The Mao Case

SEVEN

IT WAS HIS FOURTH visit to Xie Mansion in the last few days.

Chen rang the doorbell with one hand, carrying in his other a large box of chocolate, Lindt’s, the expensive German brand just recently available in Shanghai for the newly rich.

That afternoon, it took longer than usual for the host to answer the door.

Chen thought that he was fairly well accepted by the others, who took him as simply party-chaser, one who used a book project as a pretense. Which might be just as well. One’s identity might always be in conjunction with or a construction of others.

There were two or three parties there every week. As it turned out, the role of an ex-businessman interested in the old Shanghai was not too difficult for him to play. He was able to mix with the Old Dicks, throwing in English phrases, using business jargons, and showing off literary anecdotes as well as lines from old movies, all of which successfully made him out to be someone other than a cop.

With a different identity, Chen found himself thinking about them. He had come to accept these people, who were pathetic yet harmless, simply trying to hold on to an illusion, in whatever way possible. These old-fashioned parties happened to be one of their ways. They might be aware of their own absurdities, but what else could they do? If they couldn’t be Old Dicks, they were nothing.

So it was for Chief Inspector Chen – he was aware of the absurdity of his own behavior, but if he wasn’t an investigator, what was he?

There was another advantage in his calculated guise: it enabled Chen to approach Jiao with a seemingly natural interest in the old movies. Jiao did not talk about her family background, but it was no secret there that her grandmother was Shang. Chen had been cautious, exhibiting only a reasonable curiosity. Jiao was nice to him, as she was to a lot of people.

Chen got along well with several of the others. He had a long talk with Mr. Zhou about Zhang Ailing, a writer first discovered in the thirties and rediscovered in the nineties. Chen’s knowledge of her novels impressed Zhou.

“I danced with her at the Joy Gate,” Zhou declared with a light glinting behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “What a woman! She danced like a poem, and those beautiful words of hers seemed to dance for page after page. Alas, she should have stayed in the city of Shanghai. A Shanghai flower could not survive the wind and storm in Los Angeles.”

Chen murmured an indistinct response, wondering whether Zhou’s story was true, especially the part about dancing with Zhang Ailing.

Yang, the girl he became acquainted with during his first visit, also appeared to be taking to him, and she was intent on taking him to another sort of party.

“You shouldn’t immerse yourself only in the old-fashioned parties of the thirties, Mr. Chen. You have to experience the nineties. An international vote recently named Shanghai the most desirable city for young people. There’s a pajama party this weekend -”

“You are right, Yang,” he cut her short, “but let me indulge in the thirties a little longer – for my book project.”

“Your book project again. I can’t figure you out, Mr. Chen.”

As for Chen, he couldn’t really figure out those girls in the painting classes. For some, it might be fashionable to come here, or necessary for their self-conscious social status – taking private lessons at the celebrated mansion. Quite a few of them were like Jiao, with no regular job or any known income. If there was anything different about Jiao, it was that she was hardworking, not only staying after, but occasionally arriving before the session as well. She painted in the studio, in the living room, and in the garden. She sometimes attended the parties too, though she didn’t seem so interested in the elderly dance partners.

Having unsuccessfully pressed the bell several times, Chen started knocking with his fist. Finally, Xie came to the door.

“Sorry, something’s wrong with the old doorbell, Mr. Chen,” Xie said apologetically.

As usual, Xie led Chen straight into the studio, where Xie was giving the class. Chen saw Jiao painting by the window, wearing a pair of beige overalls, practically barebacked, her hands and feet covered in paint, her hair tied up simply with a light blue handkerchief. She was absorbed in her watercolor, oblivious to his entrance. So were the other students, all busy with their sketches or oil paintings. The afternoon light came streaming in through the large window, painting the people in the room too.

There was something informal, almost intimate, about the class. Xie gave no formal lectures. There were no models from the outside, either, though some of the students themselves might have posed. Sitting on the same worn-out sofa in the corner, Chen thought he recognized a girl student in a couple of nude sketches that were stacked against the corner.

