by Unknown
As the pot was boiling on the gas head, Song called.
“I’ve talked to Gao Dongdi, a lawyer for whom Yang had once worked, as well as some other people close to Yang …”
To be fair, Chen admitted to himself that Song, though pushing for the “tough measure,” had lost no time checking into other aspects of the murder.
Chen listened, lighting another cigarette. If Xie was not the criminal, there was a murderer at large, responsible for Yang’s death and for planting her body in the garden. It might not necessarily be part of the Mao Case, but it was nonetheless a case for him.
“People go to Xie Mansion for their own reasons,” Song went on. “Some may go for a sense of elite social status, but others, for something real or practical. For instance, in the case of Yang, who had something of her own business network, it was for connections. She was also in the business of making herself irresistible to Big Bucks, and possibly she had something more substantial in mind — the mansion itself. Xie is in his sixties. Divorced. No heir.”
“So that’s a possible motive for murder —” Chen said, “at least for those young rivals who’re close to Xie.”
“But in that scenario,” Song said, contradicting himself, “Yang’s body would have appeared anywhere but in Xie’s garden.”
Besides, Yang hadn’t been close to Xie, as Chen had noticed. She wasn’t a likely threat to a rival.
As for someone really close to Xie, it would have to be Jiao. Her consideration for Xie had gone further than Chen had expected, not to mention the alibi she had provided for him. Still, Chen couldn’t bring himself to conceive of Jiao as a materialistic girl with such a motive. It didn’t fit what he knew of her.
But for once, Song and Chen seemed to be converging on the same point the possible relation between Xie and Jiao.
After finishing the phone conversation, Chen lost himself in thought for several minutes before he found the chop suey badly burnt on the gas head. He moved to stand by the window, lighting a third cigarette that morning, staring out at the new high-rises that had been popping up around the city like bamboo shoots after a spring rain. His left eyelid started twitching. An ominous sign, according to the folk superstition Old Hunter believed in. Chen frowned, trying to find a strong tea that might suit his mood.
Searching the drawer again, he saw only a tiny bottle of gin. Possibly a souvenir from an airplane trip. How it could show up this morning, like the gargoyle in the dream, he was confounded. The bottle was tiny, smaller than the “small firecracker” he had seen in Gang’s hand the day when he first got the assignment.
A plan for the morning came to mind, abruptly.
He was going to the eatery near his mother’s place. Gang had said that he would be sitting there, from morning until evening. It was a long shot, but Chen wanted to give it a try. A breakfast there wouldn’t be expensive at all. And he might drop in at his mother’s place for a short visit afterward.
At the eatery entrance, Auntie Yao was selling warm rice balls stuffed with fresh fried dough stick to the customers that stood waiting in line, yawning or eye-rubbing. She appeared astonished at Chen’s arrival that morning, looking over her shoulder while wrapping the sticky balls in her hands. Chen saw Gang sitting at a table inside by himself.
“Oh, Little Chen. You’re quite early today,” Gang said.
“This morning I found this bottle of gin by chance, so I thought of you.”
“When you hear the battle drums and gongs, you think of a general. You are something of a gentleman from ancient times.”
Gang had only a cup of cold water on the wine-stained table. No rice ball or fried dough stick. No liquor, either. He was sitting there perhaps because it was like a home to him.
“It’s too early for me,” Gang said, taking the tiny bottle. “Two bowls of spicy beef noodles, Auntie Yao,” Chen gave his order. “The foreign stuff may be too much for breakfast.” Gang studied the bottle of gin closely, turning it over in his hand.
“You’re right.” Chen said loudly to Auntie Yao again, “And a bottle of Shaoxing rice wine too.”
“You have not come here for noodles, I believe,” Gang said, a sharp light flashing in his eyes. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“All right, let’s get to the heart of the matter, Gang. You were a Red Guard leader at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. I have some questions about the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. I was young then, you know. There was a lot I didn’t understand. So you may start by giving me a general background introduction on the campaign.”
“Well, Mao wanted to snatch back power from his rivals in the Party, so he mobilized young students into Red Guards as a grassroot force fighting for him. As the first campaign of the Cultural Revolution, Red Guards were called on to sweep away the Four Olds — old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits. So the class enemies like capitalists, landlords, well-known artists and intellectuals, all of them became easy targets. They suffered mass criticisms, and their homes were searched for ‘old stuffs,’ which were either smashed or swept away.”
“Yes, my father’s books were all burned. And my mother’s necklace was snatched off her neck.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your family’s suffering. Mao declared ‘Sweeping Away the Four Olds’ to be revolutionary activities, and the Red Guards believed in whatever he said. We beat people, but later we ourselves were beaten too.” Gang bent to pull up the bottom of his pants. “Look, I was beaten into a cripple. Karma.”
“It was the Cultural Revolution, and you paid a price for it too. You don’t have to be too hard on yourself, Gang. But there were so many black class enemies at the time, and so many Red Guard organizations, how was the campaign conducted?”
