When Red is Black

by Qiu Xiaolong

  Yu manage to conceal his surprise as he said, “The game is over. Better come clean right now.”

  Bao looked like a green bean sprout that had been boiled and shrunken.

  “I have the evidence now; you took this from Yin’s room,” Chen said. “There is no use denying it. This is your last chance to cooperate.”

  “Use your brains, Bao,” said Yu.

  “I did not mean it-” Bao started, all in a fluster. “I really did not mean to do it.”

  “Hold on,” Chen said, taking out a mini tape recorder from his pocket.

  “Yes, we can tape him here,” Yu said.

  “It’s your case, Detective Yu. You question him. I’ll take a look at the manuscript over a bowl of noodles in the small restaurant downstairs.”

  “Come on, Chief. You should question him too. Surely you can read here.”

  “I have not had breakfast yet. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had a bite.”

  So Bao began to confess. His head buried between his hands, squatting in a posture Detective Yu had seen in a movie about the farmers in the northwest region, with the tape recorder on the floor in front of him and Yu, seated on the hardboard bed gazing down on him, Bao spoke.

  It had all started with Bao’s first trip to Shanghai three and a half years earlier, on the occasion of his grandmother’s death. The dying Jie had asked to see her grandson for the first and also the last time. Theirs was one of the numerous tragic stories from the Cultural Revolution. Hong, who had been a teenager then, had tried to join the Red Guard, but had been rejected because of her family background. Hong felt she had no choice but to prove her revolutionary fervor by cutting all her family ties. She denounced her parents as well as Yang, the Rightist uncle she had never seen. Hong was among the first group that went to Jiangxi Province in the movement of educated youths going to the countryside. She went one step further by marrying a local farmer, a decisive break with her former self.

  At the end of the Cultural Revolution, Hong must have come to regret those “revolutionary decisions” of hers, but there was little she could do. Her father had passed away, and her mother would never forgive her. After the first two years of her marriage, she had practically nothing to talk about to her husband. All her hopes rested with her son Bao. She made him read books, and she told him stories. Most of the stories were about the wonderful city in which she had grown up. And there were a few about Yang too. With the passage of time, Yang no longer appeared so black or counterrevolutionary to her; now he was a glamorous intellectual.

  When her mother’s dying request reached her, it took Hong several days to borrow enough money for a train ticket for Bao. The old woman still had not forgiven her. Bao alone boarded the train. By the time he reached Shanghai, Jie had passed away. Her room had already been reclaimed by the government. What she had left behind had been divided among her neighbors. One claimed that Jie had given her all her furniture, and another took Jie’s old clothes. They were not worth much, but to Bao this was a huge disappointment. Hong had sent him forth with the expectation that he would receive an inheritance.

  When Jie had lain dying, she had been alone. Now that she was dead, her grandson arrived out of nowhere to claim his due. No one wanted to put themselves out on his behalf. Bao did not even have a place to stay in the city. From the neighborhood committee, however, Bao learned one thing: among those who had attended the funeral service for Jie was Yin Lige. She had taken away with her an old photo album, as well as several old letters that no one else wanted.

  One of the committee members suggested that Bao approach Yin for help. Hong had also mentioned Yin’s name. She had heard that some of Yang’s earlier translations had already been reprinted. Or maybe it was his poetry. There might be money awaiting him or at least Yin might have some information about it.

  That’s why Bao first went to Yin’s room in Treasure Garden Lane.

  Yin was all hospitality when he introduced himself. After all, Bao was closely related to Yang. She urged him to stay on for a few days. The location of the lane was convenient, and she suggested that he go sightseeing while she was busy with her teaching. She took him out when she had time. She even treated him to a meal at the Xinya Restaurant on Nanjing Road. Everything went well, until the moment he made known why he had come to Shanghai.

  Her attitude changed completely. She had not earned any money from Yang’s earlier translations, but Yang’s poetry collection was another matter. She showed him the statement the publisher had sent to her. It did not specify how much was due to her as special editor, so she arranged a meeting for them with the editor. She insisted on the condition that, in return for a small payment from the publisher, Bao promise that he would never bother her again.

  But Bao did not think it was fair. He believed that these city people, especially Yin, had taken advantage of a country bumpkin like him.