He knew little about painting so he couldn’t judge. His knowledge of poetry, however, enabled him to make occasional comments about image and symbol without giving himself away. At least, no one objected to his presence in the painting class.

Xie moved from one student to another, but he seemed moody that afternoon, saying very little. The students were all painting in silence. After a few minutes, Xie sat himself in a plastic chair by the long table, his right cheek pressed against his fist.

Yang worked on a sketchpad next to Jiao, attacking the white paper with a stick of charcoal, ripping off one sheet of paper, striking out at the new one. Abruptly, she threw away her charcoal stick in frustration and stamped her sandaled feet on the hardwood floor.

“I’d better not disturb the class,” Chen whispered to Xie. “Let me sit outside.”

“I’ll go out with you,” Xie said.

So they moved out into the garden. It was huge, considering its location in the center of the city, but far from well-kept. The grass was uncut, the meadow showed brown and bare patches here and there, and the bushes were untrimmed, withered, black in color as if burnt. To their left, a winding trail overrun with rank weeds led to an open pergola, which was dust-covered, seemingly deserted for a long time. Apparently, Xie couldn’t afford professional help, and as a rather feeble man in his sixties, Xie himself could do little about gardening.

Lieutenant Song had a point, Chen reflected. Without any regular income all these years, Xie had to be in dire need of money. What he got from his paintings was barely enough to keep up the appearance of the building – just enough for utilities and basic maintenance. The air conditioning alone, though never on very high, had to run up a huge electricity bill. Not to mention all the drinks and snacks at the parties. Those Old Dicks, more often than not, arrived empty-handed. In fact, all the other rooms in the building, according to Mr. Zhou, were barely furnished, and except the bedroom upstairs, not used at all. So people never got to see beyond the living room. As for the fees from his students, they were symbolic at best.

There was one thing that Chen was pretty sure of. Xie’s ex-wife had left him because of the financial strains, what with his refusal to find a regular job or to sell off the old house or anything in it. The Old Dicks lost no time telling Chen that account. So the scenario suggested by Internal Security about Xie’s need to act as an agent for Jiao was not totally without basis.

“Let’s sit here under the pear tree,” Xie said. “It used to be my grandfather’s favorite spot.”

They seated themselves on two plastic deck chairs. Half reclining, Chen thought of what Huan Daoji, an Eastern Jing-dynasty general, said at the sight of a large tree: “The tree has grown like this, how about the man?”

Chen was surprised to see a squirrel scurrying across the lawn, something he had never seen elsewhere in the city. There was an air of melancholy, and the two men did not start talking for two or three minutes. Then, Xie sighed, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“You have something on your mind, Mr. Xie?”

“Well, East Wind Property Company has come again, making an offer on the house. They want to pull it down and build a high-end apartment complex here.”

“You don’t have to sell it to them,” Chen said, moving his chair closer. “In today’s market, it’s worth a huge fortune.”

“Their offer is ridiculous – and a capped offer too, but that’s irrelevant. I won’t sell. I’m nothing without the house. But the buyer has connections – in both black and white ways.”

It might not have been the first time that Xie had received an offer for his house, but the combination of the “black,” in reference to the Triad gangsters, and the “white,” to the government officials, was proving more than he could handle. Chen had heard of stories about these powerful developers.

“Such a buyer is capable of anything,” Xie concluded.

“Your house is of historical significance,” Chen said contemplatively, “and should be preserved as such. Officially, I mean. That way no one could snatch it from you so easily, no matter what their black or white connections. I happen to know someone in the city government. If you think it’s okay, I can make a couple of phone calls on your behalf.”

“What a resourceful man you are!” Xie said, his face lighting up. “As I said to you when we first met, Mr. Shen has never recommended someone so highly. I happened to call him yesterday, and he said that you are not just well-connected, you are simply a modern Menshang – generous in your help to people. You must have helped him too, I bet.”

“Modern Menshang – come on. Don’t take his words too seriously. Shen’s an impossible poet.”

