by [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 05] Red Mandarin Dress [v1. 0] [epub]
“An organization of Worker Rebels, I think. It was against his professional ethic but the pressure proved too much, and he finally gave up, thinking it was no crime for someone to pose for a picture. After all, there was nothing nude or obscene in it.”
“Did he know anything about what happened to her?”
“He didn’t, not at first. It was only a year or so later that he heard about her death. It had nothing to do with him. So many people died in those days. And perhaps it was not too surprising for someone with a family background like hers, and herself a ‘bourgeois artist.’ Still, the uncertainty weighed like a rock on his mind.”
“He didn’t have to be so hard on himself. People could have learned her identity anyway,” Chen said, thinking that the old photographer could have cared for her. Seeing no point in bringing up the possibility, he changed the subject. “Now, he used five or six rolls for this picture, you have mentioned. Did he keep those other pictures?”
“Yes, he kept them at a risk to himself, hiding them away even from me. Along with a notebook. ‘The portfolio of the red mandarin dress,’ he called it. After his death, I discovered them by chance. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of them—they must have been so special to him.”
Out of the cabinet drawer, she produced a large envelope containing a notebook and a bunch of pictures in a smaller envelope.
“Here they are, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“Thank you so much, Auntie Kong,” he said, rising. “I’ll return them to you after looking through them.”
“Don’t worry. I have no use for them.” She added, “But don’t forget your pledge in the temple.”
“No, I won’t.”
* * * *
It was a random harvest. He started reading the notebook in a taxi outside Auntie Kong’s building. It contained plenty of working notes. Kong had discovered the model at a concert, spellbound by “her sublime beauty at the soul-stirring climax of the music.” Afterward, a Young Pioneer rushed onstage, holding a bouquet of flowers for her. The boy turned out to be her son, and she hugged him affectionately onstage. For a week after the concert, he spared no effort in persuading her to pose for him. It was a tough job, for she was interested neither in money nor in publicity. He finally succeeded in bringing her around by promising to photograph her together with her son. The picture was taken in the back garden of their mansion.
Chen skipped through the technical notes about light and angles to a page that contained the work address of the model—the Shanghai Music Institute—with an office telephone number beneath it. For some reason, Kong mentioned her name only once in the notebook. Mei.
Then he started examining the pictures. There were a considerable number of them, and like the old photographer, he was “spellbound.”
“Sorry, I’ve just changed my mind,” he said to the taxi driver, looking up. “Please take me to the Shanghai Music Institute.”
* * * *
TWENTY-THREE
H
IS VISIT TO THE institute didn’t begin on a promising note.
Comrade Zhao Qiguang, the current Party Secretary of the institute, showed all respect to Chen but could be of little help. Zhao had to check a registry before he was able to tell Chen anything about Mei. According to him, Mei and her husband Ming had both worked at the institute. During the Cultural Revolution, Ming committed suicide, and she died in an accident. Zhao did not know anything about the existence of the picture.
“I came to the institute five or six years ago,” Zhao said, by way of explanation. “People are not so eager to talk about the Cultural Revolution.”
“Yes, the government wants people to look ahead, not backward.”
“You should try to talk to some old people here. They may know something, or they may know somebody who knows,” Zhao said, scribbling several names on a piece of paper. “Good luck.”
But the people who knew Mei had either retired or passed away. After bumping around for quite a while, he stumbled upon Professor Liu Zhengquan of the Instrument Department.
“That’s Mei!” Liu said, studying the picture. “But I’ve never seen the picture before.”
“Can you tell me something about her?”
“The flower of the school, fallen too early to the dust.”
“How did she die?”
“I don’t really remember. She was in her midthirties then. Her son was about ten years old. What a tragedy!”
“What happened to her son?”
“I don’t know.” Liu added, “We were not in the same department. You need to talk to somebody else.”
“Can you recommend someone to me?”
“Well, talk to Xiang Zilong. He’s retired now and lives in Ming-hang district. Here’s his address. He still keeps a picture of Mei in his wallet, I believe.”
It was a hint about Xiang having been an admirer of Mei, a romantic who still carried a picture of her so many years later.
Chen thanked Liu, looked at his watch, and left for Minghang immediately. There was no time for him to lose.
Minghang had once been an industrial area, quite a distance from the center of the city. Fortunately, there was now a subway that stopped there. He took a taxi and hurried to the subway, and after twenty minutes, he walked out of the terminal at the other end and changed into another taxi.
Shanghai had been expanding rapidly. Minghang, too, represented a scene of numerous new apartment buildings shining and shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. It took the taxi driver quite a while to find Xiang’s building.
