Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

He told his mother he was going to become a success in the city of Shanghai.

He was not alone. Several young men from the village had already left for big cities.

Shanghai, however, did not turn out to be the city of Bao ’s dreams. He had neither capital nor any skills with which to compete. Low-paying, hard-working temporary jobs on construction sites were all he could find. Yet he saw with his own eyes how the rich wallowed in money and luxuries, while his wages for a month were not even enough for one karaoke night. Still, if he had been willing to work hard like other provincials, it would not have been impossible for him to survive. But that was not enough for Bao.

With his Shanghai background, he considered himself different. He could not forget his great expectations, his hopes that there would be a lot of money awaiting him as the grandnephew of Yang.

He started reading about Yang and discovered the novel, Death of a Chinese Professor. Like others, he believed that its success was derived from Yin’s relationship with Yang. So Bao felt that his claims as Yang’s legal heir should not have been forgotten.

And if one poetry collection had been left to Yin, he thought there might have been other manuscripts, perhaps translations or novels. His mother had once mentioned that Yang had been writing a story before the Cultural Revolution. Then he learned that, but for the notoriety of Death of a Chinese Professor, Yang’s poetry collection would have gone into a second or even a third printing, from which he would have gotten some money.

Bao did not simply lose himself in such speculations. While working at menial jobs, he tried hard to make a fortune in the ways that occurred to him. He started gambling on mah-jongg. This did not work out. He did not lose much, but those long, sleepless nights at the mah-jongg table cost him several odd jobs. Then he threw himself into the stock market with borrowed money. While he made a couple of hundred Yuan at first, he soon began to pile up losses as the money seemed to sink into a quagmire, and his creditors began hounding him, knocking at the door at all hours of the night.

In desperation, he thought of approaching Yin again. She had a lot of money-at least, it seemed so to him.

He thought she should have helped him.

Yin would have been nobody without Yang. The book, the money, the fame… all of it had come to her because of her relationship with him. And what was that relationship? They had not even been married. She did not even have a marriage certificate.

He, Bao, was Yang’s only legal heir.

Bao hesitated to approach her because of the agreement he had signed. And the effort would most likely be useless, he supposed. When he learned about her visit to Hong Kong, however, he had an idea. At the time, those who came back from their visits to foreign destinations, including Hong Kong, were entitled to a certain quota for imported goods, such as a Japanese TV or an American stereo system. If they did not want to use the quota for themselves, they could sell it on the black market for a fairly large amount of money. Bao did not think Yin would have the space for this kind of equipment in the tingzijian room, or the guts to sell the quota for a profit on the black market. So what he was going to ask of her was to let him have the quota, something that would probably be of no value to her.

He phoned her but before he could begin to explain his proposal, she flew into a rage, threatening to call the police if he came to the lane again. Instead, he paid a visit to her at the school where she taught, calculating that a college teacher like her would not choose to make a public scene about something in her private life. He got through the college gate by claiming to be a former student of hers. And he found her in her office, alone.

“If you are not using the quota, you don’t lose anything by giving it to me,” he explained in a voice he thought full of reason. “As Yang’s only grandnephew, I am asking you to please help me.”

“Well,” she said after giving him a long look. “I’ve been trying to save some money to buy a color TV for myself, but the quota is only valid for six months. Give me a call in two months. If I still do not have enough money by that time, then you can have the quota.”

It was not an outright refusal, and she was already standing up. “You have to leave now. I have a class in ten minutes. Let me walk you to the door.”

Before she marched him to the end of the corridor, however, two young female students came over to her with notebooks in their hands.

“You know the way out from here, “ she said to him.

He did, but he heard something that made him pause and hide behind a concrete pillar.

“Professor Yin. You must remember me,” one of the girls said in a sweet voice. “You taught me two years ago. You said I was your favorite student. And I will need your help when you get to the United States. I will need a letter of recommendation.”

From what he overheard, he concluded that in two months Yin would be far away in the United States. So her promise was worthless.

The more he thought about it, the more upset he became. In his mind, even her opportunity to go abroad was derived from her relationship with Yang. He had to take action, he decided, before it was too late.

He remembered that she had left the keys dangling from the keyhole of her desk when she had literally pushed him out of her office, and that she had not locked the door because one of her colleagues happened to be coming in at that moment. So he sneaked back to her office. Her colleague was not there, and the office door was not locked either. No one had seen him enter the room, but his search of her desk drawer was not successful.

The only money he could find was some coins in a small plastic box. But then he realized that on the key ring were the keys to the back door of the shikumen and to her room. And he remembered something. During his previous stay with her, Yin had had him duplicate these keys for his own use. Perhaps because he had an accent, or because of his countrified appearance, the locksmith produced two duplicates for each, and charged him for them. Bao did not tell Yin for fear of losing face and he paid for the extra set out of his own pocket. Later on, he only gave back one set. He kept the keys together with the key ring decorated with the image of the dancer from the ballet Red Woman Soldier, as a souvenir. When he returned to Shanghai, he brought the keys with him.

He started to make plans, but he was cautious. He remembered her habit of getting up early in the morning for tai chi. Normally, she left the shikumen building at around five fifteen, and she did not come back until after eight. In that period, he could get into her room, take whatever there was, and leave either through the back or the front door. The earlier, the better, of course, as most residents would not get up before six. As long as he was not actually seen leaving Yin’s room, he would not be in danger. The only possible risk was that one of her neighbors might recognize him. But since his previous visit, he had grown up, and that risk was slight. Even if he were to be identified as the thief, the police would probably not exert much effort to track down a mere burglar, nor would it be easy to trace him in Shanghai.

To make sure of his plan, he did some surveillance work. After having observed the lane secretly for a week, he decided to act. He sneaked in through the back door shortly after Yin left on the morning of February 7. He did not really consider that he was doing anything wrong, for he believed that it was only fair that he receive a share of Yang’s legacy.

But it took him much longer than he had anticipated to find anything valuable to steal. There was less cash than he had expected and no checkbook, much less a credit card. Then he found the English manuscript in a cardboard box under the bed. He could not read it, but he could tell what it must be.