The Mao Case (10 page)

“You are singing it so well,” Chen said, waving a crab leg meditatively like a conductor’s wand.

“Mao said that the Chinese people, every one of them, should be soldiers. The picture embodied such a heroic spirit. The poem was a great inspiration to people in the sixties.”

“But have you heard about the background of it — about the identity of the militia woman in the poem?”

“Well, some stories shouldn’t be taken too seriously.”

“From what I’ve heard, Long, Mao wrote the poem to please that militia woman.”

“No, that’s nothing but hearsay. Give me a poem — any poem you choose — and I could claim that it was written for someone and come up with a far-fetched story.”

“But it was in an official newspaper — the identity of the militia woman, I mean.”

“I’m sorry that I cannot help you,” Long said with hesitation, visibly troubled, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, the crabs are getting cold. Let’s steam more fresh ones.”

“Good idea.”

While Long was busy putting more crabs into the steamer, Chen sized up the situation. His approach had proved to be too abrupt. In spite of his offer of the crabs and the book project, Long remained unwilling to reveal details of Mao’s private life to a cop.

So Chief Inspector Chen had no choice but to play his trump card. For the Mao Case, such means were justified.

When Long returned to the table with another platter of steaming hot crabs, Chen resumed speaking in a more serious tone, “Now, I have to tell you something from the Writers’ Association.”

“Oh yes, you’re an executive member.”

“People want to carry out reforms to the system of professional writers. Because of the government funding cuts, you know, some changes may be inevitable.”

That change was barely relevant to Chen, who had his regular income from the police department, but for a number of professional writers like Long, it would be crucial. And it would be hard for them to find another job in the current, highly competitive market.

“What have you heard?”

“To be fair to the professional writer system,” Chen said, unraveling the thread around a crab, “the change has its merits. We have to take into consideration the special circumstances of each writer. For some, with their bestsellers, they don’t need any money from the association. But for some, whose work requires a lot of research, the ‘professional writer pay’ is still necessary, even more so in today’s society. I made a point of it at the meeting.”

“What did others say?”

“They made a point about publication. After all, people may say a lot about their own works, but there has to be a criterion. So it will come to vote in a special committee.”

“And you’re on the committee?”

“Yes, I am, but I think the odds are against me. Now,” Chen paused to crack the crab claw with his fist, repeatedly, on the table, “with this new English translation, and with you being the Chinese advisor for the book, I can definitely say something on your behalf. And on mine, too.”

“Yours?” Long cut in. “You’re not even a professional writer, are you?”

“Some people have been saying that I’m interested only in Western modernism. That’s untrue. I have translated a number of classical Chinese poems. And a collection of Mao’s poetry may speak volumes for me.”

That sounded like a convincing motive to Long, who nodded, having heard comments about Chen’s controversial work.

“With your publication both here and abroad,” Chen went on, “I don’t think anyone could vote against you.”

“Chief Inspector Chen, I appreciate your support, and I admire your passion for Mao’s work,” Long said, raising the cup slowly. “Your insistence on a reliable and objective translation speaks for your integrity.”

Chen waited for Long to continue. What made the difference was the threat to his “professional writer” status. Without Chen’s support, his case was hopeless.

A short silence ensued, broken only by the noise made by the crabs still crowding and crawling at the bottom of the plastic basin, blowing bubbles.

“Back to your questions, Chief Inspector Chen,” Long resumed. “I’ve gathered some information that didn’t come from proper research. It is more or less hearsay, you know. But as a responsible translator, you surely know how to select and judge.”

“Of course I’ll have to do that,” Chen said, seeing this as a necessary step for Long to distance himself from the information. “I will take full responsibility for the translation.”

“Now, about the identity of the militia woman, where did you read this?”

“In a Beijing newspaper. According to the article, Mao wrote the poem for a phone operator in the Central South Sea. She took a picture of herself in a militia woman’s costume and showed the photograph to Mao. But how could that have happened? An ordinary phone operator wouldn’t have been able to get close to Mao.”

