The Mao Case

by Unknown

  “In today’s market, perhaps you could have a poetry collection of your own published here, and abroad too. You went to a conference in the United States not long ago, I remember. You know a lot of people there.”

  “Some,” Chen said, thinking Long must have heard stories about him as the head of the delegation attending the literature conference — if not about his police work there. “That is why I’m coming to you today. A publishing house is interested in a translation of Mao’s poetry.”

  “I’m not surprised. People know what a poet-translator you are,” Long said, crushing a crab claw with a small hammer — not a special crab hammer, but more likely a fine carpentry hammer, which served the purpose just as well. “I appreciate your thinking of me for the project. My annotated edition was published years ago, but I’ve recently finished an index of the new publications on his poetry. You surely can have both of them.”

  “I have a copy of your annotated edition at home, but your new index may be very important. Since most of the books on the subject were published during the Cultural Revolution, the sourcing of their information was limited. You alone have continued your research, so you would have a lot of the latest information.”

  “I’ve been working on a manuscript about his work, but it is not finished yet. As for new information, there may not be such a lot, I’m afraid.”

  “I can’t wait to read it,” Chen said. In a manuscript meant for publication in China, however, the “new” material would be understandably limited. Nor would it provide what he was looking for. “Now with translation, the first step is interpretation. The poem Mao wrote for Madam Mao’s picture, for instance, could be a personal one.”

  “ ‘Inscription on a Picture of the Celestial Cave in the Lu Mountains Taken by Comrade Li Jin.’ ” Long began reciting the poem from memory, holding a crab claw like a stick of chalk. “Against the gathering dusk stands a pine, sturdy, erect / in composure with riotous clouds sweeping past. / What a fairy cave it is, born out of the nature! / Ineffable beauty comes at the perilous peak.”

  “In the sixties, the poem was read as a revolutionary stance against imperialism and revisionism — riotous clouds could be symbolic of the reactionary force, and also as an example of the closeness between Mao and Madam Mao,” Chen said, taking up a crab leg and, like Long, holding it like a piece of chalk. “After the downfall of the Gang of Four, Madam Mao became dog shit, and the poem was said to be simply the expression of Mao’s revolutionary spirit — nothing to do with Madam Mao. However, there’s a recent interpretation by Wang Guangmei.” Long would not need to be told who Wang Guangmei was — everyone was familiar with the wife of Liu Shaoqi, the late chairman of the People’s Republic of China. “According to Wang, Mao invited her to swim. Afterward they had lunch together without waiting for Madam Mao, who was pissed off. To appease her, Mao wrote a poem for her picture.”

  “Yes, I heard about that,” Long said, nodding over the dazzling white meat and the shining scarlet ovary of a female crab he had just broken open, “but I doubt it’s reliable. Mao wouldn’t have told others about the occasion. Nor would Madam Mao. It is quite possibly merely a guess by Wang, who may still bear a grudge against Mao. And it’s understandable. After all, her husband was persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution.”

  “True. But even so, and even though Madam Mao was a shallow bitch, Mao could also have written it as man to woman, in a moment of passion. There is need to insist on a political interpretation, right?”

  “That’s right, but what can I do for you, Chief Inspector Chen?”

  “Help me understand the background of these poems, so we’ll have a reliable interpretation. I’ll acknowledge your help as a consultant for the project. And I’ll put it in my foreword that my translation is based on your studies.”

  “You don’t have to do that —”

  “Furthermore, I’ll pay you ten percent of the royalty, both here and abroad.”

  “That’s way too much, Chief Inspector Chen. You have to tell me more specifically what you need.”

  “Let’s continue on with that poem for Madam Mao. I’ve heard of another interpretation — an erotic one. In classical Chinese literature, a ‘fairy cave’ can be a metaphor for — well, what you know. The journey to the perilous peak is even more loaded with sexual suggestions. The fact that it was a poem between husband and wife lends itself to such an interpretation, though Madam Mao later used it for her own political gain.”

  “No, that’s not the way to interpret a poem.”

  “But you can’t miss some images. The sturdy and erect pine. And that against the dusk too. As if all those weren’t enough, there is the image of flying clouds. You know what cloud and rain mean in classical Chinese literature. Finally there is the perilous peak at the end of poem. Mao wasn’t young at the time. It might not have been so easy for him to reach the peak, you know what I mean.”

  “But that’s almost absurd!”

  “For a romantic poet, after a night of cloud and rain, in the fantastic view of the Lu Mountains — is it so hard to believe?”

  “The poem was written in 1961. Mao and Madam Mao had separate room arrangements long before that. They didn’t live together in the Central South Sea. Why, all of a sudden, should Mao have written such a poem for her?”

  “Well, after an unexpected reunion or reconciliation up in the mountains. Mao knew better than to write about such a night in an explicit way —”

  “It’s in our poetic tradition to write about a painting or a picture — as a compliment or a comment. People shouldn’t read too much into it. That’s really all I can say, I think.”

  “That’s fine, Long. Let’s set this poem aside for the moment and take a look at another one. ‘On the Photograph of a Militia Woman.’ Not a difficult poem. Also in the poetic tradition of writing about a picture. During my school years, the poem was even made into a song.”

  “Yes, I can still sing it.” Long rose, eager for a change in their discussion. “Valiant and handsome, she shoulders a five-foot rifle, / in the parade grounds first lit by the sunlight. / A Chinese girl with an extraordinary aspiration, / she loves her military attire, not the extravagant fashion.”

  “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 tha
t 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.