“Shanghai Number Three Steel Mill.”
“How old was he then?”
“In his late thirties or early forties.”
“I’ll check into it,” Chen said. Still, whatever the Mao team member might have done, he would be in his sixties now, and according to Yu, the suspect in the tape at the Joy Gate was probably in his thirties. “Did people do anything after her death?”
“I was devastated. I thought about sending a bouquet of flowers to her grave-the least I should do. But her body had been sent to the crematory, and her ashes were disposed of overnight. There was no casket, nor a tombstone. I had done nothing for her during her life, nor after her death. How pathetic a weakling!”
“You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, Professor Xiang. It was the Cultural Revolution. All are gone and past.”
“Gone and past,” Xiang said, taking out a record in a new cover. “I did set a classical Chinese poem to music-in memory of her.”
Chen studied the cover with Yan Jidao’s poem printed in the background. The foreground was a blurred figure dancing in a streaming red dress.
Waking with a hangover, I look up / to see the high balcony door / locked, the curtain / hung low. Last spring, / the sorrow of separation new, / long I stood, alone, / amidst all the falling petals: / A pair of swallows fluttered / in the drizzle. // I still remember how / Little Ping appeared the first time, / in her silken clothes embroidered / with a double character of heart,/ pouring out her passion / on the strings of a Pipa. / The bright moon illuminated her returning / like a radiant cloud.
“She would appreciate it-in the afterworld,” Chen said, “if there is one.”
“I would have dedicated it to her,” Xiang said, with an unexpected touch of embarrassment, “but I have never told my wife about Mei.”
“Don’t worry. All you’ve told me will be confidential.”
“She is coming back soon,” Xiang said, putting the record back on to the shelf. “Not that she is an unreasonable woman, you know.”
“Just one more question, Professor Xiang. You’ve mentioned her son. Have you heard anything about him?”
“Nothing was found out about the counterrevolutionary slogan. Anyway, he was left an orphan. He went to live with a relative of his. After the Cultural Revolution, he entered college, I heard.”
“Do you know which college?”
“No, I don’t. The last time I heard about him was a few years ago. If it’s important, I can make some phone calls.”
“Would you? I would really appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to say that, Chief Inspector Chen. At long last, a police officer is doing something for her. So I should appreciate it,” Xiang said in sincerity. “I have but one request. When your investigation is over, can you give me a set of these pictures?”
“Of course, I’ll have a set delivered to you tomorrow.”
“Ten years, ten years, / nothingness / between life and death.” Xiang added, changing the subject, “You may find out something more in her neighborhood, I think.”
“Do you have her address?”
“It’s the celebrated old mansion on Henshan Road. Close to Baoqing Road. Everybody there can tell you. It’s been turned into a restaurant. I was there and took a business card,” Xiang said, rising to reach a card box. “Here it is. Old Mansion.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN CHEN ARRIVED AT Henshan Road, it was already past eight o’clock.
He had a hard time locating the neighborhood committee there, walking back and forth along the street. It was cold. It was crucial to find it, he told himself, fighting down a sudden suggestion of dizziness.
With the identity of the original red mandarin dress wearer established, he saw a new angle from which to approach the case.
Despite Xiang’s denial, there was no ruling out the possibility of other admirers, even during the Communist-Puritan age described by Xiang. After all, the retired professor might not be a reliable narrator.
The Mao team member presented another possibility worth exploring. Comrade Revolutionary Activity could have joined the team to get near her, and that made him a possible suspect in the subsequent tragedy.
Whatever the possible scenarios, he had to first find out more about Mei through the neighborhood committee.
The neighborhood office turned out to be tucked in a shabby side street behind Henshan Road. Most of the houses on the street were identical discolored concrete two-stories, largely in disrepair, like rows of matchboxes. There was a wooden sign pointing to a farmer’s market around the corner. The committee office was closed. From a cigarette peddler crouching nearby, he learned the name and address of the committee director.
“Weng Shanghan. See the window on the second floor overlooking the market?” the peddler said, shivering in the winter wind as he took a cigarette from Chen. “That’s her room.”
Chen walked over and climbed up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Weng, a short, spirited woman in her midforties, peered out the door with a visible frown. She must have taken him as a new neighbor seeking help. She held a hot water bottle in her hand, walking in her wool stockings across the gray concrete floor. It was a single efficiency room, which was not so convenient for hosting unexpected visitors.
As it turned out, she was busy folding afterworld money at the foot of the bed, her husband helping her smooth the silver paper. A superstitious practice, which didn’t become the head of the neighborhood committee. But it was for Dongzhi night, he realized. He, too, had brought back silver afterworld money, though he burned his for Hong at the temple instead. Perhaps this explained Weng’s reluctance to receive a visitor.
“Sorry to bother you so late in the evening, Comrade Weng,” Chen apologized, handing over his business card as he explained the purpose of the visit, highlighting his inquiries into the Ming family.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” she said. “We moved into the neighborhood about five years ago. The Mings no longer lived here. In recent years, there have been a lot of changes among the residents here, especially along Henshan Road. According to the new policy, the privately owned houses have been returned to the original owners. So some moved back, and a lot moved out.”
“Why didn’t the Ming family move back?”
“There was a problem with the new policy. What about those residents currently living there? Sure, some of them had moved in illegally during the Cultural Revolution, but they still needed a place to stay now. So the government tried to buy the buildings from the original owners. The owners could say no, but Ming, the son of the original owner, agreed. He didn’t even come back to take a look. Later the mansion was turned into a restaurant. That’s another story.”
“Sorry to interrupt you here,” Chen said. “What is Ming’s full name?”
“Let me check,” she said. She took out an address book and looked through several pages. “Sorry, it’s not here. He is a successful man, as I remember.”
“Thank you,” he said. “How much did he get from selling the mansion?”
“All the transactions were arranged by the district authorities. We weren’t involved.”
“Are there any records about what happened to the Ming family during the Cultural Revolution?”
“There’re hardly any records left from that time in our office. For the first few years, our committee was practically paralyzed. My predecessor somehow got rid of the one and only ledger book from 1966 to 1970.”
“You mean the ex-head of the neighborhood committee?”
“Yes, she passed away five or six years ago.”
“It’s easy not to remember,” Chen said, “but I need to ask you one question. Ming’s mother, Mei, died during the Cultural Revolution. Possibly in an accident. Have you heard anything about it?”
“That was so many years ago. Why?”