Death of a Red Heroine

by Qiu Xiaolong

  Today, China was once more witnessing a profound change, with significant challenges to the established systems and views. At such a historical juncture, Chen was also inclined to think that he could make a more realistic difference as a chief inspector than just as a poet. A difference, even if not as substantial as General Gao’s, which would be felt in the lives of the people around him. For example, by his investigation of this crime.

  In China, and perhaps anywhere else, making such a difference would be more possible from a position of power, Chief Inspector Chen thought, as he inserted the key into the lock of Guan’s dorm room door.

  To his dismay, the hopes that led him to make a second visit to Guan’s room were evaporating fast. He stood there under the framed portrait of Comrade Deng Xiaoping, musing. Nothing seemed to have changed in the room. And he could find nothing new in the photos, either, though there were several showing Guan in the mountains. He took these out and arranged them in a line on the table. Vivid images. Sharp colors. Standing by the famous welcoming pine, she smiled into the camera. Looking up at the peak, she lifted up her arms to the white clouds. Sitting on a jutting rock, she dabbled her bare feet in the mountain stream.

  There was also one in a hotel room. Perching on the window sill, she was dressed rather scantily, her long, shapely bare legs dangling gracefully beneath a short cotton skirt. The morning sun shone through her thin cotton tunic, rendering it almost transparent, the swell of her breasts, visible beneath the material, suggesting the ellipse of her abdomen. Behind her, the window framed the verdant mountain range.

  No mistaking her presence in the mountains. There was not a single picture, however, of her together with somebody else. Could she have been that narcissistic?

  The idea that she’d made the trip by herself did not make sense, as Wang had pointed out at the café. But supposing she had, there was another question—Who had taken all the pictures of her? For her? Some had been taken at difficult angles, or from a considerable distance. It was hard to believe that she could have managed to have taken them by herself. There was not even a camera left among her few belongings. Nor a single roll of film, used or unused, in the drawers.

  Comrade Deng Xiaoping himself appeared to be leaning down out of the picture frame, beneath which he stood, frustrated at Chen’s frustration.

  One metaphor Chen had translated in a mystery came to his mind. Policemen were like wind-up toy soldiers, hustling here and bustling there, gesticulating, and chasing around in circles, for days, months, and even years, without getting anything done, and then suddenly they found themselves put aside, shelved, only to be wound up for another time.

  Something about this case had been winding him up. It was a nameless impulse, which he suspected might not totally be a policeman’s.

  Suddenly he felt hungry. He had had only a cup of black coffee at the Riverside Café. So he headed out to the shabby restaurant across the street. Choosing a rickety wooden table on the sidewalk, he once more ordered a portion of fried buns plus a bowl of beef soup. The soup came first with chopped green onion floating on the surface, but like the last time, he had to wait for the buns. The place had only one big flat wok for frying them.

  There’s no breakthrough every day for a cop, he thought, and lit a cigarette, inhaling the fragrance of Peony mixed with the fresh air. Looking across the street, he became fascinated by the sight of an old woman standing close to the entrance of the lane. Almost statuesque on her bound feet, she was hawking ices from an ancient wheelbarrow, her shrunken face as weatherbeaten as the Great Wall in a postcard. Sweating, she was swathed in black homespun, like an opaque piece of smoke-darkened glass for watching a summer sun eclipse. She wore a red armband with Best Socialist Mobile Service Woman in Chairman Mao’s calligraphy. Perhaps she was not in her right mind, or she would not have worn that antique armband. Fifty or sixty years earlier, however, she could have been one of those pretty girls, standing there, smiling, her bare shoulders shining against the bare wall, soliciting customers under the alluring gas lights, launching a thousand ships into the silent night.

  And in time, Guan might have become as old, shrivelled, ravenlike as the peddler, out of touch with the time and tide, unstrung, unnoticed.

  Then Chen noticed that there were, indeed, several young people hanging around the dorm building. They seemed to be doing nothing in particular—crossing their arms, whistling off key, looking at the passersby along the road. As his glance fell on the wood-and-glass kiosk attached to the dorm, he realized that they must be waiting for phone calls. Looking into the cubicle, Chen could see the white-haired old man picking up a phone, handing it to a middle-aged woman outside, and putting coins into a small box. Before the woman finished speaking, the old man was picking up another phone, but this time he wrote something down on a slip of paper. He moved out of his cubicle toward the staircase, shouting upwards, a loudspeaker in one hand and the slip of paper in the other. Possibly he’d called the name of some resident upstairs. That must have been an incoming call. Due to the severe shortage of private phones in Shanghai, such public telephone service remained the norm. Most people had to make phone calls in this way.

  Guan, too.

  Chen stood up without waiting for the arrival of the fried buns and strode across the street to the dorm.

  The old man was in his late sixties, well-preserved, well-dressed, speaking with an air of serene responsibility. Against a different office background, he might have looked like a high-ranking cadre. Lying on the table amid the phones was a copy of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms with a bamboo bookmark. He looked up at Chen.

  Chief Inspector Chen produced his I.D.

