The Mao Case

ONE

CHIEF INSPECTOR CHEN CAO was in no mood to speak at the political studies meeting of the Shanghai Police Bureau’s Party committee.

His mood was due to the topic of the day – the urgency of building spiritual civilization in China. “Spiritual civilization” was a political catchphrase much emphasized in the Party newspapers starting in the mid-nineties. People’s Daily had another editorial on the subject just that morning. In the same issue, however, yet another high-ranking Party official was exposed in a corruption scandal.

So where could the “spiritual civilization” come from? Surely, it wasn’t something that could be pulled out of thin air like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. Still, Chen had to sit, stiff and serious, at the middle of the conference room table, nodding like a robot, while others talked.

You cannot connect nothing to nothing with broken fingernails…

Whether this bleak image came from a poem he had read long ago, while lying in the sun on some beach, was a detail he couldn’t recall.

In spite of the Party’s propaganda, materialism was sweeping over China. It was a well-known joke that the old political slogan “Look to the future” had become an even more popular maxim, “Look to the money,” for in Chinese, both “future” and “money” are pronounced as qian, exactly the same. But that wasn’t a joke, not exactly. So where would the “spiritual civilization” come from?

“Nowadays, people look at nothing but their own feet,” Party Secretary Li Guohua, the top Party boss in the bureau, spoke, gravely, his heavy eye bags trembling in the afternoon light. “We have to reemphasize the glorious tradition of our Party. We have to rebuild the Communist value system. We have to reeducate people…”

Were people to blame for this? Chen lit a cigarette, rubbing the ridge of his nose with his forefinger and middle finger. After all the political movements under Mao, after the Cultural Revolution, after the eventful summer of 1989, after the numerous corruption cases within the Party system -

“People care for nothing but money,” Inspector Liao, the head of the homicide squad, chipped in loudly. “Let me give you an example. I went to a restaurant last week. An old Hunan restaurant that has been in business for many years, but all of a sudden, it’s a Mao restaurant. There are pictures of Mao, and of his bewitching personal secretaries, posted all over the walls. The menu is full of special dishes that were supposedly favorites of Mao. And so-called Xiang Sister Waitresses, clad in dudou-style bodices with Mao quotations printed on them, strutted around like hookers. The restaurant is shamelessly capitalizing on Mao, who would die from shock if he were resurrected today.”

“And there’s the joke,” Detective Jiang said, “about Mao walking into Tiananmen Square, where a shrewd businessman used him as an instant picture model for tourists, making tons of money. A crying shame -”

“Leave Mao alone,” Party Secretary Li cut in angrily.

A crying shame or not, a joke at the expense of Mao remained a political taboo, Chen observed, pulling over the ashtray. Still, the joke was a vivid illustration of present-day society. Mao had turned into a profitable brand name. Retribution or karma? Chen mused, watching the smoke rings spiral up in the conference room, when he became aware of Li’s fidgeting beside him. He had to say something.

“Economic basis and ideological superstructure.” Chen managed to come out with a couple of Marxist terms he had learned in his college years, but then he checked himself. According to Marx, there is a corresponding relation between the ideological superstructure and the economic basis. What marked the present-day “socialism of Chinese characteristics” was, however, the very incongruity between the two. With the market economy totally capitalistic – and at the “primitive accumulation stage,” to use another Marxist phrase – what kind of a communist superstructure or spiritual civilization could be expected?

Still, he’d better think of something fast. It was expected of him – not only as an “intellectual” having majored in English before being assigned by the state to the police bureau, but also as a chief inspector, and an emerging Party cadre.

“Come on, Chief Inspector Chen, you’re not just a police officer, but a published poet too,” Commissar Zhang urged. A “revolutionary of the older generation,” long retired, Zhang still attended the bureau’s political studies meetings, believing that the current problems were the result of insufficient political study. “Surely you have a lot to tell us about the necessity of rebuilding a spiritual civilization.”

What was behind Zhang’s remark, Chen could easily guess. It wasn’t just an implicit criticism of his being a poet, but also of his being, in Zhang’s eyes, too liberal.