“Exactly,” Long said, crunching a crab leg forcibly. “There are actually several different versions of the story behind the poem. It’s no secret that Mao had a number of dancing partners. In addition to those ensemble girls, his partners also included those working for him, like the waitresses in the special train, the special nurses, and the phone operators. In one version, a special nurse instead of the phone operator showed the picture to Mao, who wrote the poem to show his appreciation.”

“So what are some of the other versions?”

“Well, have you heard of a movie actress named Shang?”

“Yes, what about her?” Chen said, immediately alert.

“She, too, danced with Mao. The poem was said to be for the actress who played a militia woman in a movie. I saw the movie for that very reason and Shang won an award for her performance. But how reliable is the story about her being the inspiration? I don’t know. Stories about Mao are often blown out of proportion. Anyway, there’s no ‘final word’ about the identity of the militia woman.”

“Can you go into more details here? About Shang, I mean.”

“She’s quite well-known, called ‘the phoenix of the movie industry.’ There’s a Beijing opera called Dragon Flirting with Phoenix. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, it’s about a Ming emperor’s romantic affair with Sister Phoenix.”

“In traditional Chinese culture, the dragon symbolizes the emperor, and the phoenix, its female partner.”

“I see.” Whether Mao believed in such an interpretation, consequently falling for Shang, Chen didn’t know, but he understood the roundabout way in which Long responded to his inquiry.

“That also could be related to the poem for Madam Mao too,” Long went on, finishing the cup in one gulp. “In another, more elaborate version, Madam Mao knew the origin of the militia-woman poem, so she asked Mao to write one for her picture as well — for balance of imperial favor, or like in the old saying, ‘to share the favor of the divine rain and dew.’ Mao came to Shanghai so many times… By the way, have you read the book
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
?”

“Yes, I have.”

“So you know the story. With the background research I’ve done, I’m more inclined toward the supposition that Shang was the militia woman in the poem.”

“Why?”

“Mao actually copied poems for Shang. I interviewed a colleague of hers and, according to him, when he visited Shang’s place before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, he saw a scroll in Mao’s calligraphy in her bedroom.”

“The ‘Militia Woman’?”

“Not that one, but ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom.’ ”

“Really!” Chen had never thought about that poem in connection with the investigation. He took out a copy of Mao’s poems from his briefcase and turned to the ode.

After wind and rain seeing off the spring, / flying snow comes as a harbinger of the spring. / On the ice covered cliff, / the plum blossom still shines. / Pretty, she does not claim the spring for herself, / content to be a herald of spring. / When hills are ablaze with wildflowers , / in their midst she smiles.

“It was written in December 1961, after a poem by Lu You, a Song-dynasty poet,” Long said. “It’s also a poetic convention, you know, to write in response or correspondence to another poem. In both poems, the plum blossom symbolizes an unyielding spirit, but in each, from a different perspective.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” Chen turned a page and read Lu’s poem as an appendix.

Outside the post house, beside the broken bridge / a lone plum blossom stands deserted, / against the worries of the solitary dusk, / against the wind and rain. / Not anxious to claim spring for herself, / she endures the envy of other flowers. / Her petals fallen, in dust, in mud, / in spite of a remaining fragrance.

“Like other poems, ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom’ was commonly read as one full of Mao’s revolutionary spirits,” Long said, stirring the sauce in the crab shell with a toothpick. “That interpretation is taken for granted. According to an article I read, someone who had worked with Mao wrote him a letter, quoting Lu’s poem to express admiration, and Mao wrote his ode in response. But mind you, Lu’s poem has nothing to do with admiration. If anything, it is full of complaint and self-pity. A patriotic poet, Lu wanted to serve his country by fighting against the Jin army, but he wasn’t able to, serving instead as merely a petty official. Again, it’s conventional in our traditional poetics to compare someone disappointed to a deserted beauty or neglected blossom, so the meaning of the poem is unmistakable.”

