Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

“Business people are like that.” Jiao added, “I’m going out this morning, so let’s talk about your work now. You don’t have to come every day. Three times a week. Four hours each time. Primarily your duties will be room cleaning and laundry. Occasionally, I’ll need you to prepare dinner, like today, but the moment you finish, you may leave. For your help, eight hundred a month, and I’ll pay for anything additional. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine with me.”

“Let me make a list of what you need to buy and prepare for tonight.” Jiao scribbled quickly on a piece of paper. “Oh, you don’t have to cook, just prepare them.”

“I understand,” Peiqin said, glancing over the list, which appeared to be quite specific, not only about the items, but about the specific culinary flavors too. “When are you coming back?”

“Six.”

“And your dinnertime?”

“Around seven.”

“In that case, I’d better start cooking the pork around four, I think, for the pork braised in red sauce takes hours. As for the fish, I’ll have it prepared with scallion and ginger in a steamer, so you will just need to steam it for five or six minutes, more or less, as you prefer.”

“Right,” Jiao said, nodding. “You’re quite experienced.”

“Anything specific about the pork or the fish?”

“Yes, well-cooked fat pork,” Jiao said. “Oh, don’t use soy sauce.”

“But what about the sauce -” Peiqin began, then had a thought. “I see. I think I can wok-fry sugar until it turns brown and use it for color.”

“You’re a pro,” Jiao said with a smile.

It was a recipe Peiqin had learned at the restaurant. Jiao must have cooked it herself, as she showed no surprise on her face.

“I’ll time it so the pork will be well done but not overdone when you come back. You can also add in whatever spice you like.”

“Indeed, Mr. Chen has made an excellent recommendation. Do it in whatever way you like. Here’s money for your shopping.”

Jiao appeared to be in a hurry to leave, talking and pulling on her stockings while leaning against a mahogany chair. She slid her feet into a pair of high heels.

“If it takes more than four hours for a particular day, let me know. I’ll pay extra, okay?” Jiao added, heading toward the door.

It was more than okay for a maid, Peiqin thought, listening to Jiao’s footsteps fading along the corridor and disappearing into the elevator. She then closed the door.

She didn’t know what Chen had said about her to Jiao, but it appeared that her “maid career” had started more smoothly than she expected. Jiao had accepted her without a single question. The work arrangements suited Peiqin too, since she wouldn’t even have to ask for a leave from the restaurant. As an accountant with flexible work hours, she could come over at her convenience. Some days she might be able to work her hours here during the lunch break.

Taking an apron out of the canvas bag, she started moving around like a maid, while observing like a cop’s wife, looking out for anything out of the ordinary and for objects associated with Mao.

It was a luxurious apartment. The layout appeared to be unusual, but she was not sure. The oblong-shaped living room was huge, with paintings scattered here and there, finished and unfinished. Jiao might use it more like a studio. On one wall hung a long silk-decked scroll of Chinese calligraphy. It was difficult for Peiqin to read the flying-dragon-and-dancing-phoenix-like writing. It took her several minutes to recognize five or six characters in the scroll, and then it dawned on her that the scroll was of a poem by Mao entitled “Ode to the Plum Blossom,” which she had read in her middle school textbook.

In classical Chinese poetry, beauties and flowers sometimes served as metaphors for each other. So the calligrapher could have copied the poem for Jiao as a compliment, but as far as Peiqin remembered, the plum blossom was not commonly symbolic of a young, fashionable girl.

Perhaps she was reading too much into it. In today’s market, a scroll by a celebrated calligrapher could be invaluable regardless of its contents. It also served to show the refined taste of the owner, young or not. She took another look at the poem. There was a date in the Chinese lunar calendar, which she failed to decipher. She would have to check it in a reference book from the library.

She moved into the bedroom, which, too, was exceptionally large, with a couple of walk-in closets and a master bathroom. The furniture, however, was a stark contrast to that of the living room. Simple, practically plain. What struck her as peculiar was the large wooden bed. It was larger than a king-size, and possibly custom-made. Now, why a young single girl needed such a bed, Peiqin couldn’t guess. There was also a custom-made bookshelf built into the plain wooden headboard. In fact, about a third of the bed was littered with books. Leaning to straighten the pillows, she touched the bed. No mattress, only a solid hard board – a wooden-board mattress under the sheets.

Above the headboard hung a large picture of Mao, gazing down from above. It was an unusual bedroom decoration. The picture frame looked like it was solid gold, which it couldn’t be, but it was very heavy nonetheless. The picture faced a large mirror on the opposite wall, which was not that lucky in terms of feng shui, for the people in bed. Standing beside the bed was a cabinetlike bookshelf, with pictures of Jiao on the top, almost level with the picture of Mao.

There were two closets, one large, one small, facing the bed. She opened the doors. There were clothing and painting supplies in them. But Peiqin didn’t see anything surprising.

She proceeded into the adjoining room, which looked like a study. On the large mahogany desk there was an album lying beside a miniature bronze statue of Mao. For a study, it was impressive: custom-made mahogany bookshelves stood tall and majestic against three walls. On the shelves were a considerable number of books about Mao, some of which Peiqin had never seen in bookstores. Jiao had done an incredible job collecting so many of them. There was also a section of history books, some of them thread-bound, cloth-covered editions, presumably meant to look impressive. At the bottom of one bookshelf there was a pile of fashion magazines, incongruous with the history books above.

The kitchen, full of modern stainless appliances, was the only place Peiqin didn’t find anything associated with Mao. She stood on her tiptoes and looked into the cabinet. There was nothing there but a couple of recipe books, one of which she had at home too.

She decided to go and do the shopping, so she took off the apron and folded it neatly on the kitchen table. On the first day, a maid’s responsibility came first. Later on, if she had time, she could check around again.

So she set out with the shopping list. It was an intriguing one. Fat pork, Wuchang fish, bitter melon, green and red pepper, and some seasonal vegetables. The security guard recognized her this time and smiled.

The neighborhood food market turned out to be quite different from what she was accustomed to: granite-floored, white-tile-covered counters displaying vegetables in plastic wrappers and meat in plastic packaging. She walked around for a while before locating several huge glass cages with live fish swimming inside. As with other counters there, there was a sign declaring “No bargaining.”

“A large Wuchang fish,” she said to a ruddy-complexioned sales-woman in a white uniform and purple rubber shoes.

Peiqin didn’t have to bargain, not with the sum given by Jiao, but she asked for a receipt. In response to her non-bargaining attitude, the saleswoman ladled out the swimming fish and handed it to her with a handful of green onion for free.