  “Yes, you’re doing the investigation here,” the old man said. “My name is Bao Guozhang. Folks here just call me Uncle Bao.”

  “Uncle Bao, I would like to ask you a few question about Comrade Guan Hongying,” Chen remained standing outside the cubicle, which could hardly seat two people. “Your help will be greatly appreciated.”

  “Comrade Guan was a fine member of the Party. It’s my responsibility to help your work as a member of the Residents’ Committee,” Uncle Bao said seriously. “I’ll do my best.”

  The Residents’ Committee was, in one sense, an extension of the local district police office, working partially, though not officially, under its supervision. The organization was responsible for everything happening outside people’s work units—arranging weekly political studies, checking the number of the people living there, running daycare centers, distributing ration coupons, allocating birth quotas, arbitrating disputes among neighbors or family members, and most important, keeping a close watch over the neighborhood. The committee was authorized to report on every individual, and the report was included as confidential in the police dossier. Thus the institution of the Residents’ Committee enabled the local police to remain in the background while maintaining effective surveillance. In some instances, the Residents’ Committee had actually helped the police solve crimes and capture criminals.

  “Sorry, I did not know that you’re a member of the committee,” Chen said. “I should have consulted you earlier.”

  “Well, I retired three years ago from Shanghai Number Four Steel Factory, but my old bones would have rusted if I did nothing all day. So I started working here. Besides, the committee pays a little, too.”

  While a few officials of the committee were full-time cadres, most members were retired workers on pensions, receiving a little extra pay in return for their community service. In view of the high inflation in the early nineties, an additional stipend was most welcome.

  “You’re doing something important for the neighborhood,” Chen said.

  “Well, in addition to the public telephone services here, I also keep an eye on the dorm building security,” Uncle Bao said, “and on the whole lane, too. People cannot be too careful these days.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Chen said, noticing two phones ringing at the same time. “And it keep
s you pretty busy.”

  There were four phones on a wooden shelf behind the small windows. One phone was labeled “FOR INCOMING CALLS ONLY.” According to Uncle Bao, the public phone service had been originally put in for the convenience of the dorm residents only, but now people in the lane could also use the phones for just ten cents.

  “When a call comes in, I write down the name and call-back number on a pad, tear off that page, and give the message to the intended recipient. If it happens to be a dorm resident, I just need to shout the name at the foot of the stairs with a loudspeaker.”

  “What about the people who don’t live in the building?”

  “I’ve got an assistant. She goes out to inform them, shouting with her loudspeaker under their windows.”

  “So they come here to return the call, right?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Bao said. “By the time everyone gets a phone at home, I will really be retired.”

  “Uncle Bao.” A young girl burst into the cubicle with a gray loudspeaker in her hand.

  “This is the assistant I’m talking about,” Uncle Bao said. “She’s responsible for delivering the messages to the lane residents.”

  “I see.”

  “Xiuxiu, this is Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Uncle Bao said. “Chief Inspector Chen and I need to talk about something. So take care of things here for a while, will you?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “It’s not much of a job for her,” Uncle Bao sighed, moving across the street to the table where Chen had been waiting. “But that’s all she can find nowadays.”

  The fried buns had not arrived yet, but the soup was already cold. Chen ordered another bowl for Uncle Bao.

  “So, any progress with your investigation?”

  “Not much. Your help may be really important to us.”

  “You’re welcome to whatever I know.”

  “Since you’re here every day, you probably know who has a lot of visitors. What about Comrade Guan?”

  “Some friends or colleagues might have visited, but not too many. On one or two occasions I noticed her with people. That’s about all I saw—during my three years here.”

  “What kind of people were they?”

  “I cannot really remember. Sorry.”

  “Did she make a lot of calls?”

  “Well, yes, more than other residents here.”

  “And received a lot?”

  “Yes, quite a lot, too, I would say,” Uncle Bao said reflectively. “But then it’s little wonder, for a national model worker, with her meetings and conferences.”

  “Anything unusual about those phone calls?”

  “No, nothing that I noticed. There’re so many calls, and I am always busy.”

  “Anything you happened to have overheard?”

  “It’s not proper and right, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Uncle Bao said, “for me to listen to what other people say.”

  “You’re right, Uncle Bao. Forgive me for this improper question. It’s just because the case is so important to us.”

  The arrival of the fried buns interrupted their discussion.

  “But—as for anything unusual—now that you mention it, there might be something, I think,” Uncle Bao said, nibbling at a tiny bun. “The working hours for a public phone service station are, generally, from seven A.M. to seven P.M. For the benefit of the residents here, several of whom work the night shift, we extend our service hours— from seven A.M. to eleven P.M. Guan made quite a number of calls, I remember, after nine or ten P.M. Especially during the last half year.”

  “Was that wrong?”

  “Not wrong, but unusual. The First Department Store closes at eight o’clock.”

  “Yes?”

  “The people she called must have had private phones at home.”

  “Well, she might have talked to her boss.”

  “But I wouldn’t call my boss after ten o’clock. Would a young single woman?”

  “Yes, you’re very observant.”

