Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

He sat in the lobby, feeling idle on a supposedly busy day. Every time the librarian came out of the elevator with a bundle of books on a small cart, he would stand up expectantly. But they were other peoples’ books. Waiting there, he felt disturbed, distantly…

How long ago it was-the fragments of the time still book-marked- another summer, another library, another sense of waiting with expectations, different expectations, and the pigeons’ whistles fading in the high, clear Beijing sky… He closed his eyes, trying not to conjure up the past.

Chief Inspector Chen had to pull himself back to the work of the present.

At eleven thirty, he concluded that he had accomplished little for a morning; he packed up all his notes and went out for lunch. The Shanghai Library was located on the corner of Nanjing Road and Huangpi Road. There were a number of fancy restaurants in the neighborhood. He walked to the north gate of the People’s Park, where there was a young vendor selling hot dogs and sandwiches from a cart on the sidewalk sporting a Budweiser umbrella, an imported coffee maker, and a radio playing loud rock-and-roll music. The chicken sandwich he bought was not cheap. He washed it down with a paper cup of reheated, lukewarm coffee, not at all like what he had enjoyed with Wang at the River Cafe.

When he returned to the library, he phoned Wang at Wenhui. He could hear a couple of phones ringing at the same time in the background as he chatted a little about her heavy responsibility on Sunday as a Wenhui reporter before he switched topics.

“Wang, I have to ask a favor of you.”

“People never go to a Buddhist temple without asking for help.”

“They do not grab Buddha’s legs unless in desperation,” he said, knowing she enjoyed his repartee. A cliche for a cliche.

“Grab or pull Buddha’s legs?” She giggled.

He explained the problem he had with his library research.

“With your connections, maybe you can help. Of course, only as long as you are not too busy at the moment.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said. “I’m busy, but not that busy.”

“Not too busy for me, I know.”

“When do you need it?”

“Well… as soon as possible.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I’m in the library. Beep me.”

He resumed his reading. For the next twenty minutes, however, he did not come across a single issue containing Wu’s work, and he had to wait again. So he started reading something else. A collection of Bian Zilin’s poems. A brilliant Chinese modernist, Bian should have enjoyed much more recognition. There was a short one entitled “Fragment” Chen especially liked-” Looking at the scene from the window above, / You become somebody else’s scene. / The moon decorating your window, / you decorate somebody’s dream.” He had first read it in the Beijing Library, together with a friend. Supposedly it was a love poem, but it could mean much more: the relativity of the things in the world.

Suddenly his beeper sounded. Several other readers stared at him. He hurried out into the corridor to return the call. “Have you got something for me already, Wang?”

“Yes, I contacted the Association of Photographers. As a member, Wu Xiaoming has to fill in a report every time he publishes something.”

“I should have thought of that,” he said. “You’re so clever.”

“Too bad I’m not a detective,” she said, “like that cute little girl in the French movie. What’s her name-Mimi or something? Now, how can I give the list to you?”

“I can come to your office,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m on my way to a separator factory in the Yangpu District. I’ll change to Bus Number Sixty-one on Beijing Road. If the traffic’s not too bad, I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. Just meet me at the bus stop.”

“How far is the factory from there?’

“Another fifty minutes, I think.”

“Well, see you at the bus stop.”

Chen then dialed the bureau’s car service-a privilege he was going to enjoy for the first time in the investigation.

It was Little Zhou who answered the call. “Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Little Zhou said, “you have hardly used our service at all. If everybody were like you, we’d all be out of a job.”

Little Zhou, a former colleague of Overseas Chinese Lu, had applied for a position in the bureau at the beginning of the year. Chief Inspector Chen had put in a word for his friend’s friend. That was not the reason, however, Chen hesitated to use the bureau car. All the bureau cars were used-theoretically- only for the official business of high cadres. As a chief inspector, Chen was entitled to a car. With the snarl of traffic everywhere, and buses moving at almost a snail’s pace, it could be a necessary privilege. He was aware, however, that people were complaining about high cadres using the cars for all kinds of private purposes. But for once, Chen felt justified in requesting a car.

“You’re so busy, I know. I hate to bother your people.”

“Don’t mention it, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll make sure you have the most luxurious car today.”

Sure enough, it was a Mercedes 550 that arrived at the entrance of the library.

“Superintendent Zhao is attending a meeting in Beijing,” Little Zhou said, opening the door. “So why not?”

As the car pulled up at the bus stop on Beijing Road, he saw a surprised smile on Wang’s face. She moved out of the line of passengers waiting there, some squatting on their heels, some eying her with undisguised envy.

“Come on in,” he said, reaching out of the window. “We’ll drive you there.”

“So you’re really somebody nowadays.” She stepped in, stretching her long legs out comfortably in the spacious car. “A Mercedes at your disposal.”

“You don’t have to say that to me.” He turned around to Little Zhou, “Comrade Wang Feng is a reporter for the Wenhui newspaper. She has just compiled an important list for us. So let’s give her a ride.”

“Of course, we should help each other.”

“You’re going out of your way,” she said.

“No, you’re going out of your way for us,” he said, taking the list from her. “There are-let’s see-four pages in the list. All typed so neatly.”

“The fax is not that clear, with all the magazine names in abbreviation, and things added here and there in pen or pencil. So I had to type them out for you.”

“It must have taken you a lot of time.”

“To tell you the truth, I have not had my lunch yet.”

“Really! I, too, have had only a sandwich for the day.”

“You should learn to take care of yourself, Comrade Chief Inspector.”

“That’s right, Comrade Wang,” Little Zhou cut in, turning over his shoulder with a broad grin. “Our chief inspector is a maniac for work. He definitely needs somebody to take good care of him.”

“Well,” he said smiling, “there’s a small noodle restaurant around the corner at Xizhuang Road. Small Family, I think that’s the name. The noodles there are okay, and the place is not too noisy. We may discuss the list over there.”

“It’s fine with me.”

“Little Zhou, you can join us.”

“No, thank you,” Little Zhou said, shaking his head vigorously, “I’ve just had my lunch. I’ll wait for you outside-taking a good nap in the car. We had a mahjongg game until three this morning. So enjoy yourselves.”

The noodle restaurant had changed. He remembered it as a homely place with only four or five tables. Now it appeared more traditionally fashionable. The walls were paneled with oak, against which hung long silk scrolls of classical Chinese painting and calligraphy. There was also an oblong mahogany service counter embellished with a huge brass tea urn and an impressive array of purple sand teapots and cups.