by [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 05] Red Mandarin Dress [v1. 0] [epub]
“No, not at the time. I was in trouble for ‘poisoning the students with decadent Western classics.’ Like a clay image crossing the river, I could hardly protect myself,” Xiang said. “After the Cultural Revolution, I thought about approaching the factory where Comrade Revolutionary Activity had come from. He had never explained his activity in her neighborhood. As the head of the Mao team, he was supposed to stay at our school, not her neighborhood. So why was he there? But I hesitated because I didn’t have anything substantial, and because it could drag her memory through the mire again. Also, I heard he had also fallen on hard times, wrecked through a series of mishaps, fired and punished.”
“Hold on—Comrade Revolutionary Activity. Do you remember his name?”
“No, but I can find out,” Xiang said. “Are you going to investigate him?”
“Was there anything else unusual about him?”
“Yes, there’s one more thing I noticed. Usually, for one school, the Mao team was made of workers from one factory, but for ours, Comrade Revolutionary Activity, the head of the team, actually came from a different factory.”
“Yes, that’s something,” Chen said, taking out a small notebook. “Which factory?”
“Shanghai Number Three Steel Mill.”
“How old was he then?”
“In his late thirties or early forties.”
“I’ll check into it,” Chen said. Still, whatever the Mao team member might have done, he would be in his sixties now, and according to Yu, the suspect in the tape at the Joy Gate was probably in his thirties. “Did people do anything after her death?”
“I was devastated. I thought about sending a bouquet of flowers to her grave—the least I should do. But her body had been sent to the crematory, and her ashes were disposed of overnight. There was no casket, nor a tombstone. I had done nothing for her during her life, nor after her death. How pathetic a weakling!”
“You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Professor Xiang. It was the Cultural Revolution. All are gone and past.”
“Gone and past,” Xiang said, taking out a record in a new cover. “I did set a classical Chinese poem to music—in memory of her.”
Chen studied the cover with Yan Jidao’s poem printed in the background. The foreground was a blurred figure dancing in a streaming red dress.
Waking with a hangover, I look up / to see the high balcony door / locked, the curtain / hung low. Last spring, / the sorrow of separation new, / long I stood, alone, / amidst all the falling petals: / A pair of swallows fluttered / in the drizzle. // I still remember how / Little Ping appeared the first time, / in her silken clothes embroidered / with a double character of heart, / pouring out her passion / on the strings of a Pipa. / The bright moon illuminated her returning / like a radiant cloud.
“She would appreciate it—in the afterworld,” Chen said, “if there is one.”
“I would have dedicated it to her,” Xiang said, with an unexpected touch of embarrassment, “but I have never told my wife about Mei.”
“Don’t worry. All you’ve told me will be confidential.”
“She is coming back soon,” Xiang said, putting the record back on to the shelf. “Not that she is an unreasonable woman, you know.”
“Just one more question, Professor Xiang. You’ve mentioned her son. Have you heard anything about him?”
“Nothing was found out about the counterrevolutionary slogan. Anyway, he was left an orphan. He went to live with a relative of his. After the Cultural Revolution, he entered college, I heard.”
“Do you know which college?”
“No, I don’t. The last time I heard about him was a few years ago. If it’s important, I can make some phone calls.”
“Would you? I would really appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to say that, Chief Inspector Chen. At long last, a police officer is doing something for her. So I should appreciate it,” Xiang said in sincerity. “I have but one request. When your investigation is over, can you give me a set of these pictures?”
“Of course, I’ll have a set delivered to you tomorrow.”
“Ten years, ten years, / nothingness / between life and death? Xiang added, changing the subject, “You may find out something more in her neighborhood, I think.”
“Do you have her address?”
“It’s the celebrated old mansion on Henshan Road. Close to Baoqing Road. Everybody there can tell you. It’s been turned into a restaurant. I was there and took a business card,” Xiang said, rising to reach a card box. “Here it is. Old Mansion.”
* * * *
TWENTY-FOUR
W
HEN CHEN ARRIVED AT Henshan Road, it was already past eight o’clock.
He had a hard time locating the neighborhood committee there, walking back and forth along the street. It was cold. It was crucial to find it, he told himself, fighting down a sudden suggestion of dizziness.
With the identity of the original red mandarin dress wearer established, he saw a new angle from which to approach the case.
Despite Xiang’s denial, there was no ruling out the possibility of other admirers, even during the Communist-Puritan age described by Xiang. After all, the retired professor might not be a reliable narrator.
The Mao team member presented another possibility worth exploring. Comrade Revolutionary Activity could have joined the team to get near her, and that made him a possible suspect in the subsequent tragedy.
