The Mao Case

SIXTEEN

FOLLOWING THE DIRECTIONS PROVIDED by Old Hunter, Peiqin arrived at the high-end apartment complex on Wuyuan Road.

She was the “someone reliable” Chen had recommended to Jiao, though he had no idea that it was none other than Peiqin.

Peiqin had volunteered to serve as a temporary maid, to the surprise of both Yu and Old Hunter, who had asked her to help look for one. She made a convincing argument for her candidacy. It was practically impossible to find a reliable maid on short notice, let alone one capable of reporting to the police in secret. What’s more, whatever the reason for Chen’s vacation, he must be in danger. They had to help. Finally, Yu agreed on the condition that she do nothing there except what was expected of a temporary maid.

Wuyuan Road and the neighborhood around it was an area Peiqin hadn’t visited before. Like many Shanghainese who rarely ventured outside of their own circles, she saw no point in exploring areas that were like another city to her. Before and after 1949, Wuyuan was regarded as one of the “upper corners,” way above ordinary people like Peiqin and Yu.

In the fast-changing city, the gap between the rich and the poor was once again expanding. The newspapers and magazines had started talking about building a harmonious society, all of a sudden and all at once, like never-tiring cicadas in the trees. She wondered how it could be managed. She showed her ID to the green-uniformed security guard at the complex entrance and declared herself to be a new maid.

Moving through the entrance, she felt momentarily lost, like Granny Liu in the Dream of the Red Chamber. The ultraluxurious apartments in front stood like tall magnificent dreams far, far away. Before pressing the intercom at the apartment building, she took another look at her reflection in a pocket mirror. A middle-aged woman in a faded black T-shirt, khaki pants, and rubber-heeled shoes, carrying a white canvas bag. It was the image of a house maid as commonly seen on TV, a role not too difficult for her to play, after all the house work she had done at home over the years.

“Who is it?” A voice came down from the fifth floor. “I’m Pei. Mr. Chen told me to come today.”

“Oh yes, come up. Room 502.”

The lock on the front door clicked. Peiqin pulled the door open and walked over to the elevator.

When she stepped out onto the fifth floor, she saw a young woman standing in the doorway of an apartment on the left.

“So you are the new maid?”

“Yes,” Peiqin said, nodding.

“I’m Jiao.” She was in a light blue mandarin dress embroidered with a colorful phoenix, her feet encased in matching high-heeled satin slippers, as if she had stepped out of a movie from the thirties. The mandarin dress, apparently custom-tailored, brought out all her curves, with a subtle suggestion of voluptuousness. She was holding a pair of stockings in her hand.

Jiao should have been able to take care of the apartment herself, but Peiqin knew it could be simply a sign of one’s social status to have a maid. Peiqin had heard that some upstarts had a cubicle in their apartments called a maid’s room, with its own bathroom, so that the live-in-servant wouldn’t mix with the master. She had grown up during the age of communist egalitarian propaganda, and she couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable with her identity in this situation, even though she was merely playing a role, a temporary one.

“Come on in,” Jiao said. “My name is Pei. Mr. Chen wanted me to come here,” Peiqin repeated what she had said downstairs.

“Mr. Chen called me, saying that he would send over someone capable and reliable.”

“I’ve known Mr. Chen for years. He’s a good man.”

“How is he? I tried to call him this morning, but he didn’t pick up.”

“He is out of town on business, I guess,” Peiqin said vaguely, not sure whether Jiao was aware of the latest development.

“Business people are like that.” Jiao added, “I’m going out this morning, so let’s talk about your work now. You don’t have to come every day. Three times a week. Four hours each time. Primarily your duties will be room cleaning and laundry. Occasionally, I’ll need you to prepare dinner, like today, but the moment you finish, you may leave. For your help, eight hundred a month, and I’ll pay for anything additional. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine with me.”

“Let me make a list of what you need to buy and prepare for tonight.” Jiao scribbled quickly on a piece of paper. “Oh, you don’t have to cook, just prepare them.”

