The Mao Case

FIVE

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Chen arrived at Shaoxing Road, a quiet street lined with old magnificent buildings behind high walls.

It was an area he was relatively familiar with because of a publishing house located nearby. Still, behind the high walls, behind the shuttered windows, the houses seemed to be hinting at mysterious, inexplicable stories within.

Instead of heading directly to Xie Mansion, he went across the street, into a miniature café. It must have been converted from a residential room and had only three or four tables inside. A narrow bar sporting several coffee makers and wine racks took up one third of the space. He cast a curious look toward the partition at the back of the room. The proprietor apparently lived in the space behind the partition wall.

He chose a table by the window. For the party in the late afternoon, Chen had put on a pair of rimless glasses, changed his hairstyle, and donned an expensive suit of light material. The people there probably wouldn’t recognize him except for the one from Internal Security. While Chen was known in his own circle, he thought those at the party would be a different lot, and he looked at his window reflection with a touch of ironical amusement. Clothing makes, if not a man, at least the role for a man.

A young girl emerged from behind a door in the partition wall, through which Chen caught a glimpse of a back door that led into a lane. She looked like a middle school student, helping the family business, serving coffee to his table with a sweet smile. The coffee was expensive, but it tasted fresh and strong.

Sipping at the coffee, he dialed the Shanghai Writers’ Association. A young secretary answered the phone. She was quite cooperative but knew little about Diao, the author of Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. Diao was not a member of the association and had become known to the association only after the book’s publication. She checked through files and said that Diao might have been invited to a literary meeting somewhere, but she didn’t exactly know where. Diao wasn’t in Shanghai, of that much she was sure.

Chen followed up by making a long-distance call to Wang, the chairman of the Chinese Writers’ Association in Beijing, asking him to find out the whereabouts of Diao. Wang promised to call back as soon as he learned anything.

Placing the phone by the coffee cup, Chen took out the file on Xie, turning to the part about the history of the mansion.

A lot had happened to the prestigious buildings in this area. In the early fifties, high-ranking Party officials had moved in, driving out most of the former residents, only a few of whom remained. Things got much worse at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. At the time, a large house could be forcefully seized by dozens of working-class families, each of them occupying one room – a “revolutionary activity” that abolished the remaining privileges of the pre-1949 society. In the early nineties, a number of those old buildings were pulled down to make way for new construction. It was a miracle that Xie kept his house intact for all these years, and according to the legend told and retold in that social circle, it was achieved through a sacrifice made by Xie’s ex-wife. It was said that she had an affair with a powerful Red Guard commander, who consequently let the family remain in the house undisturbed. Then she and her husband divorced and she went to the United States before the value of the mansion was rediscovered.

Whatever the truth behind the stories, the mansion across the street looked magnificent in the afternoon sun. Looking up from the file, Chen didn’t see anyone approaching the building yet. He decided to measure out his time, alone, with the coffee spoon.

A group of young people came in, clamoring for coffee, Coca Cola, and a variety of snacks in a boisterous chorus. They took no notice of him.

About twenty-five minutes later, he saw a black car pulling up in front of the mansion. Two girls emerged, waving their hands to the driver. There was no taxi sign on top of the car. They went up to the front door and pushed the bell. From where he was sitting, Chen couldn’t see who opened the door for them. Soon another man arrived in a taxi and headed toward the door.

Chen rose, paid for his coffee, and walked out.

On close examination, Xie Mansion struck him as slightly shabby and dilapidated. The paint on the door had faded badly. There was no intercom. Pressing the discolored doorbell, he had to wait minutes before a lanky man in his early fifties came out, examining the Italian leather briefcase in Chen’s hand like a business card.

“Mr. Xie?” Chen said.

“He is inside. Please come in. You are a bit early for the party.” Chen didn’t know the exact time the party would start, but newcomers seemed to be arriving from time to time. People who might not necessarily know one another.

He walked into a spacious living room, which was oblong, with large French windows on one side looking out into a garden. There were several people standing by the windows, holding drinks in their hands. The party hadn’t started yet and no one bothered to greet or acknowledge him. He noticed a middle-aged woman in the group, slightly plump, incessantly fanning herself with a round silk fan. The air conditioning was barely on. Opposite the French window, there were several chairs along the wall, unoccupied.

At the other end of the living room, there was another room with frosted-glass sliding doors. Through the slightly opened door, Chen caught a glimpse of a red skirt. That had to be where the female students had their painting lessons. It seemed that there were two events this afternoon, the painting class, and the dancing party.