Whatever the possible scenarios, he had to first find out more about Mei through the neighborhood committee.
The neighborhood office turned out to be tucked in a shabby side street behind Henshan Road. Most of the houses on the street were identical discolored concrete two-stories, largely in disrepair, like rows of matchboxes. There was a wooden sign pointing to a farmer’s market around the corner. The committee office was closed. From a cigarette peddler crouching nearby, he learned the name and address of the committee director.
“Weng Shanghan. See the window on the second floor overlooking the market?” the peddler said, shivering in the winter wind as he took a cigarette from Chen. “That’s her room.”
Chen walked over and climbed up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Weng, a short, spirited woman in her midforties, peered out the door with a visible frown. She must have taken him as a new neighbor seeking help. She held a hot water bottle in her hand, walking in her wool stockings across the gray concrete floor. It was a single efficiency room, which was not so convenient for hosting unexpected visitors.
As it turned out, she was busy folding afterworld money at the foot of the bed, her husband helping her smooth the silver paper. A superstitious practice, which didn’t become the head of the neighborhood committee. But it was for Dongzhi night, he realized. He, too, had brought back silver afterworld money, though he burned his for Hong at the temple instead. Perhaps this explained Weng’s reluctance to receive a visitor.
“Sorry to bother you so late in the evening, Comrade Weng,” Chen apologized, handing over his business card as he explained the purpose of the visit, highlighting his inquiries into the Ming family.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” she said. “We moved into the neighborhood about five years ago. The Mings no longer lived here. In recent years, there have been a lot of changes among the residents here, especially along Henshan Road. According to the new policy, the privately owned houses have been returned to the original owners. So some moved back, and a lot moved out.”
“Why didn’t the Ming family move back?”
“There was a problem with the new policy. What about those residents currently living there? Sure, some of them had moved in illegally during the Cultural Revolution, but they still needed a place to stay now. So the government tried to buy the buildings from the original owners. The owners could say no, but Ming, the son of the original owner, agreed. He didn’t even come back to take a look. Later the mansion was turned into a restaurant. That’s another story.”
“Sorry to interrupt you here,” Chen said. “What is Ming’s full name?”
“Let me check,” she said. She took out an address book and looked through several pages. “Sorry, it’s not here. He is a successful man, as I remember.”
“Thank you,” he said. “How much did he get from selling the mansion?”
“All the transactions were arranged by the district authorities. We weren’t involved.”
“Are there any records about what happened to the Ming family during the Cultural Revolution?”
“There’re hardly any records left from that time in our office. For the first few years, our committee was practically paralyzed. My predecessor somehow got rid of the one and only ledger book from 1966 to 1970.”
“You mean the ex-head of the neighborhood committee?”
“Yes, she passed away five or six years ago.”
“It’s easy not to remember,” Chen said, “but I need to ask you one question. Ming’s mother, Mei, died during the Cultural Revolution. Possibly in an accident. Have you heard anything about it?”
“That was so many years ago. Why?”
“It may be important to a homicide investigation.”
“Really!”
“I have heard about Chief Inspector Chen before,” her husband cut in for the first time, speaking to Weng. “He has worked on several important cases.”
“If we heard anything about his family,” Weng said, “it’s because of a trick played by Pan, the owner of the Old Mansion restaurant.”
“That’s interesting. Please tell me about it.”
“As soon as Ming sold the mansion to the government, Pan had his eyes on it. None of the residents wanted to move out. And there also might have been a number of potential buyers. So Pan started rumors about the mansion being haunted and those superstitious stories spread really fast. We had to check into it.”
“You have a lot of responsibilities, Comrade Weng.”
“It’s ironic. We found out that those tall stories had been started much earlier, during the Cultural Revolution, by the Tong family, who lived underneath the garage attic. After Mei’s death, the Tongs claimed to have heard noises in the room upstairs and footsteps on the staircase too. Even after her son moved out. Her neighbors had questions about her strange death, thought that she must have been wronged, so it was understandable for them to believe that her spirit came back to haunt the house—at least the attic. As a result, the Tongs got the ‘haunted attic,’ which no one else wanted—”
“Sorry to interrupt again. You said something about her strange death. Can you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know any details. Her family suffered a lot during the Cultural Revolution. Both her husband and father-in-law died. She and her son were driven out of the mansion and into the attic above the garage. In the second or third year there, the boy also got into trouble. And then one day, she rushed out of the attic, stark naked, fell down the staircase, and died. It’s possible that all these travails proved too much, and she collapsed. Still, the way she died was suspicious.”
“Did it happen in the summer?”
“No, in the winter. There apparently was some talk about her rushing out of a bath, but that isn’t true. It was out of the question for her to take a bath there, there was no heating in the attic,” Weng said, shaking her head. “Pan was really effective with his ghost stories. Soon he convinced every resident, including the Tongs, that the whole mansion was haunted. Accidents happened there and people were panicky. He reached agreements and bought out all of the residents.”
“Did you find out anything else about Mei’s death during your investigation?”
“The superstitious part aside, one of her neighbors said that she did hear strange noises in the attic, like moaning and groaning, in the depth of night for a couple of nights before the boy’s release—before, but not after. The Tongs confirmed that, adding that they also heard her weeping in the night, though they were rather evasive about the part after the boy’s release.”
“Did they see anybody with Mei in the room—anybody coming or going there?”
“The Tongs said they heard something that sounded like a man’s grunt, but they weren’t sure after so many years.”
“Is there anyone in the neighborhood who knows about the Ming family, someone I can approach directly?”
“Well, most of the residents from that time have since moved away, as I’ve explained. But I’ll check around. With luck, I may have a list for you early next week. Some are still here, I believe.”
She might or might not find anybody, and it could take days. But tomorrow would be Thursday. There would be another victim before the weekend.
Still, he could see that was about all she knew. There was nothing else he could do here this evening. He rose, reluctantly, when her husband cut in again.
“There’s one man you should talk to, Comrade Chief Inspector. Comrade Fan Dezong. He used to be a neighborhood cop here. Now he’s retired.”
“Really! Can I visit him this evening?” Chen said. Like a neighborhood cadre, a neighborhood cop usually lived in the area.
“He still has one small room here, but most of the time he stays with his son, babysitting his grandson. He comes back over in the morning and for the weekend. He patrols the food market in the morning.”
“Do you have his son’s address or phone number?”
“No, we don’t have it here,” Weng said. “But you won’t miss him early tomorrow morning.”
“From five to seven thirty,” the husband said. “He’s highly punctual for his patrolling activity, even in the cold winter. An old-fashioned cop.
“That’s great. Thank you so much for your help.”
Chen’s cell phone rang. He made an apologetic gesture to them and pushed the talk button.
“It’s me, Xiang. I haven’t learned anything about her son, not yet, but I remember that Mei called him ‘Xiaojia.’ So his name could be Mingjia. People like to add ‘xiao’ or ‘little’ to the given name as a sort of endearment, you know. Also, I dug out a notebook. The name of Comrade Revolutionary Activity is Tian. He wasn’t of the Shanghai Number Three but the Number One Steel Mill.”
“That’s important. I don’t know how I can thank you enough, Professor Xiang.”
“I’ll make a couple more phone calls about her son tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I have learned anything.”
Flipping closed the cell phone, he almost forgot he was in the company of the neighborhood committee cadre. He turned back to her, his thoughts still in turmoil.
“Thank you so much, Comrade Weng.”
“It’s a great honor that you have visited us here,” Weng said, walking him to the door. “I’ll check around first thing tomorrow morning. It’s something urgent, I understand. Now, you’d better hail a taxi on Hengshan Road. It’s cold outside.”
* * * *
TWENTY-FIVE
O
UTSIDE, IT WAS A cold night.
Turning toward Henshan Road, he glanced at his watch again. Almost nine thirty.
Henshan Road stretched ahead, like an unfolded belt of neon lights glittering around the restaurants and nightclubs. Not too long ago, he had visited one of the nostalgic bars here, with White Cloud.
Where could she be tonight? In another bar, or in another’s company, possibly.
He was not in a hurry to go home.
Some of the pieces he had gathered seemed to be coming together. He had to make sure that they converged into a whole before those half-formed thoughts faded into the chilly night, like in a song.
The Old Mansion was close by. It was magnificently lit at this late hour, as if still intent on stirring up memories of the nightless city, though he wondered if it could have been so flashy and flamboyant in Mei’s day.
He walked in, waiting in a spacious lobby for a hostess to lead him to a table. It was evident that the restaurant enjoyed good business.
There were several old pic
tures on the walls. One of them presented a middle-aged man standing with several foreigners in front of the then new mansion. A picture taken in the thirties. There was a small line underneath the picture: Mr. Ming Zhengzhang, the original owner of the mansion. Chen didn’t find a picture of Mei. It wasn’t a good idea to evoke the memory of the Cultural Revolution; nowadays, few would be interested.
The restaurant owner had done a good job reviving the place. The dark-colored oak panels, the antique grand piano, the oil paintings on the walls, the carnation in a cut glass vase, not to mention the shining silverware on the tables, all contributed to the period atmosphere. People here could believe they were back in the thirties, instead of in the nineties.
