Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

“The common kitchen area is too crowded,” she said, glancing up at him, then at the ashtray on the nightstand.

So the sound he had heard earlier outside the door could have been the chicken struggling in Peiqin’s hand. It was too late, now for him to hide the ashtray.

“Where is Qinqin?” he asked.

“Group study with his schoolmates. He left early and won’t be back until late in the evening.”

Lifting his towel blanket, Yu sat up. “Let me help, Peiqin.”

“You have said that since our ‘educated youth’ days in Yunnan, but have you ever helped with a chicken?”

“But I did in Yunnan, at least once – I ‘acquired’ a chicken in the middle of the night, remember?” He was pleased that she didn’t bring up the issue of his smoking first thing in the morning.

“Shame on you! For a cop to talk about that.”

“I wasn’t a cop then.” He smiled in spite of himself. During their “educated youth” years in Yunnan Province when they were poor and starved, Yu once stole a chicken from a Dai farmer during the night, and Peiqin cooked it in stealth.

Today, in the morning light, her bare arms were specked with the chicken blood, just like so many years ago. He fought down the temptation to light another cigarette.

“It’s almost over,” she said. “We’re going to have home-grown hen soup today. You and Qinqin have been working so hard.”

As a rule, Peiqin didn’t put something special on the dinner table unless their son Qinqin was at home. It was an unwritten rule Yu understood well. Nothing was spared in support of Qinqin’s effort to get into a good college, which would be crucial to his future in the new China.

“A chicken soup, plus carp filet fried with tomato and shepherd purse blossom mixed with tofu,” Peiqin said with a happy smile. “Because it is Sunday, you may have a cup of Shaoxing yellow wine too.”

“But you don’t have to get a live chicken. It’s too troublesome.”

“You haven’t learned anything from your gourmet boss. He would tell you that there is world of difference between a live home-grown chicken and a frozen one from the so-called chicken farm.”

“How could you be wrong, Peiqin, with even Chief Inspector Chen supporting your chicken choice?”

“Now you can help me by lying on the bed, and not smoking. It’s Sunday morning. You have hardly had the time to talk to me lately.”

“But you’ve been busy too.”

“Don’t worry about me. Soon Qinqin will be in college, and I won’t be busy anymore. Well, anything new about Chen’s leave?”

He knew she would get around to that topic, and he reached for the ashtray absentmindedly. He told her what he had learned, mainly from Old Hunter.

“Perhaps Chen chose Old Hunter,” she said finally, “because your father isn’t a cop anymore, and no one will pay close attention to him.”

“But Old Hunter also withheld information from me.”

“He either doesn’t know, or he must have his reasons. Now, what has the old man been up to?”

“He has been busy patrolling somewhere – shadowing somebody, I believe. But if not for my connection to Hong, Old Hunter might not have let me do anything.”

“What did you find out?”

“I just did a background check on two men linked to a woman named Qian, who died about twenty years ago in a traffic accident. Of the two men, the older one, Tan, died two years before she did – suicide. There was nothing suspicious about the circumstances of his death. As for the second, Peng, he’s a nobody, one of those jobless loafers you see everywhere nowadays.”

“Then, why all the fuss?” She put the pair of stainless-steel tweezers in the plastic basin. “Who is Old Hunter shadowing?”

“A young girl named Jiao, Qian’s daughter. Possibly a kept girl – a little concubine.”

“Who keeps her?”

“No one knows. That’s what Old Hunter has been trying to find out, I think, but he has forbidden me to do anything concerning her.”

“That’s strange. A Big Buck will show off his mistress like a five-karat diamond ring – a symbol of his success. Unless he belongs to a different circle…”

“What do you mean?”

“Instead of being a Big Buck, he might be a high-ranking Party official, so he is trying to keep their relationship a secret. But he can’t keep it secret for too long if cops are looking into it.”

“Not just the cops, but Internal Security too.”

“And Chief Inspector Chen as well. That’s not good,” she said broodingly. “Did you learn anything else from your father?”

“He apparently had a long talk with Chen, mentioning a story about how the tomb builders of Cao Cao were killed because of what they knew, but that happened more than a thousand years ago.”

“That sounds ominous! Some knowledge can be really deadly. Did you notice anything unusual about him?”

“He had a book with him – with a strange title, like a weather book about Shanghai…”

“Do you think the book has something to do with Chen’s investigation?” She added, “The old man is not a great reader.”

“Yes, that’s what I think.”

“Hold on, Yu – can you recall the name of the book?”

“Cloud and Rain… something.”

“Cloud and Rain – oh I see, now I see -”

“What do you see?” he said, noting an anxious and eager look in her eyes, a sort of scared opacity, as if she were staring at something strange, monstrous.

“Cloud and Rain -” She jumped up from the stool, wiping her hands on her apron while bending to pull a cardboard box out from under the bed. “I’ve got a copy of it. Cloud and Rain in Shanghai.”

“That’s it. That’s the name of the book,” he said, his eyes following her. In the room, the makeshift bookshelf belonged to Qinqin. Peiqin had her own books, like her favorite novel, Dream of the Red Chamber, but he didn’t know where she kept them. The cardboard box was an old one, originally used for Meiling brand, canned lunch meat, possibly from her restaurant.

She had found the book in question and started leafing through it in great excitement.

“What are you looking for?”

“Yes, that’s it – Qian. And Tan too, sure enough,” she said, holding the book up in her hand. “Have you heard of a movie star named Shang?”

“Shang? I’ve never seen her movies. She was popular in the fifties, I think, and she died during the Cultural Revolution.”

“She committed suicide.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she said, taking another look at the page, “Qian was Shang’s daughter.”

“Is that book about Shang?”

“No, it’s about her daughter, Qian, but it was popular because of Shang, or rather because of the man she slept with.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Mao!” she said in the shifting morning light that dappled her face like in a painting. “That’s why Chen doesn’t want to get you involved. That’s also why Party Secretary Li is keeping his mouth shut. It’s all because of Mao.”

“I’m lost, Peiqin.”

“You haven’t heard about Mao’s affair with Shang?”

“No, not really.”

“There’s a book titled Mao and His Women. Have you never heard of it?”

“No, but you cannot take those stories seriously. Have you read it?”

“No, but I read some excerpts in a Hong Kong magazine that a customer left in the restaurant. The book is banned here, of course, but they are true stories. Mao liked dancing with beautiful young women. It’s acknowledged in the official newspapers, which say that Mao was under a lot of stress, so the Party Central Committee wanted him to relax through dancing. Shang was a regular partner of his and they danced together many times.”