He moved over to the group by the French window. These people were sometimes called Old Dicks in the Shanghai dialect – from the phrase Old Sticks in Colloquial British English. In Shanghai the phrase carried association of high-class gentlemen in the thirties, brandishing brass-topped walking sticks, hence the embodiment of the values of that time. Now in the nineties they had staged a comeback, their knowledge of the thirties marketable and fashionable.

“My name is Chen,” he introduced himself to a silver-haired man with gold-rimmed glasses and a gold watch chain dangling from his vest pocket. “I’m a writer.”

The silver-haired man nodded, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses along the ridge of his aquiline nose, saying not a single word in response. He continued talking to a chubby old man in the group.

Chen was not one of them, apparently. None of them seemed interested in him. Still, he managed to introduce himself around, trying to fit in. The Old Dicks were invariably nostalgic, looking backward at the past as if it were the only real life. They kept exchanging anecdotes of the “good families,” out of which they came, as a means of criticizing the present-day upstarts who possessed neither history nor taste. They remained indifferent to the presence of a stranger with apparently neither an illustrious family background nor knowledge of those glittering years.

It was not until fifteen minutes later that a man came striding out of the other room, extending his hand even at a distance. An ordinary-looking man in his early sixties, fairly short, slightly overweight, with thinning hair and an angular face, he wore a gray jacket and black dress pants. He spoke with a strong Shanghai accent.

“I’m Xie. I didn’t know you had arrived, Mr. Chen. So sorry about that. I’m holding a class inside.”

Xie led Chen to the other room – possibly a large dining room originally, now it was a studio being used for his painting class. There were six or seven girls there, including the two he had seen arrive earlier from window of the café, all of them busy working on their in-class assignments. They were each dressed quite differently. One girl was in a paint-covered overall, another was in a summer dress with something like a turban tied around her hair, and still another was in an extra-large T-shirt and frayed jean shorts. Possibly it was a common scene for a painting class, but Chen hadn’t been to one before.

He then recognized Jiao, a tall girl in a white blouse and a jean skirt by the window. She had large eyes and a straight nose, her melon-seed-shaped face bearing a faint resemblance to Shang. She appeared younger than in the picture from the file and, working on a sketch, was vivacious and animated with a glowing radiance.

Xie didn’t introduce him to the girls, who appeared to be absorbed in their work. Gesturing him to a corner sofa, Xie pulled a chair over for himself.

“It’s quieter here,” Xie said in a low voice. “Mr. Shen speaks highly of you.”

“I talked to him about my book project and he recommended you to me,” Chen said. “I know how busy you are, but it would greatly benefit the writing project for me to come over from time to time.”

“Come anytime you like, Chen. Shen’s a good old friend of my father’s, he’s like an uncle to me. He has also given me a lot of information about the clothes in the thirties. Whoever he introduces is a welcome guest here. You also speak good English, I’m told, and we occasionally have foreign guests.”

“I hope I won’t be any inconvenience to either your class or your party.”

“I teach students two or three times a week. If you’re interested in painting, you can sit in. It is not a formal class. As for the parties, the more people, the more fun.”

The young girl in the overalls came over with a large watercolor in her hands. Xie took it from her and studied it for a minute before he pointed to a corner of it and said, “There is too much light here, Yang.”

“Thanks,” she said, patting his shoulder with a familiarity not usually shown to a teacher.

Xie appeared to mix well with his students. Nodding, he said to Chen, “Girls are really made of water.”

It sounded like an echo from the Dream of the Red Chamber. Xie might really fancy himself as Baoyu, the charming, irresistible protagonist of the classic novel, except that Baoyu was young, born with a piece of precious jade in his mouth.

A stout, middle-aged man pulled open the door and burst in, leading a willowy model-like girl to Xie.

“Oh, let me introduce you,” Xie said to Chen. “This is Mr. Gong Luhao. His grandfather was the white fox king.”

“White fox king?” Chen’s voice rose in puzzlement.

“Oh, my grandfather was in the fur business before 1949, especially known for his unrivaled supply of white fox,” Mr. Gong said, turning to the girl. “Her grandfather was connected to the Weng family. She wants to study with you.”

“She may submit her sample work to me,” Xie said. “This is Mr. Chen. A successful entrepreneur, and now a writer as well. Mr. Shen, of the Industry Bank in the thirties, introduced him to me.”

“Oh Mr. Shen, my father knew him well.”

Apparently, Chen was nobody here, welcome only because of Shen’s introduction.

