Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

The issue that Chen was musing over was not, however, how to get to Hong Kong like those excited people on the platform. After 1997 when Hong Kong came under Chinese rule, he would probably visit there, and Hong Kong would still be capitalist in theory. At this moment, he had to find a place to stay in Guangzhou-a place within the bureau’s socialist budget.

His budget plight had been further complicated by Commissar Zhang in the special case group meeting, where Chen had given a number of reasons for making the trip. Actually, there was one he had not mentioned. Maybe it was not that important, but it was there. He had intended to keep himself busy working on the case, so busy that he had no time to think about his own personal problem. And for that, an investigative trip away from Shanghai for a few days was just the thing. But in Guangzhou Chen found the budget situation worse than he had expected. Owing to price reforms, a small, shabby hotel room in a not-too-inconvenient location would cost forty Yuan per day. Chen had already used one hundred fifty Yuan for the round-trip train ticket. The remaining two hundred Yuan was inadequate even for five days. As a chief inspector, he got a maximum of five Yuan for his standard meal allowance, but a tiny bowl of shrimp dumplings and noodles eaten at a sidewalk stand would cost him more. The only solution was to find a cheap guesthouse with a small canteen.

After spending twenty minutes at the station hotel service desk, he decided to make a phone call to Ms. Yang Ke, the head of the Guangzhou Writers’ Association.

“Comrade Yang, it’s Chen Cao speaking.”

“Little Chen, I’m so pleased that you’re calling me,” Yang said. “I recognized your Shanghai accent.”

“So you still remember me?”

“Of course, and the article you wrote about the movie, too. So where are you?”

“I’m here in Guangzhou. And I want to say hi to you, a greeting to the well-known established writer from an unknown young writer.”

“Thank you, but you’re not that unknown. And it is not common nowadays for the young to be respectful to the old.”

A novelist in her mid-sixties, Yang had written a bestseller, The Song of Revolution, in the early sixties that was later made into a popular movie, showing Daojin, a revolutionary goddess, as a young heroine. Chen was too young to see the movie when it was first released, but he kept clippings from several movie magazines. Both the novel and the film were banned during the Cultural Revolution. When the movie was re-released afterward, Chen hastened to see it. To his great dismay, it was not at all the movie he had dreamed of. The story struck him as a stereotyped propaganda, the colors of the movie unreal, the heroine too serious, stiff, moving about with gestures familiar from revolutionary posters. Still, Chen wrote an essay arguing for the historical merit of the novel.

“What has brought you here?”

“Nothing particular. People are all saying that Guangzhou has changed a lot. So I want to see for myself, and hopefully find something to write about.”

“Exactly, that’s why so many writers are coming here. So where are you staying, Chen?”

“I’ve not decided yet. In fact, you’re the first one I’m calling in Guangzhou. The hotels seem quite expensive.”

“Well, that is just what our Writers’ Home is for. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? Let me make a call for you. Just go there. The location is excellent, and you will receive a huge discount.”

“Oh yes, now that you remind me.”

A guesthouse had been made from the original building of the Guangzhou Writers’ Association, a virtue made out of necessity. Nominally an unofficial organization, the Writers’ Association had always been funded with government money to support professional writers and activities. In recent years, however, the funding had undergone huge cuts. As a last resort, Yang had turned the office building into a guesthouse, using the profit to support the association.

“You know, that’s the very argument I made to the local authorities to get approval. Since Guangzhou’s changing so fast, writers will come here to experience life, and they have to stay somewhere. The hotels are too expensive, and our Writers’ Home charges about only one-third their price for the members of the Writers’ Association. It’s in the interest of socialist spiritual civilization.”

“What a wonderful idea!” he said. “The Writers’ Home must be a great success.”

“See for yourself,” Yang said, “but I won’t be able to meet you there today. I’m leaving for a PEN conference in Hong Kong. Next week I’ll arrange a welcome meal on behalf of the association, Guangzhou branch.”

“Don’t bother, Chairman Yang, but I certainly would love to meet you and other writers.”

“You joined the National Writers’ Association a long time ago. I voted for you, I remember. Bring your membership card with you. The people there need to see that, for the discount.”

“Thank you.”

Though he had been a member of the National Writers’ Association for several years, Chen still could not figure out how he had been enrolled in the first place. He had not even applied for membership. His poems were not popular among some critics, nor was he such an ambitious writer as to look forward to seeing his name in print every month. Perhaps he had been selected for membership in part because of his position as a police officer. It was in accordance with part of the Party authorities’ favorite propaganda: Writers in socialist China came from all walks of life.

It did not take him long to arrive at the Writers’ Home, which was not exactly a dream house as it had been described in some newspapers. Located at the end of a winding road, it displayed a classical colonial facade, but its surface was broken and pockmarked. In contrast to the other new or recently refurbished buildings on the slope, it looked modest, even a bit shabby. Still, its position on a hillside provided a splendid view of the Pearl River.

“My name is Chen Cao,” he said to the front desk clerk, producing his card. “Comrade Yang Ke suggested I come here.”

On the card, beneath his name, was his title, POET, in golden characters. The card, originally designed by the Writers’ Association, did not indicate his professional title as CHIEF INSPECTOR-an omission he had insisted on.

The front desk clerk looked at Chen’s membership card and said, “So you are the well-known poet. General Manager Yang has just called. A very quiet room is reserved for you. Full of light, too, so you can concentrate on your writing.”

“General Manager Yang?” Chen was amused at the new title of the elderly novelist. He was also pleased that, for once, his poet’s card would stand him in good stead.

“Number Fourteen.” Chen looked at the receipt. “That’s my room number?”

“No, that’s your bed number. It’s a double room, but right now you are the only one there. So you can have the room to yourself. All the single rooms are full.”

“Thank you.”

Chen crossed the lobby to the gift shop for a copy of the Guangzhou paper. Tucking it under his arm, he made for his room.

It was a corner room at the end of the corridor, quiet, and peaceful, as the clerk had promised. And reasonably clean. There were a couple of narrow beds, nightstands, and a small desk, the top covered with cigarette burns-reminders of a writer’s hard work. The room smelled of laundry soap-like new shirts that have been hung in old closets. The bathroom was the smallest he had ever seen. The toilet flushed with a tarnished brass chain hanging from an overhead tank. There was no air conditioner. No TV either. Only an old-fashioned electric fan stood at the foot of the bed, but it worked.