“I understand,” Peiqin said, glancing over the list, which appeared to be quite specific, not only about the items, but about the specific culinary flavors too. “When are you coming back?”

“Six.”

“And your dinnertime?”

“Around seven.”

“In that case, I’d better start cooking the pork around four, I think, for the pork braised in red sauce takes hours. As for the fish, I’ll have it prepared with scallion and ginger in a steamer, so you will just need to steam it for five or six minutes, more or less, as you prefer.”

“Right,” Jiao said, nodding. “You’re quite experienced.”

“Anything specific about the pork or the fish?”

“Yes, well-cooked fat pork,” Jiao said. “Oh, don’t use soy sauce.”

“But what about the sauce -” Peiqin began, then had a thought. “I see. I think I can wok-fry sugar until it turns brown and use it for color.”

“You’re a pro,” Jiao said with a smile.

It was a recipe Peiqin had learned at the restaurant. Jiao must have cooked it herself, as she showed no surprise on her face.

“I’ll time it so the pork will be well done but not overdone when you come back. You can also add in whatever spice you like.”

“Indeed, Mr. Chen has made an excellent recommendation. Do it in whatever way you like. Here’s money for your shopping.”

Jiao appeared to be in a hurry to leave, talking and pulling on her stockings while leaning against a mahogany chair. She slid her feet into a pair of high heels.

“If it takes more than four hours for a particular day, let me know. I’ll pay extra, okay?” Jiao added, heading toward the door.

It was more than okay for a maid, Peiqin thought, listening to Jiao’s footsteps fading along the corridor and disappearing into the elevator. She then closed the door.

She didn’t know what Chen had said about her to Jiao, but it appeared that her “maid career” had started more smoothly than she expected. Jiao had accepted her without a single question. The work arrangements suited Peiqin too, since she wouldn’t even have to ask for a leave from the restaurant. As an accountant with flexible work hours, she could come over at her convenience. Some days she might be able to work her hours here during the lunch break.

Taking an apron out of the canvas bag, she started moving around like a maid, while observing like a cop’s wife, looking out for anything out of the ordinary and for objects associated with Mao.

It was a luxurious apartment. The layout appeared to be unusual, but she was not sure. The oblong-shaped living room was huge, with paintings scattered here and there, finished and unfinished. Jiao might use it more like a studio. On one wall hung a long silk-decked scroll of Chinese calligraphy. It was difficult for Peiqin to read the flying-dragon-and-dancing-phoenix-like writing. It took her several minutes to recognize five or six characters in the scroll, and then it dawned on her that the scroll was of a poem by Mao entitled “Ode to the Plum Blossom,” which she had read in her middle school textbook.

In classical Chinese poetry, beauties and flowers sometimes served as metaphors for each other. So the calligrapher could have copied the poem for Jiao as a compliment, but as far as Peiqin remembered, the plum blossom was not commonly symbolic of a young, fashionable girl.

Perhaps she was reading too much into it. In today’s market, a scroll by a celebrated calligrapher could be invaluable regardless of its contents. It also served to show the refined taste of the owner, young or not. She took another look at the poem. There was a date in the Chinese lunar calendar, which she failed to decipher. She would have to check it in a reference book from the library.

She moved into the bedroom, which, too, was exceptionally large, with a couple of walk-in closets and a master bathroom. The furniture, however, was a stark contrast to that of the living room. Simple, practically plain. What struck her as peculiar was the large wooden bed. It was larger than a king-size, and possibly custom-made. Now, why a young single girl needed such a bed, Peiqin couldn’t guess. There was also a custom-made bookshelf built into the plain wooden headboard. In fact, about a third of the bed was littered with books. Leaning to straighten the pillows, she touched the bed. No mattress, only a solid hard board – a wooden-board mattress under the sheets.

Above the headboard hung a large picture of Mao, gazing down from above. It was an unusual bedroom decoration. The picture frame looked like it was solid gold, which it couldn’t be, but it was very heavy nonetheless. The picture faced a large mirror on the opposite wall, which was not that lucky in terms of feng shui, for the people in bed. Standing beside the bed was a cabinetlike bookshelf, with pictures of Jiao on the top, almost level with the picture of Mao.

