The Mao Case Read online

  “I’m Xie. I didn’t know you had arrived, Mr. Chen. So sorry about that. I’m holding a class inside.”

  Xie led Chen to the other room — possibly a large dining room originally, now it was a studio being used for his painting class. There were six or seven girls there, including the two he had seen arrive earlier from window of the café, all of them busy working on their in-class assignments. They were each dressed quite differently. One girl was in a paint-covered overall, another was in a summer dress with something like a turban tied around her hair, and still another was in an extra-large T-shirt and frayed jean shorts. Possibly it was a common scene for a painting class, but Chen hadn’t been to one before.

  He then recognized Jiao, a tall girl in a white blouse and a jean skirt by the window. She had large eyes and a straight nose, her melon-seed-shaped face bearing a faint resemblance to Shang. She appeared younger than in the picture from the file and, working on a sketch, was vivacious and animated with a glowing radiance.

  Xie didn’t introduce him to the girls, who appeared to be absorbed in their work. Gesturing him to a corner sofa, Xie pulled a chair over for himself.

  “It’s quieter here,” Xie said in a low voice. “Mr. Shen speaks highly of you.”

  “I talked to him about my book project and he recommended you to me,” Chen said. “I know how busy you are, but it would greatly benefit the writing project for me to come over from time to time.”

  “Come anytime you like, Chen. Shen’s a good old friend of my father’s, he’s like an uncle to me. He has also given me a lot of information about the clothes in the thirties. Whoever he introduces is a welcome guest here. You also speak good English, I’m told, and we occasionally have foreign guests.”

  “I hope I won’t be any inconvenience to either your class or your party.”

  “I teach students two or three times a week. If you’re interested in painting, you can sit in. It is not a formal class. As for the parties, the more people, the more fun.”

  The young girl in the overalls came over with a large watercolor in her hands. Xie took it from her and studied it for a minute before he pointed to a corner of it and said, “There is too much light here, Yang.”

  “Thanks,” she said, patting his shoulder with a familiarity not usually shown to a teacher.

  Xie appeared to mix well with his students. Nodding, he said to Chen, “Girls are really made of water.”

  It sounded like an echo from the Dream of the Red Chamber. Xie might really fancy himself as Baoyu, the charming, irresistible protagonist of the classic novel, except that Baoyu was young, born with a piece of precious jade in his mouth.

  A stout, middle-aged man pulled open the door and burst in, leading a willowy model-like girl to Xie.

  “Oh, let me introduce you,” Xie said to Chen. “This is Mr. Gong Luhao. His grandfather was the white fox king.”

  “White fox king?” Chen’s voice rose in puzzlement.

  “Oh, my grandfather was in the fur business before 1949, especially known for his unrivaled supply of white fox,” Mr. Gong said, turning to the girl. “Her grandfather was connected to the Weng family. She wants to study with you.”

  “She may submit her sample work to me,” Xie said. “This is Mr. Chen. A successful entrepreneur, and now a writer as well. Mr. Shen, of the Industry Bank in the thirties, introduced him to me.”

  “Oh Mr. Shen, my father knew him well.”

  Apparently, Chen was nobody here, welcome only because of Shen’s introduction.

  In the living room, somebody started ringing a bell, declaring in a loud voice, “Time for the ball, Mr. Xie.”

  “Class time is over,” Xie said to his students. “If you want to continue your work here, you may stay, or you may join the party.”

  Xie led Chen out to the party in the living room, putting a hand on Chen’s shoulder like an old friend, most likely for the benefit of the others.

  The scene at the party looked as if time had really rolled backward. The lights were confusing and the melodies played were popular in the thirties, one of which Chen recognized from an old Hollywood movie. There were quite a number of people there, many of whom must have arrived while Chen was with the host in the other room.

  Xie was busy greeting and making introduction, saying only a few words to each guest. Still, he managed to take good care of Chen, emphasizing whenever possible that he was introduced by Mr. Shen. While none seemed to be interested in the would-be writer, none were suspicious of him, either. Thanks to his association with businessmen, Chen could talk like one. Curiously, no one at this party turned out to be a real businessman.

  Then dancing started. Most of the people here knew one another. Some of them had to be well-practiced partners, coming here for the purpose alone. Chen thought about inviting someone to dance, but then he thought better of it. Though he had studied ballroom dancing, he had hardly had any opportunity to practice. So instead he found himself sitting alone on one of the chairs against the wall. It wasn’t a bad idea for him to take a break and look around. He thought of an English expression: a wallflower, which usually refers to a woman, he thought with a touch of self-irony.

  Xie was now busy, constantly changing the records. Instead of a CD player, he kept an old gramophone and a stack of old records. He would wipe each record carefully with a white silk handkerchief, as if it were the most meaningful thing in the world.

  The party didn’t strike Chen as that remarkable. The people there overindulged in a world of nostalgic imagination, slow-dancing, giving themselves to the languorous tide of the music, relishing anecdotes of old glories, caring little about what was happening in the outside world. What was the point? he wondered.

