Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

There was no point going back to the bureau at the moment. He was in no mood for Party Secretary Li’s recital of the Wenhui Daily editorial. Nor did he want to go back to his own apartment, alone, after such a night.

He found himself walking toward his mother’s place.

His mother put down the newspaper she had been reading, “Why didn’t you call?”

She rose to set a cup of tea before him.

“Politics,” he said bitterly, “Nothing but politics.”

“Some trouble at work?” She looked puzzled.

“No, I’m all right.”

“Politics. You mean the conference? Or the HCC case, today’s headline? Everybody is talking about it.”

He did not know how to explain to her. She had never been interested in politics. Nor did he know whether he should tell her about Ling although that was what his mother would really be interested in. So he just said, “I’ve been in charge of the Wu case, but it has not been concluded properly.”

“Was justice served?”

“Yes. Politics aside-”

“I’ve talked to several neighbors. They are all very pleased with the outcome of the trial.”

“I’m glad they are pleased, Mother.”

“In fact, I have been doing some thinking about your work since our last talk. I still hope you will take your father’s path one day, but in your position, if you believe you can do something for the country, you should persevere. It helps a little if there are a few honest policemen around, even though it may not help much.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

After he had his tea, she walked downstairs with him. In the hallway crowded with stoves and cooking utensils, Aunt Xi, an old neighbor, greeted them warmly, “Mrs. Chen, your son is a high cadre now, Chief Inspector Director or some high ranking position. This morning I was reading the newspaper, and his name with an important title jumped out at me.”

His mother smiled without saying anything. His rank might have appealed to her a little too.

“Don’t forget us in your high position,” Aunt Xi continued. “Remember, I’ve watched you grow up.”

Out on the street, he saw a peddler frying dumplings in a gigantic wok over a wheeled gas burner, a familiar scene from his childhood, only a coal stove would have been used back then. One fried dumpling would have been a lavish treat for a child, but his mother would stuff him with two or three. A loving mother, beautiful, young, and supportive.

Time, as Buddha wrote, passes in the snapping of the fingers.

At the bus stop, he turned around and saw her still standing in front of the house. Small and shrunken and gray in the dusk. Though still supportive.

Chief Inspector Chen would not quit the police force.

The visit had strengthened his determination to go on.

She might never fully approve of his profession, but as long as he did his job conscientiously, he would not disappoint her. Also, it was his responsibility to support her. He would purchase a pound of genuine jasmine tea for her the next time he went to visit. And he would think about how to tell her about his relationship with Ling.

In the words of the poem his father had taught him, a son’s return for his mother’s love is always inadequate, and so is one’s responsibility to the country: Who says that the splendor of a grass blade returns The love of the spring that forever returns?

The End

About the Author

Q iu Xiaolong was born in Shanghai. He was selected for membership in the Chinese Writers’ Association and published poetry, translations and criticism in China. He has lived in the United States since 1989 and has an M.A. and a Ph. D. in Comparative Literature awarded by Washington University. His work has been published in Prairie Schooner , New Letters, Present Tense, River Styx, Riverfront Times, and in several anthologies. He has been the recipient of the Missouri Biennial Award, the Prairie Schooner Readers’ Choice Award, a Yaddo and a Ford Foundation Fellowship. He teaches Chinese Literature at University College of Washington University and lives in St. Louis with his wife and daughter.