“For each factory or school or work unit, there was a Red Guard organization or something like it, but there were also larger organizations, like mine, which consisted of Red Guards from various schools. A Sweeping Away action against a particular family usually didn’t take a large organization like ours to carry out. For instance, your father was a professor, so it should have been the Red Guard organizations of the university that raided and ransacked your house.”
With the arrival of the noodles and the rice wine, Gang stopped talking. Auntie Yao had the beef slices placed in a separate small dish instead of atop the noodles. She also gave them a dish of boiled peanuts for free.
“The across-bridge noodles,” Gang said excitedly, opening the rice wine bottle by knocking it against the table corner, raising his chop-sticks for an invitation gesture as if he were the host. “So we can have the beef for wine. Auntie Yao is really considerate.”
“But some special teams were also sent over from Beijing, I’ve heard, from the Cultural Revolution Group of the Central Party Committee.”
“Why are you interested in that?” Gang said, looking up. “I’m a writer,” Chen said, producing a business card provided by the Writers’ Association. “I’m going to write a book about those years.”
“Well, that’s something worth doing, Little Chen. Young people nowadays have no idea about the Cultural Revolution, or if anything at all, only about Red Guards being evil monsters. There should be some objective, realistic books about those years,” Gang said, putting down his chopsticks again. “Back to your question. Who headed the Cultural Revolution Group of CCPC in Beijing then? Madam Mao. Who’s behind her? Mao. When those teams were sent to Shanghai, they were very powerful, capable of doing anything — beating, torturing, and killing people without reporting to the police bureau or worrying about consequences. In short, they were like the emperor’s special envoy brandishing the imperial sword.”
“But did they contact your organization? After all, they were like dragons from somewhere far away, and you were the biggest local snakes.”
“It was usually a small team with a secret mission. Occasionally, they could require our cooperation. For instance, if they wanted to crack down on someone, we wo
uld provide all the help, and if need be, keep other organizations away from the target.”
“Do you remember Shang?”
“Shang — just that she was an actress. That’s all I remember.”
“A special team came for her during the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. She committed suicide.”
“So that’s what you want to find out.” Gang drained his cup in one gulp. “You can’t find a better one to help you, Little Chen. I happened to have learned something about those special teams. Some actors knew about Madam Mao in the thirties — about her notorious private life as a third-rate actress. That’s why she wanted to silence those people, persecuting them to death and destroying any incriminating evidence — like old newspapers or old pictures — old stuff, no question about that. What Madam Mao did during the campaign was mentioned as part of her crimes at the trial of the Gang of Four.”
“That’s a possibility.” Though not much of a possibility in Shang’s case, Chen reflected, raising the cup to his lips without tasting it. Shang was much younger, incapable of possessing information or material about Madam Mao’s years as an actress.
“But I’m not sure about Shang. It’s not a name I remember about those days,” Gang went on, pouring himself another cup. “Perhaps I was too busy. But I can try to contact my then assistant about it. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“It would be great if he could remember something.”
“You treat me like a man of the state, and as such, I should naturally do something in return.”
“I really appreciate it,” Chen said, adding his cell phone number to the business card. “Don’t call the office number. I’m not usually there.”
“Oh, you’re a city representative too.” Gang examined the business card closely. “The other day when you condescended to sit with me, I knew you were different. You’re somebody, Little Chen. Now, you’re always welcome to drop in here, but you don’t have to drink with me. Otherwise Auntie Yao would kill me.”
“What are you two talking about?” Auntie Yao said, moving over to the table on full alert.
“About what a gold-hearted woman you are, having tolerated a good-for-nothing drunkard like me for so many years.”
“Anything else?” she said to Chen without responding to Gang.
“No, I’m leaving. Thank you,” he said rising. “Don’t worry, Auntie Yao. Gang told me not to drink with him. I’ll have nothing but noodles next time.”
FOURTEEN
IT WAS A WARM and bright morning outside the eatery. Glancing at his watch, Chen changed his mind about the visit to his mother. Next time, he told himself. After the Mao Case, perhaps. He should have asked Auntie Yao to deliver some food to her. It was quite close, Chen thought belatedly, hurrying to the subway station at the intersection of He’nan and Nanjin Roads.
Squeezing into the train, he failed to find a seat. He had a hard time even trying to stand firm without being elbowed around. During rush hour in the city, taxis crawled like ants, while the subway was at least guaranteed to move. He thought of Gang again, a disabled man who would never be able to get in a train like this one. In his college years, the ex-Red Guard must have studied the classics, the way he filled his conversation with quotes. People should be responsible for their own actions, but Gang had been so young and hot-blooded then, choosing to follow Mao. And a high price Gang had paid for it.
It was getting hotter in the train. Chen wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck. The train increased its speed with a sudden lurch, and he staggered, stepping on the foot of a young girl, who was seated reading a morning newspaper. He murmured his apology. She smiled and went on beating her sandaled feet on the train floor. Wearing a yellow summer dress like a butterfly, she reminded Chen of Yang.
Tapping Gang could be a hopeless long shot, but the chief inspector couldn’t leave any stone unturned. He had a heavy heart, holding himself responsible for two cases, rather than one — the two possibly interrelated, though the connection was still beyond his grasp.