“When I came in to work this morning on a crowded bus,” Chen started over again, clearing his throat, “an old man with a crutch struggled aboard. He fell hard when the bus lurched to a stop. No one got up to give him a seat. A young passenger, seated, commented that it’s no longer the age of Comrade Lei Feng, Mao’s selfless Communist role model -”

He left his sentence unfinished again. Perhaps it was coincidental that Mao kept coming up like a returning ghost. Chen ground out his cigarette, ready to finish his sentence when his cell phone rang shrilly. Without looking at the others in room, he answered it.

“Hi, this is Yong,” a woman’s voice said, clear and crisp, “I’m calling about Ling.”

Ling was Chen’s girlfriend in Beijing, or to be exact, ex-girlfriend, though they hadn’t exactly said so explicitly. Yong, a friend and former colleague of Ling’s, had tried to help during their prolonged off-and-on relationship, which went back as early as his college years.

“Oh? What’s happened to Ling?” he exclaimed, drawing surprised stares from his colleagues. He stood up in a hurry, saying to the room, “Sorry, I have to take this.”

“Ling got married,” Yong said.

“What?” he said, striding out into the corridor.

He really shouldn’t have been astonished. Their relationship had long been on the rocks, what with the insurmountable problem of her being an HCC – a high cadre’s child, her father was a top-ranking Party cadre, with his being unable to imagine himself becoming an HCC, because of her, even for her sake. The friction was intensified by his dislike of the social injustice, with the distance between Beijing and Shanghai, and by so many things between them…

Ling was not to blame, he had kept telling himself. Still, the news came as a shattering blow.

“He’s another HCC, but also a successful businessman and a Party official. She doesn’t really care for all that, you know…”

He listened, leaning into a corner, gazing at the opposite wall, which resembled a piece of blank paper. Somehow he felt like an audience, listening to a story about something that had happened to others.

“You should have tried harder,” Yong said, in Ling’s defense. “You can’t expect a woman to wait forever.”

“I understand.”

“It may not be too late.” Yong delivered her Parthian shot. “She still cares so much for you. Come to Beijing, and I’ll tell you a lot of things. You’ve not been to Beijing for such a long time. I almost forget what you look like.”

So Yong wasn’t willing to give up even when Ling herself already had, having married somebody else. Yong, essentially, wanted him to make a trip to Beijing for a possible “salvage mission.”

How long the phone conversation in the corridor lasted, he didn’t know.

When he finally went back into the conference room, the political study was coming to a close. Commissar Zhang shook his head like a rattle drum. Li gave Chen a long inquiring look. Taking a seat next to the Party secretary, Chen refrained from saying anything until the session ended.

As people began to leave, Li drew Chen aside. “Is everything all right, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Everything is fine,” Chen said, shifting back into his official role. “It’s an important issue that we discussed today.”

Afterward, instead of going back to his own apartment, Chen decided to pay a visit to his mother. It wasn’t a night that he would enjoy making dinner for himself.

As he turned onto Jiujiang Road, however, he slowed down. It was almost six. His mother lived alone in the old neighborhood, frail in her health, and frugal in her way. He’d better buy some cooked food for the unannounced visit. There was a small eatery around the corner, he recalled. In his elementary school years, he had passed by the place many times, peeping in curiously without ever stepping in.

A little boy was rolling a rusted iron hoop on a side street, a familiar scene yet one he hadn’t seen for a long time. It was as if the hoop was rolling back the memories from childhood in the gathering dusk. He was struck with a sense of déjà vu.

He had second thoughts about visiting his mother. He missed her, feeling bad for having not been able to take care of her as much as he would have liked. But an evening there could also mean another of her lectures about his continuing bachelorhood, where she quoted the Confucian statement, “There are things that make a man unfilial, and to have no offspring is the most serious.” It wasn’t the evening for that.

Casting a quick look at the front of the eatery, which appeared scruffy, sordid, and little changed from years ago, he walked into a shabby scene inside. There was a bare bulb dangling down from the water-and smoke-stained ceiling, shedding dim light on three or four smeared, dilapidated tables. Most of the customers looked as grungy as the place, having only cheap liquor and dishes of boiled peanuts.