In the living room, somebody started ringing a bell, declaring in a loud voice, “Time for the ball, Mr. Xie.”

“Class time is over,” Xie said to his students. “If you want to continue your work here, you may stay, or you may join the party.”

Xie led Chen out to the party in the living room, putting a hand on Chen’s shoulder like an old friend, most likely for the benefit of the others.

The scene at the party looked as if time had really rolled backward. The lights were confusing and the melodies played were popular in the thirties, one of which Chen recognized from an old Hollywood movie. There were quite a number of people there, many of whom must have arrived while Chen was with the host in the other room.

Xie was busy greeting and making introduction, saying only a few words to each guest. Still, he managed to take good care of Chen, emphasizing whenever possible that he was introduced by Mr. Shen. While none seemed to be interested in the would-be writer, none were suspicious of him, either. Thanks to his association with businessmen, Chen could talk like one. Curiously, no one at this party turned out to be a real businessman.

Then dancing started. Most of the people here knew one another. Some of them had to be well-practiced partners, coming here for the purpose alone. Chen thought about inviting someone to dance, but then he thought better of it. Though he had studied ballroom dancing, he had hardly had any opportunity to practice. So instead he found himself sitting alone on one of the chairs against the wall. It wasn’t a bad idea for him to take a break and look around. He thought of an English expression: a wallflower, which usually refers to a woman, he thought with a touch of self-irony.

Xie was now busy, constantly changing the records. Instead of a CD player, he kept an old gramophone and a stack of old records. He would wipe each record carefully with a white silk handkerchief, as if it were the most meaningful thing in the world.

The party didn’t strike Chen as that remarkable. The people there overindulged in a world of nostalgic imagination, slow-dancing, giving themselves to the languorous tide of the music, relishing anecdotes of old glories, caring little about what was happening in the outside world. What was the point? he wondered.

But what else could they do? Their “better” days gone, they were merely trying to hold on to the illusion of some meaning or value in their lives. As Zhaungzi mused long, long ago, You are no fish, and how can you know the fish does not enjoy it? It was not a cop’s business to worry about it.

He caught sight of Jiao again. She had perched herself on the arm of the sofa Xie was seated in. They talked for a couple of minutes, almost whispering. She appeared to be rather nice to Xie, but most of the girls were nice to him.

The girl named Yang came over to Chen, still in her overalls, smiling at him. He smiled back, shaking his head apologetically. She understood, moving across to another man. The living room was getting warm.

After a while, he slipped back into the studio. With the sliding door slightly open, he could look out. One of the dancers could be from Internal Security, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. He went over to the sketch Jiao had been working on. He was impressed by it, a picture of hyacinth blossoming out of a young girl’s arm, into a neon night ceaselessly changing in the background. Chen noticed that, on a corner table beside the couch, there was a pile of magazines, most of them published in the thirties. Sitting down on the same sofa, he picked up a painting album.

To his surprise, Jiao then walked into the studio, wearing high-heeled slippers, holding a long-stemmed glass in her hand.

“Hi, you’re new here.”

“Hi. My name is Chen. It’s the first time for me.”

“My name is Jiao. You are a novelist, I’ve heard.”

She could have overheard his earlier conversation with Xie or heard this from Xie a couple of minutes ago.

“No, I have just started writing,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

That seemed to be a stock response to his new identity. Instead of leaving, however, she perched herself on the chair Xie had occupied earlier, drawing one leg under her. Twirling the glass in her hand, she appeared content with his company in the studio.

“It’s a lousy crowd out there. It’s not a bad idea to take a short break here,” she said, waves of smile rippling in her large eyes. “According to Mr. Xie, you are a successful businessman. Why do you want to change your career?”

It was a question he’d prepared for, but it was the first time that anyone had asked.

“Well, I’ve been asking myself another question. People are busy making money – true, they live on money, but can they live in money?”

“People make money, but money makes people too.”

“An excellent point, Jiao. By the way, I forgot to ask about your line of business – or your illustrious family, as the people here have made such a point of bringing up their family background.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. And please don’t start now. You want to write about the past, not live in the past,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips. Her teeth were white, slightly uneven. “But what a coincidence! I’ve made some money working at a company, like you, so I’m doing what I want to do – recharging myself for a short period.”

He wasn’t too surprised at the response. She must have given the same answer many times. Only it didn’t sound convincing, given what he knew of her work history. The character he was playing had a company of his own and could have saved enough to “be a writer.” She had been a receptionist, however, working at a company for low pay.