Half an hour later, he arrived at Xie Mansion, his shirt sweat-soaked. He felt obliged to comb his damp hair with his fingers before pressing the bell.
As a result of the murder case, the weekend party and class were cancelled. People didn’t believe Xie was involved, but no one wanted to be there when the cops were dropping in and out, asking questions and occasionally requesting statements.
Jiao walked out to open the door for him. “Oh welcome, Chen. You are the only visitor today. Mr. Xie doesn’t feel well this morning. After the shock, you know. But he’ll come down shortly.”
She was wearing a pink and white mandarin dress, sleeveless and almost backless. A fashionable variation of the elegant high-class dress, but with a white apron tied over it, her feet in pink satin slippers.
“I am too early,” he said, wondering what she was doing there, with no class or party scheduled that day.
“Don’t worry about that.” Aware of his curious glance at her apron, she added, “I’ve come to help a little.”
“That is so considerate of you.”
“I’m no cook, but he doesn’t know anything about the kitchen. Please be seated,” she said, producing a cut-glass bowl containing assorted dried fruit. “What would you like to drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Good. I’ve just made a fresh pot for myself.”
She behaved as though she were the hostess there. After serving him a mug of coffee, she glided back to the sofa close to the French window. There was a cup of coffee beside an antique typewriter on a mahogany corner table. She must have been sitting there, by herself.
There was a small sketch against the wall. It could be hers, just finished. He didn’t start speaking at once. He sat quietly sipping at his coffee, seemingly at ease.
Looking at him, she might be wondering at the purpose for his visit. The high slits of the mandarin dress revealed her shapely legs.
“I’m concerned about Mr. Xie,” he said. “I know a couple of good attorneys. If necessary, I could contact them for him.”
“Thank you, Chen. Song didn’t bring too much pressure to bear on Mr. Xie, not after he provided his alibi. Song asked me some questions too, but not too many. We’ve already talked to an attorney Mr. Xie has known for years — just to be on the safe side.”
“Yes, it is better to be on the safe side,” he said. “By the way, did you know Yang well?”
“No, not that well. She was a fashionable girl, flitting around like a butterfly. She seemed to know a lot of people.”
“I see,” he said, taking “a butterfly” to be a negative metaphor. “She attempted to drag you to another party the other day, I remember.”
“You’re very observant, Mr. Chen.”
“I couldn’t help noticing you,” he said, smiling. “You’re so different, like an immaculate crane standing out among the chickens.”
Now it sounded like flirting with an attractive girl — the “approach” Minister Huang had implied. He didn’t push, though, and took another sip of the coffee, which tasted strong and bitter. Nor did she respond, sitting there demurely, her eyes downcast.
The short spell of silence was punctured by the ringing of a cell phone in her dainty purse.
“Excuse me,” she said, jumping up and hastening out through the French window, leaving her slippers behind. The phone against her cheek, she stood framed against the window as if in an oil painting, merging into the verdant background. In her pink and white mandarin dress, she looked like a plum blossom, which vaguely reminded him of a poem. Slightly pensive in the morning light, she seemed to be nodding to that invisible speaker on the phone. She raised her right foot up backward against the window frame, scratching at her ankle, her red-painted toes shining like petals.
Years earlier, Mao could easily have been fascinated by someone like her …
Chen stood up, walked over to the antique typewriter on the corner table. Underwood. There was no paper in it. He struc
k two or three keys at random, all of which were rusted, stuck together. Worthless junk somewhere else, yet a valuable decoration here.
“Sorry about the phone call, Mr. Chen,” she said, sliding back into the room. “By the way, you have a maid at home, don’t you?”
“A maid?” He wondered why she was asking him about a maid. And it came out more like a statement than a question. Perhaps it was something taken for granted given his assumed identity. He responded vaguely. “You must have one too.”
“I used to, but she quit abruptly, without explanation or notice. Now things are a mess here and I have to come over to help. I need someone at home.”
He didn’t have a maid at home. There was no need for one. His mother had talked about the necessity of having someone to take care of things for him, but he knew what she was driving at. It meant anything but a maid.
Was Jiao really in need of a maid? Only a year ago, she was working as a receptionist, a position that paid little more than a maid. She was young, living alone, probably not much house work in her apartment.
But it presented an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. She hadn’t invited him to her home. Nor was that a possibility in the near future. Having a maid there, keeping her eyes open for him, could make the difference.
“Yes, you definitely need one.”
“Those people recommended by agencies are not dependable. It takes weeks to find a good one.”
“Mine is quite reliable,” Chen said, improvising. “I trust her. She has been working in her field for years. She must know some good people.”
“That would be fantastic. Could you find one for me? I trust you.”
“I’ll talk to her about it today.”
She appeared genuinely relieved. Picking up her coffee cup, she shifted her position on the sofa, resting her feet on the sofa arm. It was a pose not becoming for one in a mandarin dress, but she wasn’t exactly a lady like Shang. Actually, she struck him as uniquely lively, sitting like that, with a blade of grass from the garden stuck on her sole, a tiny detail that actually made her real, close — not an insubstantial echo from the faraway legend of Mao and Shang.