There were two closets, one large, one small, facing the bed. She opened the doors. There were clothing and painting supplies in them. But Peiqin didn’t see anything surprising.

She proceeded into the adjoining room, which looked like a study. On the large mahogany desk there was an album lying beside a miniature bronze statue of Mao. For a study, it was impressive: custom-made mahogany bookshelves stood tall and majestic against three walls. On the shelves were a considerable number of books about Mao, some of which Peiqin had never seen in bookstores. Jiao had done an incredible job collecting so many of them. There was also a section of history books, some of them thread-bound, cloth-covered editions, presumably meant to look impressive. At the bottom of one bookshelf there was a pile of fashion magazines, incongruous with the history books above.

The kitchen, full of modern stainless appliances, was the only place Peiqin didn’t find anything associated with Mao. She stood on her tiptoes and looked into the cabinet. There was nothing there but a couple of recipe books, one of which she had at home too.

She decided to go and do the shopping, so she took off the apron and folded it neatly on the kitchen table. On the first day, a maid’s responsibility came first. Later on, if she had time, she could check around again.

So she set out with the shopping list. It was an intriguing one. Fat pork, Wuchang fish, bitter melon, green and red pepper, and some seasonal vegetables. The security guard recognized her this time and smiled.

The neighborhood food market turned out to be quite different from what she was accustomed to: granite-floored, white-tile-covered counters displaying vegetables in plastic wrappers and meat in plastic packaging. She walked around for a while before locating several huge glass cages with live fish swimming inside. As with other counters there, there was a sign declaring “No bargaining.”

“A large Wuchang fish,” she said to a ruddy-complexioned sales-woman in a white uniform and purple rubber shoes.

Peiqin didn’t have to bargain, not with the sum given by Jiao, but she asked for a receipt. In response to her non-bargaining attitude, the saleswoman ladled out the swimming fish and handed it to her with a handful of green onion for free.

Peiqin bought everything on the list, choosing some other special sauce and seasonings for the night. According to Yu and Old Hunter, Jiao seldom if ever invited people home. Yet, for a slender girl like her, it appeared to be a huge dinner with a lot of calories and fat. The fat pork braised in red sauce, in particular, once popular in the early sixties for the starved, ill-nourished Chinese people, was practically unimaginable for fashionable diet-conscious girls.

Back in the kitchen, she started preparing. The live fish kept struggling and jumping while she scaled it on the board. As she put it into the steamer, the fish twitched one more time, its tail cutting her finger. The cut wasn’t deep, but it tingled. She arranged the fish on a willow-patterned platter along with ginger and scallion and set it in a steamer on the kitchen table. Jiao needed only to turn on the fire upon her return. Peiqin rinsed the rice and put it into an electric rice pot. She finally started working on the pork. It was easy, but took time. She was no restaurant chef but she was a capable cook, and wanted to impress on her first day.

Taking off her apron again, she made a cup of tea for herself, choosing a European tea bag she hadn’t seen before. She sat on a folding chair close to the table. Breathing into the hot tea, she found the taste not nearly as good as the Dragon Well tea at home. Perhaps the tea bag caused the difference. She like watching leisurely the unfolding of the tea leaves in the cup, green, tender, musing.

She had helped with police work before, because of her husband or Chief Inspector Chen, or because of the people involved.

But this time, it was different.

She felt drawn to the case because of something personal, yet far more than personal.