  But what else could they do? Their “better” days gone, they were merely trying to hold on to the illusion of some meaning or value in their lives. As Zhaungzi mused long, long ago, You are no fish, and how can you know the fish does not enjoy it? It was not a cop’s business to worry about it.

  He caught sight of Jiao again. She had perched herself on the arm of the sofa Xie was seated in. They talked for a couple of minutes, almost whispering. She appeared to be rather nice to Xie, but most of the girls were nice to him.

  The girl named Yang came over to Chen, still in her overalls, smiling at him. He smiled back, shaking his head apologetically. She understood, moving across to another man. The living room was getting warm.

  After a while, he slipped back into the studio. With the sliding door slightly open, he could look out. One of the dancers could be from Internal Security, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. He went over to the sketch Jiao had been working on. He was impressed by it, a picture of hyacinth blossoming out of a young girl’s arm, into a neon night ceaselessly changing in the background. Chen noticed that, on a corner table beside the couch, there was a pile of magazines, most of them published in the thirties. Sitting down on the same sofa, he picked up a painting album.

  To his surprise, Jiao then walked into the studio, wearing high-heeled slippers, holding a long-stemmed glass in her hand.

  “Hi, you’re new here.”

  “Hi. My name is Chen. It’s the first time for me.”

  “My name is Jiao. You are a novelist, I’ve heard.”

  She could have overheard his earlier conversation with Xie or heard this from Xie a couple of minutes ago.

  “No, I have just started writing,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

  That seemed to be a stock response to his new identity. Instead of leaving, however, she perched herself on the chair Xie had occupied earlier, drawing one leg under her. Twirling the glass in her hand, she appeared content with his company in the studio.

  “It’s a lousy crowd out there. It’s not a bad idea to take a short break here,” she said, waves of smile rippling in her large eyes. “According to Mr. Xie, you are a successful businessman. Why do you want to change your career?”

  It was a question he’d prepared for, but it was the first
time that anyone had asked.

  “Well, I’ve been asking myself another question. People are busy making money — true, they live on money, but can they live in money?”

  “People make money, but money makes people too.”

  “An excellent point, Jiao. By the way, I forgot to ask about your line of business — or your illustrious family, as the people here have made such a point of bringing up their family background.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. And please don’t start now. You want to write about the past, not live in the past,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips. Her teeth were white, slightly uneven. “But what a coincidence! I’ve made some money working at a company, like you, so I’m doing what I want to do — recharging myself for a short period.”

  He wasn’t too surprised at the response. She must have given the same answer many times. Only it didn’t sound convincing, given what he knew of her work history. The character he was playing had a company of his own and could have saved enough to “be a writer.” She had been a receptionist, however, working at a company for low pay.

  “In today’s society, it’s not easy for a young pretty girl like you to retreat courageously from the swift waves,” Chen said, paraphrasing a proverb like a would-be writer. “Mr. Xie must be a wonderful teacher.”

  “Most of his works are of the old mansions in the city. He has a passion for his subject matter, so he projects a sort of value in what he sees through his passionate touches. Each of the buildings in his paintings seems to have a story shimmering through its windows. It’s really fascinating. Of course, he has his skill as well as his perspective.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Chen said, his turn to resort to a stock response. “How long have you been taking lessons here?”

  “About half a year. He’s quite well-known in this circle.” Sipping at her wine, she changed the subject. “Tell me about what you’re writing, Mr. Chen.”

  “It’s about old Shanghai, in the thirties. That’s why people recommended Xie to me.”

  “Yes, there’s no better man for that purpose. No better place, either,” she said, rising. “Now that we’ve taken a break, let’s go out and dance. It’ll be good for your book.”

  “I can hardly dance, Jiao.”

  “You’ll learn so quickly. I didn’t even know the difference between a two-step and a three-step a year ago.”

  That was probably true. At that time, she still worked at a low-end job, alone, with no social life at all.

  They went back to the party and onto the “dance floor.” She was a capable and patient partner. It was not long before he found himself being guided around by her, not that smoothly, but not precariously, either. Turning in her high-heeled slippers, she danced in an effortless way, her black hair flashing against the white walls.

  It was a summer evening. Holding her supple waist, he noticed she left the top button of her white blouse unbuttoned, revealing an alluring cleavage, as a dreamy ballad swelled into the soft fantasies of the mansion. She looked up at him, wisps of her hair brushing against his face, the lambent light burnishing her cheek with a painter’s brush. He suddenly thought of what he had read about Mao and Shang, in another magnificent mansion like this one, in the same city…

  In the celestial palace, which year is this year? A fragment of a Song-dynasty poem came swirling across his mind, her hand clasping his.

  “You’re not bad at all,” she said, her soft lips close to his ear, in a mock-serious assessment of his qualities as a dancing partner.

  “Perfect,” Xie said, gliding by them in the arms of the middle-aged woman.

  “She’s leading me well,” Chen said. “Oh, some people are playing Monopoly over there, a fascinating game.” Xie added, “All in English, if you care to join.”