“I think you are brilliantly perceptive here,” Chen said, poking the meat out of a crab leg with a chopstick.

“So who could have sent that poem to Mao? A reasonable guess would be a woman with an unusual relationship with Mao. Only in that circumstance would such a gesture have made sense. She knew that Mao had other women, but she knew better than to complain to his face. So Mao’s poem in response was one of approval of her stance. From his perspective, it’s nothing but natural that an emperor should have three hundred and sixty imperial concubines. In spite of knowing about the other flowers competing for spring’s attention, she should be content as one favored by him earlier, smiling in the midst of all the flowers over the mountains.”

“Why did those official critics cover up the real occasion of the poem? I think the answer is self-evident,” Chen said, hardly able to conceal the excitement in his voice. “Yes, Shang’s perhaps the only one with enough education to quote a poem like that to Mao. Those working around him were mostly young, little-educated, working-class girls.”

Long bent over the crab shell, draining the sauce in it in silence. “Also, about that scroll of the poem in Mao’s calligraphy,” Chen said. “Did Shang’s colleague tell you anything else? For instance, when Mao wrote a poem to someone else, he would usually add a short line as a dedication, and a red chop seal as an indication of its authenticity. Did her colleague see anything like that on the scroll?”

“No, he didn’t see clearly — just a glimpse of it. It was in her bedroom, you know. But he was sure it wasn’t a photocopy, which wasn’t available at the time.”

“If possible, I would like to meet with that colleague of Shang’s. It could be crucial to establish the identity of the person Mao wrote the poem for. Of course, we don’t have to get into explicit details in our book.”

“I’m not sure if he’s still in town. I contacted him several years ago, But I’ll try.”

“That would be fantastic. Let’s toast to our collaboration —”

The door opened unexpectedly, however, before either of them heard the turning of the key in the lock.

Long’s wife returned, a short woman with gray hair and black-rimmed glasses, who frowned at the sight of the litter on the table.

“Oh, this is Chief Inspector Chen of the Shanghai Police Bureau, also a leading member of the Shanghai Writers’ Association.” Long introduced him in a sudden stutter suggestive of a henpecked husband. “He brought a whole bamboo basket of crabs. I have kept some for you.”

It was out of the question for them to continue talking about Mao in her presence.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have drunk so much,” she said to Long, pointing at the empty Shaoxing yellow rice wine bottle standing like an inverted exclamation mark on the table. “You are forgetting about your high blood pressure.”

“Chief Inspector Chen and I are working together on a new translation of Mao’s poetry to be published here as well as abroad. So I won’t have to worry about my ‘professional writer’ status anymore.”

“Really!” she said incredulously. “This calls for a celebration. Oh, we will have crabs just like before.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Long. I didn’t know about his high blood pressure, but he is giving me so much help on this book project,” Chen said, rising. “I have to leave now. Next time, I promise we will have nothing but crabs, not a single drop.”

“It’s not your fault, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m glad you have not forgotten him.” She turned to her husband and said in a low voice, “Go and look at your face in the mirror. It’s as red as Mao’s Little Red Book.”

“Look at the table,” Long said a little blurredly, accompanying Chen to the door, “It looks like a battle field deserted by the nationalist troops in 1949. Remember the poem about the liberation of Nanjing?”

Looking back, Chen found the littered table looked somewhat like a deserted battlefield, with broken legs, crushed shells, scarlet and golden ovaries scattered here and there, but he failed to recall the image from that particular poem by Mao.

ELEVEN

DETECTIVE YU DECIDED TO
interview Peng, Qian’s second lover.

Yu didn’t know the neighborhood officer in charge of Peng’s area that well, so he had to approach Peng by himself, without telling anybody or revealing that he was a cop. It was a necessary move after an encounter Old Hunter had unexpectedly witnessed between Jiao and Peng — a suspicious meeting in a grocery store, where Jiao gave money to Peng.

What was going on between the two?