Peiqin had been a straight-A student in elementary school, wearing the Red Scarf of a proud Young Pioneer, dreaming of a rosy future in the golden sunlight of socialist China. Everything changed overnight, however, with the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution. Her father’s “historical problem” cast a shadow over the whole family. Youthful dreams shattered, she came to terms with the realities – toiling and moiling as an educated youth in Yunnan, plowing barefoot in the rice paddy, plodding through the muddy trails, day in and day out… and ten years later, coming back to the city, working at a tingzijian restaurant office with wok fumes and kitchen noises erupting from downstairs, and squeezing into a single room without a kitchen or bathroom, with Yu and Qinqin eking out whatever was available… She had been too busy, sometimes working two jobs, to be maudlin about her life. And she had kept telling herself that she was a lucky one – a good husband and a wonderful son, what else could she really expect? At a recent class reunion, Yu and she were actually voted the luckiest couple – both had stable jobs, a room they called their own, and a son studying hard for college. After all, the Cultural Revolution had been a national disaster, not just for her family but for millions and millions of Chinese people.

Occasionally, she still couldn’t help wondering what life would have been like without the Cultural Revolution.

The cut on her finger stung again.

Who was responsible for it?

Mao.

The government didn’t want people to talk about it, tried to avoid the topic or to shift the blame to the Gang of Four. As for Mao, it was said that he had made a well-meant mistake, which was nothing compared to the great contributions he’d made to China.

Perhaps she was in no position to judge Mao, not historically, but what about personally, from the perspective of one whose life had been so affected by those political movements under Mao?

Her personal factors aside, there was no forgiving Mao for what she had just learned from Old Hunter – for what Mao had done to Kaihui.

As a young girl, she had read Mao’s poem to Kaihui, cherishing it as a moving revolutionary love poem. She had also read an earlier one on parting with Kaihui, even more sentimental and touching in her imagination.

Now, what a shock when she learned the truth behind the poems! It wasn’t simply a brazen betrayal by Mao; it was practically cold-blooded murder. Mao must have seen Kaihui as an obstacle to his affair with Zizhen, so he had let Kaihui stay where she was, to fall prey to the nationalists’ retaliation. Did Kaihui know it in her last days? Peiqin’s eyes watered at the thought of Kaihui being dragged to the execution ground, her bare feet bleeding all the way – following the local superstition that the executed couldn’t find her way back home without her shoes.

And Peiqin had no doubt about Mao’s desertion of Shang. After rereading Cloud and Rain in Shanghai, Peiqin lay awake for the night. It was nothing, historically, for someone like Mao to have used and discarded a woman like a worn-out mop. But what about Shang, an equal human being?

Standing up, Peiqin went into the bedroom again. Gazing at Mao’s picture above the bed, she realized that it was a portrait not so commonly seen, not now, not since the days of the Cultural Revolution. Mao was sitting in a rattan chair, wearing a blue-and-white-striped terrycloth robe, smoking a cigarette, and smiling toward the distant horizon, the immediate background of the picture suggestive of a riverboat. Presumably it was a picture taken after a swim in the Yangtze River.

Was it possible that Jiao, after the fashion of recent years, had “re-discovered” Mao? Chinese people had always been interested in emperors – for thousands of years. There was a “royal revival” going on in movies and on TV, and the Qing emperors and empresses abounded in current bestsellers.

But how could Jiao, of all people, have entertained any fond fantasies of Mao – since Mao was responsible for the tragedies of her family?

And the Mao mystery aside, how could a young girl like Jiao afford to live like this without a job?

It was possible that Jiao was a kept woman, or “little concubine”- ernai, a new term that was gaining currency quickly in the contemporary Chinese vocabulary.

But Internal Security hadn’t found a “keeper” in the background, though somebody had been seen in her company, at least once, in the apartment here. For a young woman like Jiao, there was nothing surprising about an occasional visitor or two.

Peiqin pulled out of her thoughts. She hardly knew anything about Jiao, a girl from a different generation and of a different family background. There was no point in speculating too much.

Nor did she have any idea what Chen was really after. As a cop’s wife, she had no objection to snooping around for her husband’s sake, or that of his boss, but she would have liked more clues about what she was looking for.

Again, she glanced at her watch. Jiao wouldn’t come back this early. Peiqin decided to start her “search proper.”