  The R.C. member had ears, Chen nodded, and brains, too.

  “It’s my responsibility.”

  “So you think that she was seeing somebody before her death?”

  “It’s possible,” Uncle Bao said after a pause. “As far as I can remember, it was a man who made most of the phone calls to her. He spoke with a strong Beijing accent.”

  “Is there any way to trace the phone numbers, Uncle Bao?”

  “Not with the phone calls she made. There’s no way of knowing the number she dialed out. But for the calls she got, we may recover some from our record stubs. You see, we put down the number both on the slip and the stub attached to it. So if people lose their slips, we can still recover the numbers.”

  “Really! Have you kept all the stubs?”

  “Not all of them. Most are useless after several days. But for the past few weeks, I may be able to dig out some for you. It will take some time.”

  “That will be great,” Chen said. “Thank you so much, Uncle Bao. Your information is throwing new light on our investigation.”

  “You’re most welcome, Comrade Chief Inspector.”

  “Another thing. Did she get a phone call on May tenth? That is, the night she was murdered.”

  “May tenth was—a Thursday, let me see. I’ll have to check the stubs. The phone station drawer’s too small, so I keep most of the stubs at home.”

  “Call me immediately if you find anything,” Chen said. “I don’t know how to express our appreciation.”

  “Don’t mention it, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Uncle Bao said. “What’s an R.C. member for?”

  At the bus station, Chen turned back and glimpsed the old man busy working in the cubicle again, cradling a phone on his shoulder, nodding, writing on a piece of paper, his other hand holding another piece out the window. A conscientious R.C. member. Most likely a Party member, too.

  It was an unexpected lead: Guan might have been seeing somebody before her death.

  Why she should have made such a secret of it, he did not know yet. He no longer had any conviction about its being a political case. It was Wang, with the green jade charm dangling from a thin red string round her neck, who had inspired him to pursue this line of investigation. But the moment he squeezed into the bus, he ran out of luck. Wedged among the passengers at the door, he pressed forward only to be crushed against a middle-aged fat woman, her florid blouse soaked in sweat, wet, nearly transparent. He tried his best to keep some distance, but to no avail. What was even worse, with new construction under way everywhere, the condition of the road was not smooth. The incessant bumps made the ordeal almost unbearable. More than once the bus came to an emergency halt, and his fleshy neighbor was thrown off balance, colliding with him. It was no Tuishou. He heard her cursing under her breath, though it was not anybody’s fault.

  Finally he gave up. Before the bus reached the bureau, he got off at Shandong Road.

  The fresh breeze was heavenly.

  Bus Number 71. Possibly the very bus Guan used to take to the department store, and back, day after day.

  Not until Chief Inspector Chen returned home, took off his uniform, and lay down on his bed, did he think of something that could have been a cold comfort—for Guan. Though single, Guan had not been too lonely—at least not toward the end of her life. She had someone to call after 10 P.M. He had never tried to call Wang so late in the evening. She lived with her parents. He had only visited her home once. Old, prudish, traditional, her parents were not too friendly because they were aware of his attentions to their married daughter.

  What was Wang doing at the moment? He wished he could call her, tell her that success in his career, gratifying as it appeared, was no more than a consolation prize for the absence of personal happiness.

  It was a serene summer night. The moonlight was lambent among the shimmering leaves, and a lonely street lamp cast a yellow flickering light on the ground. A violin could be heard from an open window across the street. The melody was famil
iar, but he could not recall its name. Sleepless, he lit a cigarette.

  A young woman, Guan must also have experienced her moments of surging loneliness—sudden sleeplessness, in that small dorm room of hers.

  The ending of a poem by Matthew Arnold came swelling to him in the night-air:

  Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So various, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

  Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  It was a poem he had translated years earlier. The broken and uneven lines, as well as the abrupt, almost surrealist transitions and juxtapositions, had appealed to him. The translation had appeared in Reading and Understanding, along with a short critical essay by him, claiming it as the saddest Victorian love poem. Whether it was really an echo of the disillusioned Western world, as he had maintained in the essay, however, he was no longer so sure. Any reading, according to Derrida, could be a misreading. Even Chief Inspector Chen could be read in one way or another.

  Chapter 13

  Saturday in late May was once again clear and fine.

  The Yus were visiting the Grand View Garden in Qingpu, Shanghai.

  Peiqin was in her element, carrying a copy of The Dream of the Red Chamber. It was a dream come true to her.

  “Look, that’s the bamboo grove where Xiangyuan takes her nap on the stone bench, and Baoyu stands watching her,” she said, turning the pages to that part of the story.

  Qinqin was in high spirits, too, running about, losing and finding himself in a traditional Chinese garden maze.

  “Take a picture of me by the vermilion pavilion,” she said.

  Yu had the blues, but he was making a gallant effort to conceal his mood. He held up the camera, knowing how much the garden meant to Peiqin. A group of tourists also came to a stop in front of the pavilion, and the guide began elaborating on the ancient architectural wonder. Peiqin listened intently, oblivious to him for the moment. He stood among the crowd, nodding, but pursuing his own thoughts.