“I am not a man of the world, you know what I mean, Mr. Chen. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. If there’s anything I can do, for your book project, please tell me.”

“There is no need for that. It is such a pleasure for me to come to your party and class, or to sit in the garden like today. There is no place like it in the city, and coming here helps my book project greatly. Let’s just chat a little more here,” Chen said, smiling. “I’m from an ordinary family. My father was a schoolteacher. It’s quite an experience for me to mix with people from good old families. Jiao in particular. The first day I came here, someone told me that she’s from a most well-known family, but she herself does not talk about it.”

“A well-known family background indeed. Her grandmother was Shang, as you know, but Jiao may not know any more than that.”

“That’s fascinating. How did she come to study painting with you?”

“People are interested in my work because of the subject matter – the old mansions. Most of them have already disappeared except in the memory of a has-been like me, but they are suddenly fashionable again,” Xie said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Some students may come here to be trendy, but I believe Jiao is earnest.”

“I’m no art critic, you know. Still, I think there’s something in her paintings, something she can call her own. Unique, though I don’t know how to define it,” Chen said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s still so young, and she has a long way to go. She’s almost a full-time student here, isn’t she? She must have a comfortable nest egg.”

“I wonder about that too, but I’ve never asked her about it.”

“Do you think her parents have left her a huge fortune?” Chen added. “I’m just curious.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Xie said, looking up at him. “Considering the circumstances of her mother’s death, she couldn’t have left anything to her. Besides, any valuables at her family’s home were taken away by the Red Guards.”

“Such a tragedy for her family – her grandmother and mother.”

“It’s depressing even to think about those years.”

Xie was obviously not comfortable with the direction of their conversation. Chen switched topics. “People talk about the thirties and about the nineties, as if the history between the two periods had been wiped out like a coffee stain.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Xie said, glancing at his watch. “Oh, it’s the time for the class to end. I have to move back in.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Xie. I’ll stay in the garden for a while.”

From where he was sitting, Chen shifted slightly, looking toward the living room window. Soon he saw the silhouette of Xie moving from one student to another, talking, pointing, gesturing. He could not hear anything across the lawn.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Old Hunter. The call didn’t go through. But he noticed there was a missed call – from Yong in Beijing. He decided not to call her back. He knew it was about Ling.

You said you would come – only in a dream, and gone without a trace, the moon slanting against the window at the fifth-night watch.

Again, he found himself thinking of lines from Li Shangyin, his favorite Tang-dynasty poet. After translating a collection of classical Chinese love poetry, Chen was contemplating a selection from Li Shangyin, having already translated more than twenty of his poems. Chen imagined that someday he might be able to collect them. He had made a special study of Li’s poems in relation to Li’s love for and marriage with the daughter of the Tang prime minister. It was not an impersonal way of reading poetry, not the poetics that T. S. Eliot would have approved of.

Then Chen saw a few students in the living room gathering their things. They were beginning to leave.

Jiao seemed to be staying on, however, still adding touches to her work. There might also have been another student there, of whom Chen caught only a fleeting glimpse.

Shortly afterward, Xie also left the room.

Chen remained sitting, like a writer lost in reveries, when Jiao came out into the garden. She was still in her overalls, high-stepping barefoot among the tall grass, her legs long and elegant, moving like a dancer. Her face bore a radiant smile.

“Hi. You are enjoying yourself in the garden, Mr. Chen?” she asked. “Xie has a headache. Let me keep you company.”

“Oh, I wanted to absorb the atmosphere – for my book project, you know.”

“Mr. Xie told me about your generous offer to help. We appreciate it,” she said, perching on the edge of the chair Xie had recently occupied.

He wasn’t surprised that Xie had told her, but he was surprised that she had said “we.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing to you, but everything to him.”

Their talk was interrupted by the arrival of another girl, Yang.

“Come with me tomorrow evening, Jiao. How can a young girl like you spend so much time in one ancient place? The world outside is young, exciting. They have a home theater, and a better karaoke machine than in the Money Cabinet.”