Chen climbed up the concrete staircase and knocked at an imitation oak door on the second floor. The door opened cautiously. Chen handed over his business card to a tall, gaunt man in a cotton-padded robe and felt slippers, who examined the card with surprise on his deep-lined face.
“Yes, I am Xiang. So you are a member of Chinese Writers Association?”
The card was his from the Chinese Writers Association, Chen realized. An inexplicable slip.
“Oh, I have mixed my cards. I am Chen Cao, of the Shanghai Police Bureau, and I am also a member of the association.”
“I may have heard of you, Chief Inspector Chen,” Xiang said. “I don’t know what wind has brought you over here today, but come on in, as a poet or as a police officer.”
Xiang moved to pour Chen a cup of tea from a thermos bottle and added some water into his own cup. Xiang walked with a slight suggestion of a limp, Chen observed.
“You sprained your ankle, Professor Xiang?”
“No. Infantile paralysis at the age of three.”
“Sorry for coming to see you without notice. It’s because of an important case. I have to ask you some questions,” Chen said, seating himself at a plastic folding chair by an apparently custom-made, extraordinary long desk, which was the main feature in a living room lined with bookshelves. “Questions about Mei. She was a colleague of yours.”
“Question about Mei? She was indeed a colleague of mine, but so many years ago. Why?”
“The case didn’t—and doesn’t—involve her, but the information about her may throw some light on our investigation. Whatever you say will be confidential.”
“You aren’t going to write about her, are you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“A couple of years ago, someone approached me for information about her. I refused to tell him anything.”
“Who was he?” Chen said. “Do you remember his name?”
“I forget his name, but I don’t think he showed his ID to me. He said he was a writer. Anybody could have claimed to be such.”
“Can you give me a detailed description of this man?”
“In his early or midthirties. Well-mannered, but rather elusive in his speech. That’s about all I remember.” Xing took a sip of his tea. “With this city lost in collective nostalgia, stories about once illustrious families are popular, like The Ill-Fated Beauty of Shanghai. Why should I let anyone exploit her memory?”
“You did the right thing, Professor Xiang. It would be horrible for a so-called writer to profit from her suffering.”
“No, no one can drag her memory through the humiliating mire again.”
There was a slight tremor in Xiang’s voice. For an admirer of her, there was nothing too surprising about his reaction. But “humiliating mire” indicated he knew something.
“I give you my word, Professor Xiang. I’m not here for the sake of a story.”
“You have mentioned a case. . . .” Xiang sounded uncertain.
“At this moment, I can’t go into details. Suffice it to say that several people have died, and that more will be killed if the murderer is not stopped.” Chen took out the magazine together with the other pictures. “You may have seen this magazine.”
“Oh, these other pictures too,” Xiang said, beginning to examine them. His face pale and earnest, he rose and strode to one of the bookshelves and took out a copy of China Photography. “I have kept it all these years.”
There was a bookmark with a red tassel sticking out of the magazine, marking the page of the picture. The bookmark was a new one, representing the Oriental Pearl, a high-rise landmark east of the river built in the nineties.
“It was such a long time ago,” Chen said. “There must be a story about it.”
“Yes, a long story. How old were you at the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution?”
“Still in elementary school.”
“Then you have to know something about the background.”
“Of course. But please tell me from the very beginning, Professor Xiang.”
“For me, it started in the early sixties. I was then just assigned to the music institute, where Mei had already worked for about two years. So beautiful, and talented too, she was the queen there. Now don’t get me wrong, Chief Inspector Chen. For me, she was an inspiration more than anything else. I was frustrated at being unable to practice the classics—nothing was permitted but two or three revolutionary songs. But for her presence, which lit up the whole rehearsal room, I would have given up.”
“As you have mentioned,” Chen said, “she was the queen. There must have been a lot of people that admired her—and approached her, too. Have you heard or known about any such stories?”
“What do you mean?” Xiang said, literally glaring at him.
“For the investigation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. It doesn’t mean anything disrespectful to her, Professor Xiang.”
“No, I have not heard any story. A woman of her family background had to live with her tail tucked in, so to speak. Any peach-colored gossip could be disastrous. It was then a Communist-Puritan period—you were perhaps too young to understand. There was not a single romantic love song in the whole country.”
“Chairman Mao wanted people to devote themselves to the socialist revolution. No room for romantic love—” Chen broke off, unexpectedly reminded of something similar in his paper, except that there it was Confucianism. “Her husband also worked at the institute, didn’t he?”