A waitress, a plump and short woman in her mid-fifties, handed him a dirty menu in peevish silence. Ordering a Qingdao beer, two cold dishes – dried tofu in red sauce and a thousand-year egg in soy sauce – he asked her, “Any specials here?”

“The pork intestine, lung, heart, and whatnot, all steamed with distilled rice grain. Our chef still makes his own rice wine. It’s a specialty of the old Shanghai cuisine. I don’t think you’ll have it anywhere else.”

“Great. I’ll have that,” he said, closing the menu. “Oh, the smoked carp head too. A small one.”

She eyed him up and down in surprise – apparently, he was a big customer for this small place. He was no less surprised at himself, for still having such a good appetite this evening.

At a table near the back, one of the customers looked over his shoulder. Chen recognized him as Gang, from the old neighborhood. Gang had been a powerful leader of a Shanghai Red Guard organization in the early days of the Cultural Revolution, but he had since gone downhill, ending up as a jobless drunken loafer, muddling around the neighborhood. About the vicissitude of the legendary ex – Red Guard, Chen had heard from his mother.

Gang turned further around, clearing his throat and banging on the table dramatically. “Sages and scholars are solitary for thousands of years. Only a drunkard leaves his name behind.”

That sounded like a quote from Li Bai, a Tang-dynasty poet well-known for his passion for the cup.

“Do you know who I am?” Gang went on. “The commander in chief of the Third Red Guard Headquarters in Shanghai. A loyal soldier for Mao, leading millions of Red Guards to fight for him. In the end, he threw us to a pack of wolves.”

The waitress put the cold dishes and Qingdao beer on Chen’s table. “The noodles and the chef’s special will come shortly.”

The moment she walked away, Gang rose and shambled over, grinning from ear to ear and carrying a tiny bottle of liquor called a “small firecracker” among the drunkards.

“So you are a newcomer here, young man. I would like to give you a word or two of advice. Life is short, sixty or seventy years, no point worrying away your days till your hair turns white. Heartbroken for a woman? Come on. A woman is just like that smoked fish head. Not much meat but too many bones, staring at you with ghastly eyes on a white platter. If you’re not careful, you get a bone stuck in your throat. Think about Mao. Such a man, and yet he, too, was ruined by his woman – or women. He fucked his brains out in the end!”

Gang talked like a drunkard, hardly coherent with so many conversational leaps, but it was intriguing, even stunning, to Chen.

“So you had your day during the Cultural Revolution,” Chen said, gesturing for Gang to share the table with him.

“Revolution’s like a bitch. She seduces you, and she dumps you like a mop smeared with the shit and dirt from her ass.” Gang took his seat opposite Chen, picking up a piece of dried tofu with his fingers, sucking at his empty liquor bottle. “And a bitch is like revolution too, muddling your head and heart.”

“That’s how you ended up here – because of both women and revolution?”

“There’s nothing left – well, nothing but the cup for me. It never gives you up. When you are smashed, you dance with your own shadow, so loyal to you, so sweet, so patient, and never stepping on your toes. Life is short, like a drop of dew in the early morning. The black ravens are already circling, nearer and nearer, above your head. So cheers, I raise my cup.

“Since it’s your first time here, it’s for me to treat,” Gang said, taking a large gulp of the beer as Chen pushed his cup to him. “I have a mind to lead you down to the road of the world.”

Chen wondered at the prospect of Gang leading a cop down that road. Gang reached into his pants pocket. He came up with only a couple of pennies. He fumbled again. Still, the same pennies sat on the table. “I’m damned. This morning I changed my pants and left my wallet at home. Loan me ten yuan, young man. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

It was a trick, obviously, but Chen took a perverse delight in his company that evening and handed over two ten yuan bills.

“Auntie Yao, a bottle of Yang River Liquor, a dish of pork cheek meat, and a dozen chicken feet in hot sauce,” Gang shouted toward the kitchen, waving his hand like the Red Guard Commander he had once been.

Auntie Yao – the middle-aged waitress – emerged from the kitchen, taking Gang’s order and money as she examined him closely.

“You dirty rascal! Up to your old tricks again?”