She proceeded cautiously, pulling out the drawers, looking under the bed, examining the closet, rummaging through the boxes… From a mystery she had read, she learned that people could purposely hide things in the most obvious places, to which she also paid close attention. After spending nearly an hour going through every nook and cranny, she found little except things that further reinforced her earlier impression of Jiao’s being obsessed with Mao.

In a drawer, Peiqin found several tapes of documentaries showing Mao receiving foreign visitors in the Forbidden City. Some of them she might have seen in Yunnan in the early seventies; it was during a time when hardly any movies were shown except the eight modern revolutionary model plays and documentaries of Mao. Peiqin and Yu would joke that Mao was the biggest movie star.

How could Jiao have gotten hold of these? Peiqin was tempted to put a tape into the player, but she decided against it. Jiao might notice it had been played.

Instead, Peiqin started to make a list of what seemed unusual, puzzling, incomprehensible, at Jiao’s apartment. A list for Yu and Old Hunter. If she couldn’t make much out of it, they might. Or possibly Chief Inspector Chen.

First, the large bed, so old-fashioned, with a wooden-board mattress. For the majority of the Shanghainese, it was common to have a zongbeng mattress – something woven netlike with crisscrossed coir ropes. Peiqin insisted on having such an airy, resilient zongbeng at home. For younger people, a spring mattress was more popular and Qinqin had one. Only some really old and old-fashioned people would think of a wooden-board mattress as a possible choice; they would believe it to be good for their back.

And then there was the miniature bookshelf set into the head-board. Was Jiao such an avid reader? She hadn’t even finished middle school. Not to mention the custom-made mahogany bookshelves with those Mao and history books.

Peiqin wasn’t sure about the silk scroll of Mao’s poem in the living room and the portrait of Mao in the bedroom, but to her, they also seemed unusual.

As for the dinner with all the unusual dishes, Peiqin was inclined to suppose it was a meal for two. The guest could be an old-fashioned one, at least so in his taste, though Jiao hadn’t said a word about any visitor coming that night. Peiqin thought that she’d better tip Old Hunter to it, making sure that he would keep lookout this evening.

She was about to dial when a knock sounded on the door. She put the list into her bag and looked out through the peephole. It was a man in a dark blue uniform with something like a long-handled sprayer in his hand.

“What do you want?” she asked uncertainly.

“Insect spray service.”

“Insect spray service?” She sprayed at home, by herself, but it was not her business to question it. Rich people might have all kinds of things done by professionals.

“I scheduled it with Jiao,” he said, producing a slip of paper. “Look.”

Jiao must have forgotten to tell her about it, which wasn’t that important.

“So you’re the new maid here?”

“Yes, it’s my first day.”

“I came last month,” he said, “and there was another one.”

He must have come here before, so she opened the door. He moved in, nodding and putting on a gauze mask before she could get a close look at his face. He appeared quite professional, his glance instantly sweeping round to the kitchen table. “Better cover the dishes, though the spray is practically harmless.”

Extending the spray head, he started spraying around, poking and reaching into the corners behind the cabinet.

After four or five minutes, he headed for the bedroom. She followed, though not closely.

“So you’re not a provincial girl.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“My factory went bankrupt,” she improvised. “Where else could I go?”

After he checked into the corners as well as hard-to-reach areas, he squatted down, reaching into the space under the bed. Perhaps that was the professional way.

When he finally started to pull in the spray head, she said, “How much does Jiao owe you?”

“Oh, she has already paid.”

It was almost four when he left the apartment. Peiqin moved back to the kitchen where she tore the steamed eggplant into slices and added salt, sesame oil, and a pinch of MSG. Simple yet good. She also sliced a piece of jellyfish for another cold dish and prepared a small saucer of special sauce.

She finally poked a chopstick into the pork. The chopstick pierced it easily. She turned the fire down to the lowest setting. The pork looked nicely done, rich in color.

That was about all she could do for the day. The clock on the kitchen wall said four forty-five. She surveyed the dishes prepared and half prepared on the kitchen table, nodding with approval.

Taking off her apron, she thought she should let Jiao know about all that she had done that afternoon. So she left a note, mentioning the visit of the insect spray man as well.