“Money Cabinet” was the name of the top karaoke club in Shanghai. So it was probably a party at an upstart’s place, more luxuriously equipped than the club.

“But I’m not that keen on the fashionable parties,” Jiao said.

“There’s no party here tomorrow night. If you really don’t like it there, you can leave anytime you like. So why not?”

“I’ll think about it, Yang.”

“What about you, Mr. Chen?” Yang said, pouting her lips provocatively.

“I’m no dancer. Last time, Jiao had to teach me step by step.”

“Then you’re not only responsible for yourself, Jiao. You have to bring Mr. Chen along with you,” Yang said, turning to scamper away. “Bye, Jiao, bye Mr. Chen.”

It was an interesting interruption, as it raised a question he himself had about Jiao. For the Old Dicks, the mansion was symbolic of their youthful dreams, so their frequent visits made sense. They didn’t have anywhere else to go. That wasn’t so with Jiao, surely.

“Yang always talks like that,” Jiao said, her knees drawn up on the chair, her arms wrapped around her legs. “She’s a butterfly, flitting from one party to another. Those parties can be exhausting, you know.”

Perhaps those parties were full of fashionable people and were wilder, longer, like in the TV movies. He didn’t know.

There was another question he refrained from asking. What was Yang’s background? Moving from one party to another, always in stylish clothes, she was surely an “expensive girl.” A couple of times, he had seen a limousine waiting for her outside.

But it wasn’t his business to be concerned about any other girl here.

“Moving from one party to the next,” he repeated. “What’s the point?”

“Well, it depends on your perspective. What is it from the perspective of a butterfly?” she said, a pensive smile playing on her lips. For instance, “you may have noticed the brass foot warmer by the fireplace in the living room. Granny Zhong used it as a trash bin in the old neighborhood. But here, it became a valuable antique, symbolic of old Shanghai when well-to-do ladies put their feet above the warmer in the winter.”

Granny Zhong was someone Jiao had not mentioned before. And where was the old neighborhood? Jiao grew up in an orphanage. Possibly some relatives. Someone of Shang’s generation. He failed to recall anyone with that name from Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. He might have to check it again.

“You have a good point, Jiao. So is painting going to be your career?”

“I don’t know if I have the talent. I’d like to find out, so I’ve been studying with Mr. Xie.”

“Now, I’m just curious: Xie may be well-known in this circle, but he hasn’t had any formal training in painting. So how did you come to study with him?”

“You went to college, but not everyone is as lucky, Mr. Chen. I started working quite young. For me, it was a stroke of unbelievable luck to find a teacher like Xie.”

“That’s an unusual decision for a girl like you.”

“I am learning more than painting here. Mr. Xie is no upstart, and his work captures the spirit of the time.”

He was not clear about what she meant by “the spirit of the time,” but he waited, instead of pressing her for a definition.

“He really captures it all,” she went on wistfully, “in that distinctive frame of his. A frame that puts the picture in perspective.”

It reminded Chen, surprisingly, of a remark made by his late father, who saw Confucianism as a frame that provided an acceptable shape for the working ethical system. Perhaps the same could be said of Maoism, except that it wasn’t really a working frame. Not even for Mao himself, whose own double life might have resulted from its failure.

“You are insightful,” he said, pulling himself back from his wandering thoughts.

“It’s just my way of looking at his paintings – so informed by his aspirations and afflictions through these years.”

He was amazed by her response. Perhaps Jiao was nice to Xie not because of his help as a middleman for the “Mao material,” as Internal Security suspected, but because of her sincere appreciation of Xie’s work.

“According to T. S. Eliot, you have to separate the artist from the art. A poem doesn’t necessarily say anything about a poet, nor does a painting -”

His phone rang, interrupting him before he could bring the conversation around to a question he wanted to ask. She stood up quietly, waving a finger at him as she headed for a shaded corner of the garden.