There was a roar of laughter in the eatery, like in a sitcom, when she started dragging Gang forcibly back to his own table, grasping his collar, the way a hawk does with a chicken.

“Don’t listen to him.” She came back to Chen. “He plays the same dirty trick on every new customer here, telling the same story over and again, so that they take pity and give him money for booze. What’s worse, one of the young customers fell under his curse, turning into a damned drunkard just like him.”

“Thank you, Auntie Yao,” Chen said. “Don’t worry about me. I want to have a quiet meal here.”

“Good. I don’t think he’ll bother you again – not until he’s done with his horse shit,” she said, glaring over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me, Auntie Yao,” Gang echoed from his table as she retreated into the kitchen.

Auntie Yao must have been the restaurant’s only waitress, having worked there for years and knowing the regular customers well. She soon returned to Chen’s table with the noodles and the chef’s special.

The special came in a small rustic urn, still steaming, as if from a rural kitchen. The beef noodles looked both hot and fresh.

She sat on a stool not far from his table, as if guarding him, making sure that Chen had a quiet meal.

But he wasn’t going to have one that evening.

He was just putting the chopsticks into the fragrant-smelling urn when his cell phone rang. Possibly another call from Yong, he thought, who didn’t give up easily.

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, this is Huang Keming from Beijing.”

“Oh, Minister Huang.”

“We need to talk. Is it a good time for you?”

It was not, but Chen chose not to say so to the new Minister of Public Security. Nor was it really a question from Huang. Chen rose, hurrying out of the eatery, both hands covering the phone. “Yes, please go ahead, Minister Huang.”

“Do you know about Shang Yunguan, a movie queen during the fifties?”

“Shang Yunguan… I watched one or two of her movies long ago. But they didn’t leave much of an impression. She committed suicide at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, I think.”

“She did, but in the fifties and early sixties, she was very popular. When Chairman Mao came to Shanghai, he danced with her at parties arranged by the local government.”

“Yes, Minister Huang?” Chen asked, wondering where this was going.

“She could have taken – or been given – something from him. There were many opportunities.”

“Something from Mao?” Chen was instantly alert, though hardly able to smother the sarcasm in his voice. “What could that possibly be?”

“We don’t know.”

“Perhaps pictures with captions saying ‘Our great leader encouraged a revolutionary artist to make a new contribution,’ or ‘Let hundreds of flowers bloom.’ Our newspapers and magazines were full of his pictures.”

“Shang could have left it to her daughter Qian,” Huang went on without responding, “who died in an accident toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, leaving behind a daughter of her own, named Jiao. So you are going to approach Jiao.”

“Why?”

“She may have it.”

“Something from Mao – the Mao material, you mean?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Did Shang, Qian, or Jiao ever show this material to anyone?”

“No. Not that we are aware of.”

“Then there may not even be any such material.”

“Why would you think that?”

“With someone like Shang, a popular movie actress, her home must have been thoroughly ransacked and searched by Red Guards. They never found anything, right? The Mao material – whatever it could be – wasn’t something like a life-saving imperial decree like in ancient time. Even if it existed, it didn’t save her; if anything, it probably only caused her trouble. How would she have been able to leave it to her daughter Qian? And how could Qian, dying in an accident, have given it to her daughter Jiao?”

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen!” Huang obviously was not pleased with Chen’s response. “We cannot afford to overlook this possibility. There are some quite suspicious things about Jiao. About a year ago, for instance, she suddenly quit her job and moved into a luxurious apartment. Where did the money come from? Now she’s regularly attending parties with people from Hong Kong, Taiwan, or Western countries. What is she really up to? What’s more, the host of these parties, a certain Mr. Xie, is someone who bears a deep grudge against Mao. So she could be trying to sell the Mao material for a large advance.”

“An advance for a book? If she has the money already, I don’t think we can do anything about it. The publisher would now have the material – the Mao material.”

“Perhaps not yet, or not entirely. Something might have been arranged, out of consideration for her safety. If such a book were published while she was in China, she could get in trouble. She knows better -”

“Has she applied for a passport?”

“No, not yet. If she did anything too obvious, it wouldn’t do her any good.”