Peng’s affair with Qian had lasted no more than half a year before he was thrown into jail. When released, he could hardly take care of himself, let alone Jiao. They didn’t have any contact for all those years. She wasn’t his daughter, or even a stepdaughter.

As Old Hunter considered himself more experienced at shadowing a person, he wanted to focus on Jiao. So it was up to Yu to tackle Peng.

Early in the morning, Yu arrived at the market where Peng worked as a pork porter but was told that he had been fired.

“A good-for-nothing guy, capable of soft-rice-eating only,” an ex-coworker of Peng’s said, hacking at a frozen pig head on a stump, spitting on the ground littered with rotten cabbage leaves. “You’ll probably find him eating white rice at home.”

It was a harsh comment, particularly the “soft-rice-eating,” a phrase that usually referred to a parasitic man dependent on a woman. But, if in reference to Peng’s affair with Qian, it was not true. It had happened many years ago, when Qian had little money. As in a saying Old Hunter would quote, it’s easy to throw rocks at one already fallen to the bottom of a well. Yu thanked the ex-coworker, from whom he got Peng’s home address.

Following the directions, Yu changed buses twice before he found himself at a shabby lane near Santou Road.

He saw a heavily built man squatting at the lane’s entrance like a stone lion, half burying his face in a large bowl of noodles, holding a clove of garlic on the edge of the bowl. The noodle-eater wore a faded T-shirt, which was way too small on him, making him look like an overstuffed bag. Yu couldn’t help taking another look at the man, who stared back at Yu, still gobbling loudly.

“So are you Mr. Peng?” Yu said, recognizing him from the picture. He offered the man a cigarette.

“I’m Peng, but without
Mr.
attached to my name for twenty years.
Mr.
gives me goose bumps,” Peng said, taking the cigarette. “Oh, China. A smoke costs more than a bowl of noodles. What can I do for you, man?”

“Well,” Yu said. He was going to play a role — just like his boss, who sometimes claimed to be a writer or a journalist when canvassing on a case. “I’m a journalist. I would like to talk with you. Let’s find a place. A nearby restaurant, perhaps?”

“The restaurant across the street will do,” Peng said, holding the noodles bowl in his hand. “You should have come five minutes earlier.”

It was a mom-and-pop place, simple and shabby. At the moment, between breakfast and lunch, there were no customers inside.

The old proprietor looked curiously at the two, who made a sharp contrast. Peng, a down-and-out bum, and Yu, in a light-material blazer Peiqin had prepared for the occasion. She had even ironed it for him.

“You’re familiar with the place, Peng. Go ahead and order.”

Peng ordered four dishes and six bottles of beer, which came close to a banquet at this place. Luckily, nothing on the menu proved to be expensive. Peng shouted out his order loud enough that people outside the restaurant could have heard it too. Possibly it was a message to the neighborhood as well: that he was still somebody, with well-to-do people buying a big meal for him.

“Now,” Peng gave a loud burp after swigging down the first cup of beer, “fire away.”

“I just have a couple of questions about your experience during the Cultural Revolution.”

“I know what you’re driving at.” Peng started gulping down the second cup. “About my damned affair with Qian, right? Let me tell you something, Mr. Journalist. I was only fifteen when I first met her. More than ten years older, she seduced me. If a white voluptuous body, like a bottle of iced beer in the summer, was put in front of you, for free, what would you do?”

“Drink it?” Yu responded sardonically, astonished by the callousness with which Peng spoke about Qian.

“In those years, a young boy like me didn’t know anything. I was a substitute, there to satisfy her lust. She didn’t care for me at all — only for my pathetic resemblance to her dead lover. And after I got out of prison, my best years and opportunities all gone, I couldn’t find a decent job. A wreck with no skills or experience. No future.”

Staring at this middle-aged man, sloppy and sluggish, swigging down beer as if there were no tomorrow, Yu wondered what Qian could have seen in him.

