The Mao Case
his question, “You’re moving fast.”
“It’s a special case, isn’t it?”
“Well, since you’re going, you’ll see everything for yourself,” Song said, standing up abruptly. “Let’s talk again after your
visit.”
Chen also rose, accompanying him to the door.
Why had Song come? Chen pondered, listening to the sound of the lieutenant’s steps fading away in the concreted staircase.
It could have been a sort of formal gesture made for the sake of Minister Huang and other “leading comrades in Beijing,” but
Chen doubted it.
He wondered whether Detective Yu had heard anything about it in the bureau. But as close as the two had been, he would not
enlist Yu’s
help for this case. A case concerning Mao could have unpredictable consequences, possibly serious ones for the cops involved.
Instead, he thought of Old Hunter, Yu’s father, a retired cop whom Chen knew and trusted. As a retiree, Old Hunter might also
know more about things that happened during the Cultural Revolution, when Chen was still in elementary school. For this case,
Chen thought he’d better sound out the old man first. People had very different opinions of Mao. In these days of increasingly
rampant corruption and an ever-enlarging gap between the rich and poor, some were beginning to miss Mao, imagining that they
had had better days under him. The utopian society of egalitarianism as advocated by Mao remained attractive to a lot of people.
If Old Hunter was so inclined, Chen would not even broach the subject. They would meet simply for a pot of tea.
Back at the table, the blank thank-you card struck him as an equally difficult job. He didn’t know what to say, but he had
another idea. He might send a present to Ling rather than a card, just as she had. A message in the absence of a message.
Yet another knock came at the door. This time it was only Shen’s introduction letter with his signature plus a red seal at
the bottom. Shen recommended Chen warmly, raving about his business career and literary interests. As represented in the letter,
Chen was ready to settle down to work on a literary project about Shanghai in the thirties.
His cover story was another weird coincidence. Chen recalled Ouyang, a friend he had met in Guangzhou, saying something similar
except that Ouyang was a real businessman, who never made enough money to work on a literary project.
FIVE
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Chen arrived at Shaoxing Road, a quiet street lined with old magnificent buildings behind high walls.
It was an area he was relatively familiar with because of a publishing house located nearby. Still, behind the high walls,
behind the shuttered windows, the houses seemed to be hinting at mysterious, inexplicable stories within.
Instead of heading directly to Xie Mansion, he went across the street, into a miniature café. It must have been converted
from a residential room and had only three or four tables inside. A narrow bar sporting several coffee makers and wine racks
took up one third of the space. He cast a curious look toward the partition at the back of the room. The proprietor apparently
lived in the space behind the partition wall.
He chose a table by the window. For the party in the late afternoon, Chen had put on a pair of rimless glasses, changed his
hairstyle, and donned an expensive suit of light material. The people there probably wouldn’t recognize him except for the
one from Internal Security.
While Chen was known in his own circle, he thought those at the party would be a different lot, and he looked at his window
reflection with a touch of ironical amusement. Clothing makes, if not a man, at least the role for a man.
A young girl emerged from behind a door in the partition wall, through which Chen caught a glimpse of a back door that led
into a lane. She looked like a middle school student, helping the family business, serving coffee to his table with a sweet
smile. The coffee was expensive, but it tasted fresh and strong.
Sipping at the coffee, he dialed the Shanghai Writers’ Association. A young secretary answered the phone. She was quite cooperative
but knew little about Diao, the author of
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
. Diao was not a member of the association and had become known to the association only after the book’s publication. She
checked through files and said that Diao might have been invited to a literary meeting somewhere, but she didn’t exactly
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