It sounded like a conspiracy scenario to Chen. The minister must have some reason to be concerned, but Chen had many questions.

“Why the sudden attention to this?” Chen resumed after a pause. “Shang died years ago.”

“It’s a long story but, in short, it’s because of two books. The first one is entitled Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. You must have heard of it.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You are too busy, Chief Inspector Chen. It’s a best seller about Qian, and about Shang too.”

“Really? A best seller?”

“Yes. And then the other book is the memoir by Mao’s personal doctor.”

“That one I’ve heard of, but I haven’t read it.”

“With that book we learned our lesson the hard way. When the doctor applied for a passport so he could go to the States for health reasons, we let him go. His book was then published there. It’s full of fabrications about Mao’s private life. However, readers are so interested in those horrible details that they swallow them without a hiccup. The book is selling like hotcakes all over the world. In some languages, it has been reprinted ten times in one year.”

Chen had heard stories about Mao’s private life. In the years shortly after the Cultural Revolution, when Madam Mao was denounced as a white-bone devil, lurid details about her life as a third-rate movie actress started coming out, with some particulars having direct or indirect connection to Mao. The Beijing authorities soon put an end to the “hearsay.” Since, after all, there’s no separating Madam Mao from Mao.

“So these two books have led us to be concerned about the possibility that Jiao might have something left behind by Shang. Something that she could use against the interest of our Party.”

“I’m still lost, Minister Huang.”

“I don’t think we need to go into details on the phone. You’ll learn more from the case file compiled by Internal Security.”

“Internal Security is already investigating?” Chen said, frowning. Internal Security was usually assigned the most sensitive political cases. “If so, why call me in?”

“They’ve been following Jiao for weeks, but without success. So their plan is to take tougher measures, but some leading comrades in Beijing don’t think that’s a good idea. Comrade Zhao, the ex-secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee, is one of them. Indeed, we have to think about repercussions. Both Xie and Jiao are known in their circles and have connections to Western media. Besides, if we push too hard, Jiao might act rashly, out of desperation.”

“What can I do?”

“You are going to approach Jiao from a different angle. Check her out, as well as the people associated with her, and more importantly, discover what was left by Shang and retrieve it -”

“Hold on. What different angle?”

“Well, whatever approach you think will work. Soft rather than tough, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I’m no 007, Minister Huang.”

“This is an assignment you can’t say no to, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. Any slander against Mao, the founder of the Chinese Communist Party, will affect the legitimacy of our Party. This is a special task and, Comrade Zhao recommended you to me. Based on what Internal Security has learned, one possible approach would be through the parties she frequents. You can blend in, speaking your English or quoting your poetry.”

“So I am to approach Jiao as anything but a cop -”

“It’s in the interest of the Party.”

“Comrade Zhao said that to me in another case,” Chen said, realizing that it was pointless for him to argue. “But there’s still no guarantee that Shang left anything behind.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. You go ahead in whatever manner you choose, and we trust you. I’ve already talked to your Party Secretary Li. He’s going to retire soon, you know. When this job is accomplished, you’ll advance to a position of greater responsibility.”

It was an unmistakable hint, but was Chen looking forward to such a position of greater responsibility? Still, he knew he had no choice.

Minister Huang said farewell and hung up. Chen closed the phone. When he moved back into the eatery, the noodles on the table were quite cold, the house special, greasy and gray on the surface of the urn, and the beer, stale and bubbleless. He had no appetite left.

Auntie Yao hurried over, offering to warm up the noodles, which, having soaked so long in the soup, would taste like paste anyway.

“No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head as he took out his wallet. Gang came limping over to Chen again.

“Now I recognize you,” Gang said. “You used to live in the neighborhood, calling me Uncle Gang. Don’t you remember that?”

“You are…?” Chen said, unwilling to admit he had long recognized him.

“A successful man may not have a good memory,” Gang said with a fleeting gleam in his eyes. “I’ll take care of the leftovers for you.”

“I’ve not touched anything – except the fish head,” Chen said.

“I trust you,” Gang patted on his shoulder. “Now you’re somebody.” The smoked carp head stared at the two of them with its ghastly eyes.