Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, Comrade Chief Inspector,” she said. “It’s the Modern Age, isn’t it? ‘Things fall apart; the center cannot hold’.”

“Well, that’s true,” he said, surprised at the old woman’s literary quotation, “from one perspective. But it is not necessarily that anarchy is loosed upon the world. It is just a transitional period.”

“Historically, a transitional period is short,” she said, in her turn surprised, but animated for the first time in the course of their conversation, “but existentially, not so short for the individual.”

“Yes, you’re right. So our choice is all the more important,” he said. “By the way, where do you work?”

“Fudan University, comparative literature department,“ she added, “but the department is practically gone. And I’m retired. No one wants to study the subject in today’s market.”

“So you are no other than Professor Xie Kun?”

“Yes, retired Professor Xie Kun.”

“Oh, what an honor to meet you today! I have read The Modernist Muse.”

“Have you?” she said. “I had not expected that a high-ranking police officer would be interested in it.”

“Oh, yes, in fact, I have read it two or three times.”

“Then I hope you did not buy it when it first came out. I came across it the other day on a broken rickshaw, marked on sale for twenty-five cents.”

“Well, you never know. ‘Green, green grass spreading out everywhere,’” he said, pleased to make another quick-witted allusion which suggested that she had readers and students everywhere who appreciated her work.

“Not everywhere,” she said, “not even at home. Xie Rong, for one, has not read it.”

“How can that possibly be?”

“I used to hope that she, too, would study literature, but after graduating from high school, she started working at Shanghai Sheldon Hotel. From the very beginning, she earned three times my salary, not to mention all the free cosmetics and tips she got there.”

“I’m so sorry, Professor Xie. I don’t know what to say.” He sighed. “But as the economy improves, people may change their minds about literature. Well, let us hope so.”

He decided not to tell her about his own literary pursuits.

“Have you heard that popular saying-’The poorest is a Ph. D., and the dumbest is a professor.’ I happen to be both. So it is understandable that she chose a different road.”

“But why did she quit the hotel job to work for a travel agency?” he said, anxious to change the subject. “And then why did she quit the travel agency to go to Guangzhou?”

“I asked her about that, but she said I was too old fashioned. According to her, young people nowadays change jobs like clothes. That is not a bad metaphor, though. The bottom line is money, of course.”

“But why Guangzhou?”

“Um, that’s what worries me. For a young girl to be there-all alone.”

“Has she talked to you about a trip to the Yellow Mountains last October?”

“She did not talk to me much about her work. But as for that trip, I do remember. She brought back some green tea. The Cloud and Mist tea of the mountains. She seemed a bit upset when she got back.”

“Did you know why?”

“No ”

“Could that be the reason she changed her job?”

“I don’t know, but soon afterward she left for Guangzhou.”

“Can you give me a recent picture of her?”

“Certainly.” She took a picture out of an album, and handed it to him.

It was of a young slim girl standing by the Bund, wearing a tight white T-shirt and a very short pleated skirt rather ahead of current Shanghai fashion.

“If you find her in Guangzhou, please tell her that I’m praying for her to come back. It can’t be easy for her, all alone there. And I’m alone here, an old woman.”

“I will,” he said, taking the picture. “I’ll do my best.”

As he left Professor Xie’s home, the earlier excitement he had felt about the new development was fading. It was not just that Xie Rong’s having moved to Guangzhou-without leaving an address-added to the difficulty of the investigation. It was the talk with the retired professor that had left him depressed.

China was changing rapidly, but with honest intellectuals now viewed as “the poorest and dumbest,” the situation was worrisome.

Wei Hong’s address was Number 60, Hetian Road, a new apartment complex. He pushed the doorbell for several seconds, but no one answered. Finally he had to bang on the door with his fist.

An elderly woman opened it and looked at him with suspicious eyes. “What’s the problem?”

He immediately recognized her from the photo.

“You must be Comrade Wei Hong. My name is Chen Cao,” he said, producing his I.D., “from the Shanghai Police Bureau.”

“Old Hua, there is a police officer here.” Wei turned round, speaking loudly into the room before she nodded to him. “Come on in then.”

The room was a tightly packed efficiency. He was not so surprised to see a portable gas tank stove inside the doorway, for it was the same arrangement as he had seen in Qian Yizhi’s dorm room. There was a pot boiling above the gas jet. Then he saw a white-haired old man rising from an oyster-colored leather sofa. There was a half-played game of solitaire on the low coffee table in front of him.

“So what can we do for Comrade Chief Inspector today?” the old man said, studying the card Wei had handed him.

“I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

“Us?”

“It’s not about you, but about somebody you knew.”

“Oh, go ahead.”

“You went to the Yellow Mountains several months ago, didn’t you?”

“Yes, we went there,” Wei said. “My husband and I like traveling.”

“Is this a picture you took in the mountains?” Chen took a Polaroid picture out of his briefcase. “Last October?”

“Yes,” Wei said, her voice containing a slight note of exasperation, “I can surely recognize myself.”

“Now what about the name at the back-” he turned over the picture. “Who is Zhaodi?”

“A young woman we met during the trip. She took some pictures for us.”

He took out another picture of Guan making a presentation at an important Party meeting in the People’s Great Hall.

“Is she the woman named Zhaodi?”

“Yes, that’s her. Though she looks different, you see, in different clothes. What has she done?” Wei looked inquisitive, as he took out his notebook and pen. “At our parting in the mountains, she promised to call us. She never has.”

“She’s dead.”

“What!”

The astonishment on the old woman’s face was genuine.

“And her name’s Guan Hongying.”

“Really!” Hua cut in. “The national model worker?”

“But that Xiansheng of hers,” Wei said, “he called her Zhaodi too.”

“What!” It was Chen’s turn to be astonished. “Xiansheng”-a term rediscovered in China’s nineties-was ambiguous in its meaning, referring to husband, lover, or friend. Whatever it might have meant in Guan’s case, she’d had a companion traveling with her in the mountains. “Do you mean her boyfriend or husband?”

“We don’t know,” Wei said.

“They traveled together,” Hua added, “and shared their hotel room.”

“So they registered as a couple?”

“I think so, otherwise they could not have had the same room.”

“Did she introduce the man to you as her husband?”

“Well, she just said something like ‘This is my mister.’ People do not make formal introductions in the mountains.”

“Did you notice anything suspicious in their relationship?”