  He went back to his village with less than a thousand Yuan. It was not such a small a sum to the villagers, but Bao was no longer the same young man, content to work there like his father and forefathers, toiling in the rice paddy, his legs covered in mud. The trip to Shanghai had opened his eyes to a new world. The fact that his grandmother had lived in the city all her life, and his mother for seventeen years, and, more than anything else, the legend of his granduncle, made it impossible for Bao to stay on in the poor, backward village.

  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 supp
osed. 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.

  When he heard footsteps mounting the stairs, he paid no attention. There were so many people in the building. Some of the women went to the food market quite early in the morning. But when he heard the sound of the key being inserted in the lock, he was thrown into a panic. He rushed to hide behind the door, hoping he might somehow sneak out unseen. Her face registered horror upon the sight of the ransacked room, in which most of the drawers had been emptied out, and the shoeboxes shoved into the middle of the floor. As she turned in his direction, he jumped out, snatched up the pillow from the bed, and covered her face while pushing her body hard up against the wall. He was trying to stop her from shouting, but he used too much force. When he finally let go of the pillow, she collapsed to the floor like a sack.

  It was impossible for him to stay with her corpse in that tiny room.

  He knew that he could not take the slightest risk of being seen or recognized by a neighbor, now that this had happened. It was a murder case now. He picked up the manuscript and the few valuables he had found, opened the door to her room, and stepped out onto the stairs. He could not leave the building through the front door. At any second, people might come from the rooms in the wings on either side.

  As he went downstairs toward the back door, he saw the woman peeling shrimp outside. He could not retreat, so he had no choice but to hide in the space under the staircase. He did not have a plan; he was just bumping about like a headless fly. After the longest two or three minutes of his life, he heard some commotion in the lane. He peered out and saw that the shrimp woman was no longer there.

  He dashed out.

  Bao’s narration lasted nearly two hours. Yu almost used up the tape. A few minutes before Bao finished, Chen returned carrying his briefcase and the manuscript under his arm.

  A large part of Bao’s tale confirmed Yu’s earlier hypothesis, though some details surprised him.

  “He did it,” Yu said, nodding to Chen.

  Chen put the manuscript on the bed, in front of Bao. “Did you know that Yin had this English manuscript?”

  “No, I had no clue,” Bao said. “But I had wondered about it. My mother thought she might have it. My mother had never met her uncle Yang, you know.”

  “Shall we take him to the bureau now?” Yu asked.

  “Yes. I called Little Zhou from the restaurant downstairs. He said he’d be here at one o’clock in a bureau car. He may be waiting downstairs now.”

  They walked Bao down. Sure enough, Little Zhou was waiting for them in a Mercedes.

  “Chief Inspector Chen, we will always have the best bureau car for you.”

  Chen seemed to be lost in thought as he tapped his fingers on his bulging briefcase, which rested on the seat beside him.

  “I have one question, Chief Inspector Chen,” Yu said. “Yang’s novel manuscript should have been kept in the bank safe, together with his translation of Chinese poetry into English. Why did she leave it in her room?”

  “She was too clever for her o
wn good. Do you think the safety deposit box would be safe enough for someone like her?” Chen said. “She might have purposely rented a bank box so people would assume her valuables were there and would not suspect that she kept anything important in her room.”

  Chapter 23

  The investigation of Yin Lige’s case had been successfully concluded, Chen could assure himself, and the translation of the New World business proposal was finished. But the phone in his apartment started ringing early in the morning, like an alarm clock set at the wrong hour. It was Gu.

  As Chen listened to him, a line came to mind. What will come, eventually comes.

  That line had been inscribed beneath a traditional Chinese painting of a wild white goose carrying an orange sun on its wings, an exquisite painting he had seen years ago, in Beijing, in the company of a friend. It had hung on the wall of her room in Muxudi.

  The line would often come back to him unexpectedly. This morning, what brought it back was a request for a multi-level garage, or, to be exact, for additional land close to the New World upon which such a garage could be constructed. Gu had a number of good reasons for this request, which he had made to the city government, and now he was telling Chen about it.

  “So many people will come to the New World, not only in taxis, but in their own cars. For most of these customers, private cars will be a matter of course. The middle class is no longer interested in shopping along Nanjing Road. Why? There is no parking and no garage space. That’s at least one big reason. GM has already signed a multi-year agreement with the Shanghai government for a gigantic automobile joint venture. In addition to Volkswagens, you will soon see as many Buicks in Shanghai as in New York. The New World will be a landmark for this century, and for the next one. We have to be foresighted in our business planning or the neighboring area will be terribly jammed with traffic.”