“Her husband, Ming Deren, taught there too. Nothing so special about him. Their marriage had been—at least partially, I think—an arranged one. Before 1949, his father was a successful investment banker, and hers was only a struggling attorney. The Ming Mansion was one of the most extravagant in the city.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of the mansion. Did they have any problems in their marriage?” Chen wondered why Xiang brought up the topic of arranged marriage.
“Not that I know of, but people thought he was no match for her.”
“I see,” Chen said, realizing that for Xiang, no one could have been worthy of her. “Now, how did you come to know about the picture? She must have told you or shown you the magazine.”
“No. We shared an office, and I happened to overhear her phone conversation with the photographer. So I bought a copy of the magazine.”
“About the mandarin dress in the picture—had you seen her wearing it?”
“No, I didn’t. Neither before nor after the picture. She had several mandarin dresses, which she occasionally wore for performances, but not the one in the picture.”
“So she got into trouble because of the picture?”
“I don’t know. Shortly afterward, the Cultural Revolution broke out. Her father-in-law passed away and her husband committed suicide, which was condemned as a serious crime against the Party. She was turned into a ‘black family member of a current counterrevolutionary’ and driven out of the mansion into the attic above the garage. The mansion was taken over by a dozen ‘red families.’ She suffered the worst humiliating persecution.”
“So she died a tragic death because of it?”
“About the circumstances of her death,” Xiang said, taking a long sip at his tea, as if sipping at his memory, “my recollection may not be so reliable, you know, after all these years.”
“It happened more than twenty years ago, I understand. You don’t have to worry about the accuracy of the details. Whatever you tell me, I’ll check and double-check,” Chen said, also sipping at the tea. “Look at the picture. It’s like in a proverb, a beauty’s fate as thin as a piece of paper. Something really should be done for her.”
That clinched it for Xiang.
“You really mean it?” Xiang said. “Yes, you cops should have done something for her.”
Chen nodded, saying nothing for fear of interrupting.
“You have heard of the campaign of Mao Zedong Thought Worker Propaganda Teams and what they did at colleges and universities, haven’t you?” Xiang went on without waiting for a response. “They stood for political correctness during those years in the Cultural Revolution. A team arrived at our school too, bullying in the name of reeducating the intellectuals. The head of the team soon had a nickname whispered among us—Comrade Revolutionary Activity. It was because he talked all the time about his ‘revolutionary activity’—beating, criticizing, cursing us, the so-called ‘class enemies.’ What could we do except give him a nickname behind his back?”
“Was she the target of any of his ‘revolutionary activity?’ “
“Well, he kept giving ‘political talks’ to her. There were stories about those talks behind closed doors, but to be fair to him, I didn’t notice anything really suspicious. Their talks weren’t too long. Nor was the door closed—not all the time. Still, she cringed like a mouse in front of a cat. I mean, in his company, which she tried her best to avoid.”
“Did you tell her about your concerns?”
“No. It would have been a crime to suspect a Mao member like that,” Xiang said with a bitter smile. “Then something happened. Not at the school, but at her home. A chalk-written counterrevolutionary slogan was found on their garden wall. By that time, there were more than ten families living in the house, but the neighborhood committee saw it as an anti-Party attack by another counterrevolutionary in her family. One of her neighbors claimed to have seen her son holding a piece of chalk, and another declared that she was there behind the scenes. So the committee came to our institute. Comrade Revolutionary Activity met them, and they formed a joint investigation group and put the boy into an isolation investigation—they locked him up in the back room of the neighborhood committee until he was ready to confess his crime.”
“That’s too much,” Chen said. “Did they torture him during the isolation investigation?”
“What exactly the joint group did there, I don’t know. Comrade Revolutionary Activity spent a lot of his time in her neighborhood— every day. She wasn’t put into isolation interrogation, however, like her late husband had been earlier, and like her son was then. She still came to the institute, looking deeply troubled. Then one afternoon, out of the blue, she ran out of the attic, unclothed, fell stumbling down the staircase, and died then and there. Some said she must have lost her mind. Some said she was taking a bath, jumping out upon the unexpected return of her son.’’
“Was her son released that day?”
“Yes,
he returned that afternoon, but when he reached the door of their attic room, he turned back and rushed down the staircase. According to one of her neighbors, she fell running out after him.”
“That’s strange. Even if he stumbled upon her in a bath, he didn’t have to run away at that, nor did she have to rush out naked.”
“She was so attached to her son. She could have forgotten herself in the overwhelming joy.”
“What did the Mao team member say about her death?”
“He said that her death was an accident. That’s about it.”
“Did anyone raise questions about the circumstances of her death?”
