Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

Chen and Yu went up the stairs. Their knock on the door was answered by a tall, lean young man of sixteen or seventeen. Bao looked like an undeveloped green bean sprout. His small eyes dilated with fear at the sight of Detective Yu in uniform. His room was one of the barest Yu had ever seen. There was hardly any furniture. A hardboard had been placed on two bamboo benches as a bed, and beneath it stood a disorderly pile of cardboard boxes. A broken chair and something like a student desk completed the furnishings, which appeared to be castoffs Bao had found and brought back.

“Let’s crack this nut here before we take him to the bureau,” Chen whispered.

This was not like Chen, who normally made a point of following procedure. But they were pressed for time, Yu knew. If they took Bao to the bureau, Party Secretary Li and others might join their interrogation. In one way or another, they might slow things down.

It was Thursday. They had to get the truth from Bao before the press conference on Friday.

“You’d better spill the beans,” Chen told Bao. “If you come clean about what you did on the morning of February seventh, Detective Yu may be able to work out some sort of a deal for you.”

“We know everything, young man,” Yu said, “and if you are cooperative, we will recommend leniency.”

Detective Yu did not know if he could guarantee this, but he had to back up Chen.

There was nothing for them to sit on, except for the broken chair. Bao squatted against the wall, like a wilting bean sprout.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, officers,” he said, without looking at either of them.

“You question him, Detective Yu,” Chen said. “I will search the room.”

Again, Chen was departing from his usual standard of behavior this morning, Yu observed. They did not even have a search warrant.

“Go ahead, Chief,” Yu said, playing along. “Where were you on the morning of February seventh, Bao? We know what you did, so there’s no point denying it.”

Perhaps Bao was too young. He did not know that the police had to have a search warrant before they could go through his room. Still he evaded Yu’s questions, mechanically proclaiming his innocence of any wrongdoing.

Chen, searching under the bed, pulled out a couple of cardboard boxes. Inside a shoebox he found a bunch of paper, rubber-banded together.

“This is the manuscript you took from Yin’s place on the morning of February seventh,” Chen said in a composed voice, as if this discovery was a foregone conclusion. “This is the manuscript of the novel that Yang wrote in English.”

Yu manage to conceal his surprise as he said, “The game is over. Better come clean right now.”

Bao looked like a green bean sprout that had been boiled and shrunken.

“I have the evidence now; you took this from Yin’s room,” Chen said. “There is no use denying it. This is your last chance to cooperate.”

“Use your brains, Bao,” said Yu.

“I did not mean it-” Bao started, all in a fluster. “I really did not mean to do it.”

“Hold on,” Chen said, taking out a mini tape recorder from his pocket.

“Yes, we can tape him here,” Yu said.

“It’s your case, Detective Yu. You question him. I’ll take a look at the manuscript over a bowl of noodles in the small restaurant downstairs.”

“Come on, Chief. You should question him too. Surely you can read here.”

“I have not had breakfast yet. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had a bite.”

So Bao began to confess. His head buried between his hands, squatting in a posture Detective Yu had seen in a movie about the farmers in the northwest region, with the tape recorder on the floor in front of him and Yu, seated on the hardboard bed gazing down on him, Bao spoke.

It had all started with Bao’s first trip to Shanghai three and a half years earlier, on the occasion of his grandmother’s death. The dying Jie had asked to see her grandson for the first and also the last time. Theirs was one of the numerous tragic stories from the Cultural Revolution. Hong, who had been a teenager then, had tried to join the Red Guard, but had been rejected because of her family background. Hong felt she had no choice but to prove her revolutionary fervor by cutting all her family ties. She denounced her parents as well as Yang, the Rightist uncle she had never seen. Hong was among the first group that went to Jiangxi Province in the movement of educated youths going to the countryside. She went one step further by marrying a local farmer, a decisive break with her former self.

At the end of the Cultural Revolution, Hong must have come to regret those “revolutionary decisions” of hers, but there was little she could do. Her father had passed away, and her mother would never forgive her. After the first two years of her marriage, she had practically nothing to talk about to her husband. All her hopes rested with her son Bao. She made him read books, and she told him stories. Most of the stories were about the wonderful city in which she had grown up. And there were a few about Yang too. With the passage of time, Yang no longer appeared so black or counterrevolutionary to her; now he was a glamorous intellectual.

When her mother’s dying request reached her, it took Hong several days to borrow enough money for a train ticket for Bao. The old woman still had not forgiven her. Bao alone boarded the train. By the time he reached Shanghai, Jie had passed away. Her room had already been reclaimed by the government. What she had left behind had been divided among her neighbors. One claimed that Jie had given her all her furniture, and another took Jie’s old clothes. They were not worth much, but to Bao this was a huge disappointment. Hong had sent him forth with the expectation that he would receive an inheritance.

When Jie had lain dying, she had been alone. Now that she was dead, her grandson arrived out of nowhere to claim his due. No one wanted to put themselves out on his behalf. Bao did not even have a place to stay in the city. From the neighborhood committee, however, Bao learned one thing: among those who had attended the funeral service for Jie was Yin Lige. She had taken away with her an old photo album, as well as several old letters that no one else wanted.

One of the committee members suggested that Bao approach Yin for help. Hong had also mentioned Yin’s name. She had heard that some of Yang’s earlier translations had already been reprinted. Or maybe it was his poetry. There might be money awaiting him or at least Yin might have some information about it.

That’s why Bao first went to Yin’s room in Treasure Garden Lane.

Yin was all hospitality when he introduced himself. After all, Bao was closely related to Yang. She urged him to stay on for a few days. The location of the lane was convenient, and she suggested that he go sightseeing while she was busy with her teaching. She took him out when she had time. She even treated him to a meal at the Xinya Restaurant on Nanjing Road. Everything went well, until the moment he made known why he had come to Shanghai.

Her attitude changed completely. She had not earned any money from Yang’s earlier translations, but Yang’s poetry collection was another matter. She showed him the statement the publisher had sent to her. It did not specify how much was due to her as special editor, so she arranged a meeting for them with the editor. She insisted on the condition that, in return for a small payment from the publisher, Bao promise that he would never bother her again.

But Bao did not think it was fair. He believed that these city people, especially Yin, had taken advantage of a country bumpkin like him.

He went back to his village with less than a thousand Yuan. It was not such a small a sum to the villagers, but Bao was no longer the same young man, content to work there like his father and forefathers, toiling in the rice paddy, his legs covered in mud. The trip to Shanghai had opened his eyes to a new world. The fact that his grandmother had lived in the city all her life, and his mother for seventeen years, and, more than anything else, the legend of his granduncle, made it impossible for Bao to stay on in the poor, backward village.