Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (23 page)

Sometimes, however, he could not help missing these years in Yunnan. Those dreams of coming back to Shanghai, getting a job in a state company, starting a new career, having a family, and leading a different life. Now he had reached a stage where he could no longer afford to have impractical dreams. A low-level cop, he would probably remain one all his life. He was not giving up on himself, but he was becoming more realistic.

The fact was, with his poor educational background, and with few connections, Detective Yu was in no position to dream of a future in the force. His father had served twenty-six years, but ended up a cop at the entry level. That would probably be his lot, too. In his day, Old Hunter had at least enjoyed a proud sense of being part of the Proletarian Dictatorship. In the nineties, the term “Proletarian Dictatorship” had disappeared from the newspapers. Yu was just an insignificant cop at the bottom, making the minimum wage, having little say at the bureau.

This case served only to highlight his insignificance.

“Guangming.”

He was startled from his reveries.

Peiqin had come back to his side, alone.

“Where is Qinqin?”

“He’s having a good time in the electronic game room. He won’t come looking for us until he spends all his coins.”

“Good for him,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about him.”

“You’ve something on your mind,” she said, perching on a slab of rock beside him.

“No, nothing really. I have just been thinking about our days in Yunnan.”

“Because of the garden?”

“Yes,” he said. “Don’t you remember Xishuangbanna is also called a garden?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to say that to me, Guangming. I’ve been your wife for all these years. Something is wrong at work, right?” she said. “I should not have dragged you here.”

“It’s okay.” He touched her hair gently.

She was silent for a while.

“Are you in trouble?”

“A difficult case, that’s all,” he said. “I’m just preoccupied.”

“You’re good at solving difficult cases. Everybody says so.”

“I don’t know.”

She stretched out her hand and placed it over his.

“I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to. If you’re not happy doing what you’re doing, why not quit?”

He stared at her in surprise.

She did not look away.

“Yes, but—” he did not know what else to say.

But he would think about her question, he knew, for a long time.

“No progress with the case?” she was changing the subject.

“Not much.”

Yu had mentioned the Guan case to her, although he rarely brought up police work at home. Running criminals down could be difficult and dangerous. There was no point in dwelling on it with his family. Besides, Chen had emphasized the sensitivity of the case. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but more of professionalism. But he had been so frustrated.

“Talk to me, Guangming. As your detective father often says,” she said, “talk always helps.”

So he started to summarize what had been puzzling him, focusing on his failure to get any information regarding Guan’s personal life. “She was like a hermit crab. Politics had formed her shell.”

“I don’t know anything about criminal investigation, but don’t tell me an attractive woman—thirty or thirty-one, right— could have lived like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“She never had affairs?”

“She was too busy with Party activities and meetings. Too difficult—in her position—for her to find someone, and difficult, too, for someone to find her.”

“Laugh at me, Guangming, but I cannot believe it—as a woman. The thing between a man and a woman, I mean. It’s the nineties.”

“You have a point,” he said. “But I have talked to most of Guan’s colleagues again since Chen raised the issue about the caviar, and they’ve just confirmed our earlier information. They say she was not dating anyone at the time of her death, and as far as they could remember, she had not had a boyfriend. They would have noticed it.”

“But it’s against human nature. Like Miaoyu in
The Dream of the Red Chamber.”

“Who’s Miaoyu?” he asked.

“Miaoyu, a beautiful young nun, lives a life devoted to the abstract ideal of Buddhism. Proud of her religious cultivation, she considered herself above romantic entanglement of the red dust.”

“Sorry for interruption again, what is the red dust?”

“Just this mundane world, where the ordinary folk like us live.”

“Then it is not too bad.”

“Toward the end of the novel, while Miaoyu’s meditating one lonely night, she falls prey to her own sexual fantasy. Unable even to speak in the throes of passion, she’s easily approached and attacked by a group of bandits. She’s not a virgin when she dies. According to literary critics, it’s a metaphor: Only the demon in her heart could lure the demon to her body. She’s a victim of her long sexual repression.”

“So what is the point?”

“Could ideals be enough to sustain a human being, especially a female human being, to the end? During the final moments of her consciousness, I believe, Miaoyu must be full of regret for her wasted life. She should have devoted hers to cleaning her house, going to bed with her husband, fixing school lunches for her children.”

“But Miaoyu is just a character in the novel.”

“But it is so true. The novel shows brilliant insight into the nature of human beings. What is true for Miaoyu, should also be true for Guan.”

“I see,” he said. “You’re full of insight, too.”

