definitely the best, so we put your name on the cover.”
    â€œThat’s great. A variety of translation styles collected in a single volume,” Chen said, though he didn’t really believe it. But it was by no means easy to get a collection of poetry in translation published these days, so Chen felt obliged to at least attend the party. “I’ll come, of course, but you can’t expect me to give a talk on such short notice. I haven’t even seen a copy of the book.”
    â€œWe can’t afford to let the opportunity slip by, Chen. Guess who is sponsoring the party tonight?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œRong Pan, a Big Buck fan of T. S. Eliot—and to be exact, of your translations of Eliot. He’s going all out for the launch party tonight, sparing no expense. Do you know where he wants to hold it?”
    â€œWhere?
    â€œThe Heavenly World.”
    â€œYou’re kidding, Wuting. I’ve heard about that place. It’s a notorious nightclub, rumored to be exotic and obscenely expensive.”
    â€œObscenely expensive, indeed! You’re right about that. And quite exotic as well.”
    â€œThen why drag T. S. Eliot to such a place?”
    â€œIn today’s age of conspicuous consumption, an invitation to this nightclub is worth a lot of face. Just to be invited is a recognition of one’s elite status. Those who are invited will definitely come. What’s more important, they are financially able to buy books—a lot of books. Rong promised to buy five hundred copies himself as an encouragement to others. Now, if the party were held somewhere appropriate, like a library, then some people might still come, but how many copies do you think they’d buy?”
    It was an invitation to which Chen couldn’t say no, not when it involved five hundred presold copies of the book. The party was essential to book sales. Poetry couldn’t make anything happen in this age, but money always could.
    Personal reasons were also contributing to Chen’s feeling that he couldn’t decline the invitation. It was his translation of Eliot that had first made him known among then-young readers, and it was under Eliot’s influence that Chen himself started writing.
    â€œYou owe it to Eliot to give a talk at this party,” Wuting concluded. “You don’t have to speak for very long. Ten to fifteen minutes will be more than enough.”
    â€œWhen you put it that way, I don’t have any choice.”
    Chen flapped the phone closed. Whatever reasons he might have for not going to the party were outweighed by his desire for the collection to succeed.
    So he hurried back home to prepare for the talk he’d have to give at tonight’s party.
    The more