“Things have not been easy for you, Peng, but it’s such a long time ago. You can never know what she really thought at the time, and she paid a terrible price for her actions too. So please, go ahead and tell me the story from the beginning.”

“You mean the story of me and Qian?”

“Yes, the whole story.”

“Come on, I’m not that dumb, Mr. Journalist. The story is worth tons of money. You aren’t going to buy it for a couple of beers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone came to me long before you. A writer, at least he introduced himself as one.” Peng put a large piece of pot-stewed beef into his mouth. “I was naïve enough to tell him everything, and he didn’t even buy me a bottle of beer. Only a couple of cigarettes — Red Pagoda Mountains. Such a cheap brand. He wrote the book, sold millions of copies, and I got nothing.”

“Have you read the book?”

“I’m just a rascal in the book, I’ve heard.”

The writer, presumably the author of
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
, might have portrayed Peng in a negative light in contrast to Qian, a romanticized and glamorized heroine.

“Listen, Peng, I don’t really have to listen to your story. I can read the book. So how about a hundred yuan for a couple of questions?” Yu said, producing his wallet, imagining Chen’s move under the circumstances. Chen, however, had funds available to him as a chief inspector, which Yu did not.

“Five hundred yuan.” Peng helped himself to a large spoonful of the Guizhou hot fish soup, slurping, smacking his lips.

“Let me tell you something.” Yu banged the table with the bottom of the beer bottle. “You were following Jiao, and taking money from her the other day. It was a tip from a cop friend of mine, and I stopped him from taking action against you. After all, you’re a victim of the Cultural Revolution.”

It was a long shot. Peng might have blackmailed her. But even if he hadn’t, his history was such that it wouldn’t be too difficult for the police to get him in trouble.

“Those damned cops. They came to me about a month ago, treating me like shit. Naturally, they got nothing,” Peng said in a dramatic way, stretching out his arms, snatching the hundred-yuan bill from Yu. “Jiao’s my step-daughter, isn’t she? She has so much it’s only fair for me to share a little bit of it.”

“So Qian must have left something behind?”

“A treasure trove — that’s a matter of course. What was her mother? A queen in the movie world. How many rich and powerful men had she slept with?”

“But the Red Guards must have ransacked her home and taken the valuables away.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve done some serious thinking — I’m not a brainless rice pot. At that time, the local Red Guards didn’t rush to her house like with some other families. She could have hidden her riches away.”

The idea of treasure must have been mind-boggling for Peng, given the little he made at those odd jobs. The scenario was possible, but would it have taken Internal Security, and Chief Inspector Chen too, to launch such an investigation?

“I called the writer,” Peng went on. “He gave me no money, and no money to her either, he said. So she must have Shang’s hoard.”

“Jiao was as poor as you until about a year ago. If Shang had left something behind, Jiao would have sold it much earlier.”

“Shang must have left something, I know.”

“How?”

“You’re a clever man,” Peng said with a mysterious air, poking out the steamed carp’s eye and rolling it on his tongue. “Shang danced with Mao, who came from the Forbidden City, with the treasury of the ancient dynasties at his disposal.”

“That’s just your imagination, Peng.”

“No. I’ve done my research. Only recently has the antique market become so hot. Two or three years ago, there was no way to find a buyer for the stuff from the Forbidden City. Not at a good price anyway. This explains why she suddenly became rich about a year ago. Besides, I can tell you something that will prove it,” Peng added, trying to pick up a soy-sauce-stewed pig tail with his chopsticks. “But you have asked your question, and I have given my answer.”

“Really?” Yu produced his wallet again, in which there was about two hundred yuan left. “That’s all I have here. One hundred more. And I have to pay for the meal. Tell me how you can prove it.”

“You’ll have your money’s worth, Mr. Journalist,” Peng said, pocketing the bill while taking another big draught of beer. “I’ve been shadowing Jiao for quite a while. As I suspected, she has been selling the antiques — piece by piece. No one could have afforded the whole set. So one day I followed her to the Joy Gate.”

