Death of a Red Heroine

girl carrying grapes in her arms, infinite motion, moving yet not moving, light as a summer sky, under her bangled bare feet, scraps of the golden paint flaking from the frame . . .
    And Ling was the same—despite the lapse of years—except that her long hair, undone for the night, fell to her shoulders. A few loose strands curled at her cheeks, giving her a casual, intimate look. Then he noticed the tiny lines around her eyes.
    “What has brought you here?”
    “An American library delegation. I am serving as their escort. I told you about it.”
    She had touched upon the possibility of accompanying an American library delegation to southern cities, but she had not mentioned Shanghai as one of the places they were going to visit.
    “Have you had your supper?” Another silly question. He was annoyed with himself.
    “No,” she said. “I just gotten in. I just had time to take a shower.”
    “You have not changed.”
    “Nor have you.”
    “Well, how did you know I was staying here?”
    “I telephoned your bureau. Somebody in your office told me. Your Party Secretary, Li Guohua, I believe. At first he was rather guarded, so I had to tell him who I am.”
    “Oh.” Or whose daughter
    Ling took out a cigarette. He lit it for her, cupping his hand over the lighter. Lightly, her lips brushed against his fingers.
    “Thanks.”
    She sat in a casual posture, drawing one bare foot under her. As she tapped the cigarette into the ashtray, leaning over, her robe parted slightly. He caught a flash of her breasts. She was aware of his glance, but she did not close her robe.
    They looked into each other’s eyes. “Wherever you are,” she said jokingly, “I can get hold of you.”
    She certainly knew how to get hold of him. There was no withholding information from her. As an HCC, she had her ways.
    In spite of her joke, he felt tension building between them. It was illegal for man and woman to share a hotel room without a marriage license. Hotel security was authorized to break in. A loud knock at the door was to be expected at any time. “Routine checkup!” Some rooms were even equipped with secret video recorders.
    “Where is your room?” he asked.
    “In this same section for ‘distinguished guests,’ because I’m the escort to the American delegation. The security people won’t check up here.
    “It’s so nice of you to come,” he said.
    “It is difficult to meet, and also difficult to part. / The east wind listless, and flowers languid . . .” Ling quoted the couplet about star-crossed lovers to good effect. She understood his passion for Li Shangyin.
    “I’ve missed you,” she said, her face soft under the light, though etched with travel fatigue.
    “So have I.”
    “After all the years we’ve wasted,” she said, dropping her eyes, “we’re together tonight.”
    “I don’t know what to say, Ling.”
    “You don’t have to say anything.”
    “You’ve no idea how grateful I am,” he said, “for all you have done for me.”
    “Don’t say that either.”
    “You know, the letter I wrote, I did not mean to—”
    “I knew,” she said, “but that was what I wanted.”
    “Well—”
    “Well,” She looked up at him, and her eyes lost the tentative look and grew hazy. “We’re here. So why not? I’m leaving tomorrow morning. No point repressing ourselves.”
    An almost forgotten phrase from Sigmund Freud, another Western influence in his college days. In hers, too, perhaps. He saw her moisten her lips with her tongue; then his glance fell to her bare feet, which were elegantly arched with well-formed toes.
    “You’re right.”
    He moved to turn off the light, but she stopped him with a gesture. She stood up, undid the belt, and let the robe fall to the floor. Her body gave off a porcelain glow under the light. Her breasts were small, but the nipples were erect. In a minute they were on the bed, aching for the time they had spent apart, their long wasted years. The haste was his doing as much as hers, touched with a sort of desperation that affected them both. There was no salvaging the past, except by being themselves in the present.
    She groaned, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his back. Moving under him, she arched herself up, her fingers long, strong, sliding down his back. The intensity of her arousal sharpened his. After a while, she changed position and lay on top of him. With her long hair cascading over his face, she was provoking sensations he had