  A popular Western game — Chen had heard of it. Little wonder that it was being played here, but it reminded him of the lines by Li Shangyin about a different game, at a different party.

  Here, the game of the palm-hidden hook / between the seats, the spring wine warm, / the candlelight red, and the game / of the napkin-cover surprise in groups.

  When the Tang-dynasty poet felt like a total outsider in spite of being around others enjoying a happy night, he composed those lines, lamenting about “lacking the soaring wings of a colorful phoenix” to fly to his love far away, and comparing himself to “a tumbleweed turning and turning around” for no purpose. At least he had written some wonderful lines out of the experience. What about Chen himself?

  The night went on, one dance after another, one cup after another, one melody after another …

  Chen did not dance much. He talked to some others, including the silver-haired man with the gold spectacles and the gold pocket watch — Mr. Zhou, from the illustrious Zhou family that had monopolized the importation of red wine in the thirties. Zhou proved to be friendly after learning of Chen’s connection to Mr. Shen.

  “Xie is an embroidered pillow stuffed with straw,” Zhou commented. “What a joke! But Mr. Shen is of the real old class, from a prominent banker family and himself a man of great learning too.”

  Chen was surprised at the harsh criticism of the host. He murmured something vague in response. There were Old Dicks and Old Dicks.

  Alternating between talking and dancing, Chen managed to stay to the end of the party. With the melody of “Auld Lang Syne” falling in the half-deserted room and Xie rubbing his sleepy eyes, Chen left along with Jiao and several other girls.

  They parted outside the mansion. He saw a luxurious car waiting for one of the girls. Jiao and another girl nicknamed Golden Oriole shared a taxi, for they lived not far from each other. Jiao since waved out at him under the starry night. Chen waited for a second taxi.

  Standing on the curb, alone, he thought he heard a piano from an open window somewhere along the quiet street. He decided to walk along Ruijin Road to the subway station. It hadn’t been too bad a start, he reflected, strolling along.

  There was no judging Jiao from just one meeting. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of her being a kept girl, but at least there was no car waiting for her at the end of the party. A Big Buck would have arranged for her to be picked up. Nor did she get any phone call during the party, either. A clever, vivacious girl, she didn’t strike him as being involved in some “little concubine” arrangement.

  As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.

  Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.

  The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.

  SIX

  OLD HUNTER WAS GREATLY intrigued by Chen’s invitation to a tea house on Hengshan Road.

  The chief inspector knew about his passion for tea but didn’t know much about tea itself, Old Hunter contemplated as he caught sight of the magnificent tea house Tang Flavor. Such a fashionable place would charge for service, for atmosphere, for so-called culture, but not for tea itself.

  A slender waitress in a florid mandarin dress with high slits hurried over in her high heels, leading him to an antique-looking private room where a mahogany table was already set up with an array of delicate tea cups, as small and exquisite as peeled lychee.

  Chen hadn’t arrived yet, so Old Hunter had a cup for himself. The tea tasted watery, disappointingly ordinary.

  As the old saying goes, one does not come to the Three-Treasure Temple without praying for something. So what was Chen going to talk to him about? A special case, presumably. If so, Chen shouldn’t discuss it with him but with his son, Detective Yu, who had been Chen’s partner for years. The two were good friends.

 
Old Hunter had also been in close contact with Chen, of whom he had a high opinion. A capable and honest cop, Chen was a rarity in an age of wide-spread corruption. Yu was really lucky to work with a boss and partner like him.

  Still, there was something elusive about Chen — he was stubborn, scrupulous, and smart, yet shrewd and occasionally sly in his way. His promotion to chief inspector when only in his thirties spoke for itself. A hard-working cop himself all his life, Old Hunter was only a sergeant when he retired.

  Old Hunter still had connections in the bureau, so he also knew Chen had received a phone call during the political studies meeting, a message from Beijing regarding his HCC girlfriend. Chen had supposedly looked devastated. The next day, he took a sudden leave of absence. The gossip about that spread through the bureau fast.

  As Old Hunter was about to sip at his second cup of tea, the waitress returned, leading Chen into the room.

  “Sorry, I must have kept you waiting,” Chen said, taking a cup of tea from Old Hunter. “Thank you.”

  “No, that’s my job,” the waitress said, taking over the teapot in haste. She added hot water to the purple sand teapot before pouring the tea in a graceful arc into the tiny teacups. Instead of serving them the tea, however, she poured it out into the pottery basin beside her. “That was to warm up your teacups,” she explained, her fingers dazzlingly white against the cup. “It’s the beginning of our tea ceremony. Tea has to be enjoyed in a leisurely way.”

  Old Hunter had heard of the so-called Japanese tea ceremony, but he made a point of having nothing to do with anything coming from Japan. His uncle had been killed in the Anti-Japanese War, and the memory still rankled. When the tea was finally served in a tiny cup, he drained it in one gulp — in his way. She hastened to serve the second cup.

  He noticed Chen was drumming his fingertips on the table, absent-mindedly. Possibly a sign of acknowledgement, but also one of impatience. The way the tea was served, with the waitress standing and waiting, they wouldn’t be able to talk.