“Joy Gate?” It was a dance hall where Shang had once shone like the moon, as Peiqin had told him. Then he remembered another case with a sudden ache in his heart. Not too long ago, one of his colleagues had been murdered there while he was stationed outside. “That’s nothing too suspicious, I think.”

“But the way she went there was. She kept looking over her shoulder, like she was worried that she was being followed. Then she slipped into a hair salon and, instead of having her hair done, she left through the back door, putting on a pair of sunglasses before she emerged out of a side lane. I happened to be buying a pack of cigarettes nearby, so I didn’t lose sight of her. To follow her into the Joy Gate, I spent all the money in my pocket for an entrance ticket. Sure enough, she was there, dancing with a tall, robust man who had a round face like a full moon.”

“Do you mean that she’s a ‘dancing girl’?”

“No, I don’t think so. Those dancing girls don’t make a lot of money. And that was the only time I saw her go there. Most of the time, she goes to Xie Mansion. There are dancing parties there every week.”

“So the man is someone she knows from Xie Mansion?”

“That I don’t know. I will never be admitted there and I know better than to try. But that same evening, I think I saw him at her place.”

“You tailed her from the dance hall back to her home?”

“No, not exactly. She danced only a couple of dances and then she left. I was curious, so I followed her out. She hailed a taxi and I squeezed into a bus. It took me much longer to get to her apartment complex. There’s no way I could get in, of course, so I walked around, hoping to confront her if she came out. Then looking up, I saw someone standing by the window of her room — the man from the dance hall. For a short moment, she was leaning against him, in a most intimate manner.”

“When was this?”

“About a couple of months ago.”

That was before Chen’s investigation started, possibly before Internal Security’s too, Yu reflected. Apparently, no one had been seen at her place since.

“Anything after that?”

“The light went out and I saw nothing more.”

“That could have been a neighbor of hers.”

“It was the man she had danced with, I’m positive. That round-moon-like face of his was unmistakable. I followed her for several more days, but without ever seeing him again. I wasn’t able to watch her all the time. I had to work, carrying frozen pigs on my back at the food market. Then I was fired and yesterday I confronted her.”

“What did you say to her?”

“When I told her that I’d seen the man in her room, all the blood went out of her face. She kept saying it was none of my business. I told her I’d been fired and that she could help me a little. So she took the money from her purse, about two hundred and fifty. She said she’d call the police if I ever tried to approach her again.”

“Are you going to contact her again?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, but there must be something going on between Jiao and the man. He must have given the money to her.”

“Hold on, Peng. How did she get her money — from the man as a lover or as a buyer?”

“Perhaps both, but who cares? It’s just like the old saying: If she weren’t a thief, she wouldn’t feel guilty or ner vous. She wouldn’t have given me the money for nothing.”

“But that’s blackmail. If she reported it to the police, you could get into big trouble.”

“I’m a dead pig. What difference would it make throwing me into a cauldron of boiling water?” Peng said, crunching the last sweet and sour rib and wiping his fingers on the paper napkin. “What I did in those years is nothing today. Go to any high school, and you can see so many students billing and cooing on campus, behind the trees and in the bushes. But I went to jail for many years for that.”

“Many people suffered in those years.”

“I tried to start over but people avoided me like a piece of stinking meat. And after all these years, they are still telling their horrible stories about me and Qian. Do you think I really care about anything now?”

Peng was lost in self-pity, half drunk, his face red like a cockscomb. Yu didn’t think he could get any more out of him, not with six bottles of beer empty on the table.

“You have suffered a lot, but don’t try things like blackmail. It won’t do you any good.”

“Thank you, Mr. Journalist. I won’t if I have any other choice.”

“If you happen to think of anything else, you may contact me,” Yu said, putting down his cell phone number on a scrap of paper.

“I will,” Peng said, draining the last cup.

“Don’t tell anybody about our talk. Some people may try to get you into trouble,” Yu said, rising. “Take your time here.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m going to finish the noodles too.”