It was Wang, chairman of the Writers’ Association in Beijing. Wang told Chen that Diao, the author of Rain and Cloud in Shanghai, had attended a literary conference in Qinghai, but at the end of the meeting, Diao had gone somewhere else instead of returning to Shanghai. At Chen’s request, Wang promised to continue his efforts to find out the exact whereabouts of Diao.

Closing the phone, Chen looked around to see Jiao squatting in the corner, plucking weeds and twigs with her bare hands, her overalls daubed with paint and her bare feet dotted with soil, like a hardworking gardener. Or like someone living in the mansion, taking care of her own garden.

It was a poignant image: a blossoming girl silhouetted against the ruins of an old garden, her bare shoulders dazzlingly white in the afternoon sunlight, the sky dappled with drifting clouds like sails, the smell of the grass rising in a fresh breeze.

She was vivacious, and smart too, in spite of her lack of good education. He wished he could come to know her better, watching the curve of her slender bottom as she leaned over her work. But it was a Mao case, he told himself again, and he had only about one week left – the deadline set by Internal Security. He had to “approach” her more effectively.

He got up and moved over, squatting beside her, joining in the work. There was a bunch of uprooted weeds by her feet.

“Sorry about the phone call. I was enjoying our talk.”

“So was I.”

“There’s no party here this evening, Jiao?”

“No.”

“I would love to stay longer,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but I have some urgent business to take care of. But it won’t take long. If you don’t have anything this evening, how about continuing our talk over dinner?”

“Well, that would be nice, but -”

“Then let’s do it,” he said, his eyes holding hers momentarily. “There is a restaurant not far from here. It used to be Madam Chiang’s residence.”

“You’re so into the past. The food is not that great, I’ve heard, and the restaurant is expensive. Still, many people want to go there.”

“They want to imagine themselves as President Chiang Kai-shek or Madam Chiang – for an hour or so – over a cup of sparkling wine. Illusion cannot be too expensive.”

“Oh horror!”

“What do you mean, Jiao?”

“Why can’t people be themselves?”

“In Buddhist scripture, everything is appearance, including one’s self,” Chen said, rising. “The restaurant is very close. You can walk there. So I’ll see you this evening.”

Striding out of the premises, he saw a middle-aged man loitering outside the small café, looking stealthily across the street. Possibly an Internal Security man, Chen thought, though he hadn’t seen him before. If so, Internal Security would soon witness him and Jiao sitting together at a candlelight dinner and report back that the romantic chief inspector was making his “approach.”

After all, it was like a couplet in the Dream of the Red Chamber, “When the true is false, the false is true. Where there is nothing, there is everything.”

Jiao saw in Xie’s painting something not only invisible to others but also closely connected to Xie’s life. Chen thought of the book Ling had sent him; in it, critics claimed to have discovered evidence of Eliot’s personal crisis in the manuscript of The Waste Land – his future as a poet uncertain, his marriage on rocks, and his wife a neurotic drag. According to them, the water in the poem could signify what the poet didn’t have in his life, metaphysically as well as physically -

He was struck by an idea – not exactly new, since it had actually crossed his mind the night that he was assigned the Mao Case. That night, in the midst of a confusion of ideas, he had thought of the connection between Li Shangyin’s life and his poetry. That was why he scribbled the word poetry on the matchbox before falling asleep. Only he had forgotten its relevance to the Mao Case by the next morning.

It was the possibility of learning something through Mao’s poetry. Not just as a critic, but as a detective. In spite of all the revolutionary messages in Mao’s poems, some of the lines must have come from his personal experience and impulses, consciously or subconsciously, untold and previously unknown to the public. If Old Hunter could manage to dig out the personal stuff behind Mao’s poem to Kaihui, Chen should be able to do a better job, given his training in literary criticism.

So he really did have some urgent business to take care of, as he had told Jiao, before joining her for dinner. He turned onto a side street, taking a short cut to the subway station, where, in a medium-sized bookstore in the underground mall, he would start searching for all the books about Mao’s poems, like a devoted Maoist.