Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

Instead, Peiqin started to make a list of what seemed unusual, puzzling, incomprehensible, at Jiao’s apartment. A list for Yu and Old Hunter. If she couldn’t make much out of it, they might. Or possibly Chief Inspector Chen.

First, the large bed, so old-fashioned, with a wooden-board mattress. For the majority of the Shanghainese, it was common to have a zongbeng mattress – something woven netlike with crisscrossed coir ropes. Peiqin insisted on having such an airy, resilient zongbeng at home. For younger people, a spring mattress was more popular and Qinqin had one. Only some really old and old-fashioned people would think of a wooden-board mattress as a possible choice; they would believe it to be good for their back.

And then there was the miniature bookshelf set into the head-board. Was Jiao such an avid reader? She hadn’t even finished middle school. Not to mention the custom-made mahogany bookshelves with those Mao and history books.

Peiqin wasn’t sure about the silk scroll of Mao’s poem in the living room and the portrait of Mao in the bedroom, but to her, they also seemed unusual.

As for the dinner with all the unusual dishes, Peiqin was inclined to suppose it was a meal for two. The guest could be an old-fashioned one, at least so in his taste, though Jiao hadn’t said a word about any visitor coming that night. Peiqin thought that she’d better tip Old Hunter to it, making sure that he would keep lookout this evening.

She was about to dial when a knock sounded on the door. She put the list into her bag and looked out through the peephole. It was a man in a dark blue uniform with something like a long-handled sprayer in his hand.

“What do you want?” she asked uncertainly.

“Insect spray service.”

“Insect spray service?” She sprayed at home, by herself, but it was not her business to question it. Rich people might have all kinds of things done by professionals.

“I scheduled it with Jiao,” he said, producing a slip of paper. “Look.”

Jiao must have forgotten to tell her about it, which wasn’t that important.

“So you’re the new maid here?”

“Yes, it’s my first day.”

“I came last month,” he said, “and there was another one.”

He must have come here before, so she opened the door. He moved in, nodding and putting on a gauze mask before she could get a close look at his face. He appeared quite professional, his glance instantly sweeping round to the kitchen table. “Better cover the dishes, though the spray is practically harmless.”

Extending the spray head, he started spraying around, poking and reaching into the corners behind the cabinet.

After four or five minutes, he headed for the bedroom. She followed, though not closely.

“So you’re not a provincial girl.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“My factory went bankrupt,” she improvised. “Where else could I go?”

After he checked into the corners as well as hard-to-reach areas, he squatted down, reaching into the space under the bed. Perhaps that was the professional way.

When he finally started to pull in the spray head, she said, “How much does Jiao owe you?”

“Oh, she has already paid.”

It was almost four when he left the apartment. Peiqin moved back to the kitchen where she tore the steamed eggplant into slices and added salt, sesame oil, and a pinch of MSG. Simple yet good. She also sliced a piece of jellyfish for another cold dish and prepared a small saucer of special sauce.

She finally poked a chopstick into the pork. The chopstick pierced it easily. She turned the fire down to the lowest setting. The pork looked nicely done, rich in color.

That was about all she could do for the day. The clock on the kitchen wall said four forty-five. She surveyed the dishes prepared and half prepared on the kitchen table, nodding with approval.

Taking off her apron, she thought she should let Jiao know about all that she had done that afternoon. So she left a note, mentioning the visit of the insect spray man as well.

MUCH TO HIS CONFUSION, Chen found himself sitting beside Yong in a black limousine, which was rolling down the once familiar Chang’an Avenue in the growing dusk.

He hadn’t expected such a grand ride upon his arrival in Beijing. On the Shanghai-Beijing express train he had decided that, rather than go through a travel agency and have his name registered, it would be better to call Yong, ask her to book a hotel for him, and have her purchase a prepaid cell phone for him to use while in Beijing. He was acquainted with some people in the Beijing Police Bureau, but he decided not to contact any of them.

Nor would he let them know he was taking his “vacation” in Beijing. With Yong, there was one disadvantage – her unbridled imagination regarding the purpose of his trip. On the other hand, she could tell him about Ling. There were questions he might not be able to ask Ling herself.

It didn’t take long for Yong to call back, saying that she had taken care of everything and that she would pick him up at the station.

What surprised him, however, was the sight of Yong waiting for him with a luxurious limousine at the exit of the Beijing train station.

As far as he knew, Yong was an ordinary librarian, riding an old bike to work, rain or shine.

More to his surprise, Yong didn’t immediately start talking about Ling, as he had anticipated. A slender-built woman in her late thirties with short hair, a slightly swarthy complexion, and clear features, Yong usually spoke fast and loud. There was something mysterious about her reticence.

After the car swerved around Dongdan and passed Lantern City Crossing, it made several more turns in quick succession before edging its way into a narrow, winding lane, which appeared to be in the Eastern City area. He couldn’t see clearly through the amber-colored windows.

The entrance of the lane looked familiar, yet strange, lined with indescribable stuffs stacked along both sides.

“The hotel is in a hutong?” he asked. In Beijing, a lane was called hutong, usually narrow and uneven. The limousine was literally crawling along.

“You’ve forgotten all about it, haven’t you?” Yong said with a knowing smile. “A distinguished man can’t help forgetting things. We are going to my place.”

“Oh. But why?”

“To receive the wind, like in our old tradition. Isn’t it proper and right for me to first welcome you at home? The hotel is really close, at the end of the lane. It’s easy, you can walk there in only three or four minutes.”

She could have told him on the phone. But why the limousine? Yong was of ordinary family background, not like Ling.

He had been here before years earlier – for a date with Ling, he recalled, as the car pulled up in front of a sihe quadrangle house. It was an architectural style popular in the old city of Beijing, and characterized by residential rooms on four sides and an inner courtyard in the center.

Stepping out, he saw an isolated house standing in a disappearing lane – most of the houses there were already gone or half gone, the ground littered with debris and ruins.

“The local government has a new housing project planned to be built here, but we aren’t moving. Not until we are properly compensated. It’s our property.”

“Are you still living here?”

“No, we have another apartment near New Street.”

So they were another “nail family,” hanging in until pulled out by force. There were stories about this type of problem in the development of the city.

In the courtyard, he noticed that all the rooms were dark except Yong’s.

As she led him into the room, he wasn’t too surprised to see Ling sitting there, leaning against the paper window. He looked over her with an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu.