The Mao Case (27 page)
Authors: Qiu Xiaolong
And it would be acceptable to Internal Security too. It avenged Song, and brought closure to their nightmare, though they would still complain to Beijing about Chen.
Chief Inspector Chen had delivered what was expected of him — a satisfactory answer sheet to the Party authorities.
But what about the answer sheet he presented to himself?
Brooding, he cast another look to her body on the bed.
He had striven to do a good job, so that Jiao might avoid a tragedy like Shang’s. But was he really so anxious to help her? Being honest with himself, he admitted that his responsibility as a law enforcement officer came first. As a cop who worked within the system, and for the system, he went out to retrieve the Mao material despite all his misgivings. Consequently, he was preoccupied with the broom, not paying attention to what was happening in the room, resulting in two or three minutes of fatal negligence.
“You are really an exceptional cop,” Old Hunter murmured, trying to comfort the obviously distraught Chen.
“An exceptional cop,” Chen echoed, reminded of what Ling had said to him in that
siheyuan
room, against the memories of the orange pinwheel spinning out of the paper window, of their reading
Spring Tide
together on a green bench at North Sea, of the phone call fading in the glittering wing of white gulls over Bund Park, and the water still lapping against the bank …
For that — for the drive to be an exceptional cop — he had given up, or irrecoverably lost, so much. It was too agonizing for him to think about. His head hung low, he stepped back into the bedroom.
He saw the broom lying on the floor, near the closet.
What was he going to do about it?
He would check it out before turning it over to the Beijing authorities. It was up to them to decide what course of action would best serve the Party’s interests. whatever their decision, it would mean more credit for him, and secure his promotion.
It would also be in line with the principle of not judging Mao on his personal life, though as far as Mao was concerned, the personal might not be that personal after all. With T. S. Eliot, the personal went into a poem, into the manuscript of
The Waste Land
, but with Mao, the personal became a disaster for the whole nation.
And what about Jiao’s wants?
He didn’t have to ask the question. The answer was loud and clear in that painting of the witch flying on a broom over the Forbidden City —
To sweep away all the bugs
! He felt as if he himself were turning into a bug, drowning in waves of guilt, unable to look her in her still-staring eyes.
His head hung even lower, he saw a fleck of chopped green onion on the elegantly arched sole of her foot, a tiny detail that made her feel intensely real, yet forever lost. She had walked barefoot in the kitchen just a short while ago. Admittedly he didn’t know her that well. She might have had her problems, possibly she was vain, coquettish, vulnerable, and materialistic, like other girls her age, but like them, she should have lived.
Instead, like her mother, and grandmother, she had perished in the shadow of Mao.
If the chief inspector hadn’t been able to save her, he should at least try to do something for her, after death.
He looked again at the broom lying outside the closet. As it was, it would be carefully examined as part of the crime scene. whatever was hidden inside could be discovered.
The sound of a siren pierced the night, when Chen was seized by the impulse to do something — something not expected of an exceptional cop.
“When I rushed out, I tripped over this broom and fell out of the closet,” he said, stooping to pick up the broom. “Let me put it back.”
“Well,” Old Hunter said reflectively, “you don’t have to explain anything to Internal Security. We came in together. I had the master key from neighborhood security. You know what I mean, Chief.”
Chen understood the subtle suggestion. It seemed to Old Hunter that it wouldn’t be easy for the chief inspector to explain his presence in the closet, and his subsequent failure to stop Hua from killing Jiao. So he might as well say that he had rushed in alongside the retired cop. Hua might contradict his story, but no one would pay much attention to a deranged man.
It was a fact, however, that Chen had been in the closet, and that, but for his zeal to retrieve the Mao material, he might have been able to save Jiao’s life.
But Chen was putting the broom back in the closet for a different reason. He shook his head. “No, the broom isn’t really part of the crime scene. It belongs in the closet.” Chen picked up the long scroll box. “I’ll have to turn it in to Beijing.”
whatever happened to the broom now, it would be beyond his control. And not his concern.
He wasn’t taking an action that would be against Jiao’s will, not with his own hands. At least, so he could tell himself.
Nor was he involved in any effort to cover up for Mao, regardless of other people’s judgments or interpretations.
The broom, like a lot of stuff in the room, would eventually be thrown away. Somebody might pick it up, use it as a broom and nothing but a broom, until dirty and worn-out, it would finally turn into dust …
There was a chance that the thing inside would come to light one day. By that time, no one would be able to tell that the Mao material — whatever it was — originally came from Jiao. When he was no longer in charge of the case, he would have no objection to seeing it. He, too, was curious.
But for now, as long as he didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wasn’t witholding information. That was something he had learned from Xie.
“Don’t worry about me, Old Hunter. I am authorized by Beijing to investigate in whatever way I choose. And I’m notorious for my eccentric approach.”
Outside the window, he heard police cars coming nearer with their sirens wailing and horns honking. Old Hunter walked over to the window and looked down into the street below, suddenly noisy like boiling water.
Looking up, Chen saw a crimson-colored moon riding high in the night sky, as if covered in blood, but being washed by pale clouds and chilled rain.
He began murmuring, almost to himself.
The horses galloping, the horn sobbing.
The mountain pass may be made of iron,
but we are crossing it all over again,
all over again,
the hills stretching in waves,
the sun sinking in blood.
“What’s that?” Old Hunter said, looking over his shoulder at Chen.
“ ‘The Lou Mountain Pass,’ a poem by Mao,” Chen said, “written during the first Civil War.”
“Leave Mao in peace,” the retired cop said shivering, as if having swallowed a fly, “in heaven or in hell.”