Indeed, politics seemed to have been Guan’s whole life, but was that really enough? What Guan read in
People’s Daily
would not love her back.

“So I cannot imagine,” she said, “that Guan could have lived only for politics—unless she had suffered some traumatic experience earlier in her life.”

“That’s possible, but none of her colleagues ever mentioned it.”

“Well, most of her colleagues have not worked too many years with her—haven’t you told me that?”

“Yes, that’s also true.”

Guan had been at the store for eleven years, but none of the interviewees had worked there for so long a time. General Manager Xiao had been transferred from another company just a couple of years earlier.

“Women do not want to talk about their past, especially a single woman to younger women.”

“You’re certainly right, Peiqin. I should have interviewed some retired employees as well.”

“By the way, what about your chief inspector?”

“Well, he has his ideas,” he said, “but no breakthrough, either.”

“No, I mean his personal life.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“He’s in his mid-thirties, isn’t he? A chief inspector at his age must be a most eligible bachelor.”

“Yes. Some people say a woman reporter from the
Wenhui Daily
has been seeing him. For an article about him, he says.”

“Do you think that he would tell people if it were for something else?”

“Well, he’s somebody in the bureau. Everybody is watching. Of course he will not say anything.”

“Just like Guan,” she said.

“There may be one difference.”

“What’s that?”

“She was more well-known.”

“All the more reason she would not say anything to others.”

“Peiqin, you’re extraordinary.”

“No, I’m an ordinary girl. Just lucky with an extraordinary husband.”

A light breeze had sprung up.

“Sure,” he said ruefully, “an extraordinary husband.”

“Oh, Guangming, I still remember so clearly those days in Xishuangbanna. Lying alone at night, I thought of you coming to my rescue in elementary school, and it was almost unbearable. I have told you that, haven’t I?”

“You never stop amazing me,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“Your hand in my hand,” she said with twinkle in her eyes, “that is all I ask for in the Grand View Garden. I’m so happy sitting here with you and thinking of those poor girls in the novel.”

A soft mist drifted away outside the antique chamber.

“Look at the couplet on the moon-shaped door,” Peiqin said.

Hill upon hill, the road seems to be lost,

Willows and flowers, another village appears.

* * * *

Chapter 14

aturday morning, Chief Inspector Chen had arrived at the bureau earlier than usual, when the old doorman, Comrade Liang, called out of his cubicle by the iron gate, “Something for you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

It was an electronic money order, 3,000 Yuan, a substantial advance for his translation from Lijiang Publishing House. After the loan to Overseas Chinese Lu, Chen had written to Su Liang, the editor in chief, mentioning his new position and apartment as causing him extra expense, but 3,000 Yuan was still a surprise. Enclosed was also a short note from Su:

Congratulations.

With the current inflation, we believe it is fair to give an author the largest advance possible. Especially you.

As for your new position, don’t worry about it. If you don’t take it, those turtle eggs would jump at it. Which is the worse scenario? That’s what I told myself when I took my job.

I like your poem in the Wenhui Daily. You are enjoying the “fragrance from the red sleeves that imbues your reading at night,” I have heard.

Su Liang

Su was not only a senior editor who had helped him, but also an old friend who had known him well in the past.

He phoned Wang, but she was not in her office. After he put down the phone, he realized that he did not have any specific topic. He’d just had an impulse to speak to her after he had read the note. The reference to “the fragrance of the red sleeves” could have caused it, though he would probably not talk about it. Wang would guess his mind was on the case again. But that was not true.

Detective Yu was having the day off. Chen was resolved to do something about the routine work of the squad. He had been giving too much time to Guan. Now he found it necessary to make a wholehearted effort, at least for half a day, to clear off the arrears of paperwork piling up on his desk before he gave the case another thought. He took a perverse delight in shutting himself up, polishing off a mass of boring administrative work, signing his name on Party documents without reading them, and going through all the mail accumulated during the week.

The effort lasted for only a couple of hours. He did not have his heart in it. It was a beautiful, sunny morning outside. Chen went to Guan’s dorm again. He had not yet received a phone call from Uncle Bao, but he was eager to know if there was anything new for him.

The early summer heat, with no air conditioning, dictated a sidewalk life. At the lane entrance, several retired old men were playing a game of mahjongg on a bamboo table. Kids were gathered around a small earthen pot that contained two crickets fighting each other, the crickets chirping, the children cheering. Close to the dorm building, a middle-aged woman was leaning over a public sink, scrubbing a pan.