“In today’s society, it’s not easy for a young pretty girl like you to retreat courageously from the swift waves,” Chen said, paraphrasing a proverb like a would-be writer. “Mr. Xie must be a wonderful teacher.”

“Most of his works are of the old mansions in the city. He has a passion for his subject matter, so he projects a sort of value in what he sees through his passionate touches. Each of the buildings in his paintings seems to have a story shimmering through its windows. It’s really fascinating. Of course, he has his skill as well as his perspective.”

“That’s very interesting,” Chen said, his turn to resort to a stock response. “How long have you been taking lessons here?”

“About half a year. He’s quite well-known in this circle.” Sipping at her wine, she changed the subject. “Tell me about what you’re writing, Mr. Chen.”

“It’s about old Shanghai, in the thirties. That’s why people recommended Xie to me.”

“Yes, there’s no better man for that purpose. No better place, either,” she said, rising. “Now that we’ve taken a break, let’s go out and dance. It’ll be good for your book.”

“I can hardly dance, Jiao.”

“You’ll learn so quickly. I didn’t even know the difference between a two-step and a three-step a year ago.”

That was probably true. At that time, she still worked at a low-end job, alone, with no social life at all.

They went back to the party and onto the “dance floor.” She was a capable and patient partner. It was not long before he found himself being guided around by her, not that smoothly, but not precariously, either. Turning in her high-heeled slippers, she danced in an effortless way, her black hair flashing against the white walls.

It was a summer evening. Holding her supple waist, he noticed she left the top button of her white blouse unbuttoned, revealing an alluring cleavage, as a dreamy ballad swelled into the soft fantasies of the mansion. She looked up at him, wisps of her hair brushing against his face, the lambent light burnishing her cheek with a painter’s brush. He suddenly thought of what he had read about Mao and Shang, in another magnificent mansion like this one, in the same city…

In the celestial palace, which year is this year? A fragment of a Song-dynasty poem came swirling across his mind, her hand clasping his.

“You’re not bad at all,” she said, her soft lips close to his ear, in a mock-serious assessment of his qualities as a dancing partner.

“Perfect,” Xie said, gliding by them in the arms of the middle-aged woman.

“She’s leading me well,” Chen said. “Oh, some people are playing Monopoly over there, a fascinating game.” Xie added, “All in English, if you care to join.”

A popular Western game – Chen had heard of it. Little wonder that it was being played here, but it reminded him of the lines by Li Shangyin about a different game, at a different party.

Here, the game of the palm-hidden hook / between the seats, the spring wine warm, / the candlelight red, and the game / of the napkin-cover surprise in groups.

When the Tang-dynasty poet felt like a total outsider in spite of being around others enjoying a happy night, he composed those lines, lamenting about “lacking the soaring wings of a colorful phoenix” to fly to his love far away, and comparing himself to “a tumbleweed turning and turning around” for no purpose. At least he had written some wonderful lines out of the experience. What about Chen himself?

The night went on, one dance after another, one cup after another, one melody after another…

Chen did not dance much. He talked to some others, including the silver-haired man with the gold spectacles and the gold pocket watch – Mr. Zhou, from the illustrious Zhou family that had monopolized the importation of red wine in the thirties. Zhou proved to be friendly after learning of Chen’s connection to Mr. Shen.

“Xie is an embroidered pillow stuffed with straw,” Zhou commented. “What a joke! But Mr. Shen is of the real old class, from a prominent banker family and himself a man of great learning too.”

Chen was surprised at the harsh criticism of the host. He murmured something vague in response. There were Old Dicks and Old Dicks.

Alternating between talking and dancing, Chen managed to stay to the end of the party. With the melody of “Auld Lang Syne” falling in the half-deserted room and Xie rubbing his sleepy eyes, Chen left along with Jiao and several other girls.

They parted outside the mansion. He saw a luxurious car waiting for one of the girls. Jiao and another girl nicknamed Golden Oriole shared a taxi, for they lived not far from each other. Jiao since waved out at him under the starry night. Chen waited for a second taxi.

Standing on the curb, alone, he thought he heard a piano from an open window somewhere along the quiet street. He decided to walk along Ruijin Road to the subway station. It hadn’t been too bad a start, he reflected, strolling along.

There was no judging Jiao from just one meeting. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of her being a kept girl, but at least there was no car waiting for her at the end of the party. A Big Buck would have arranged for her to be picked up. Nor did she get any phone call during the party, either. A clever, vivacious girl, she didn’t strike him as being involved in some “little concubine” arrangement.

As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.

Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.

The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.