Death of a Red Heroine

away. So he took a taxi there.
    The so-called Gourmet Street was a living menu. Underneath a multitude of signs, a variety of exotic animals were exhibited in cages of different sizes outside the restaurants along the street. Guangdong cuisine was well-known for its wild imagination. Snake soup, dog stew, monkey brain dip, wildcat, or bamboo-rat dishes. With the live animals exhibited in the cages, customers would have no doubt about the freshness of the fare.
    Nightless Bay was there, but he was told that Huang had left for a new career in Australia. That meant the end of Chen’s connections in Guangzhou. Strolling along the street, Chen saw people eating and drinking, inside as well as outside the restaurants. Some of the wildlife delicacies might have come from endangered species, he suspected. The People’s Daily had recently reported that, in spite of government policies, a large number of restaurants were still serving them to their customers.
    He turned around, aimlessly, walking toward the river, and then to a landing stage. Along the shore stood a row of wooden benches, and several couples were waiting there for their turns in the boats. He was not in the mood to row alone. After sitting on a bench for a few minutes, he left for the hotel.
    A mass of black clouds was gathering along the horizon. The hotel room was sultry. He made himself a cup of green tea from the lukewarm water in the thermos flask. After he had a second cup of tea, it started to rain, with thunder rumbling in the distance. Outside, the streets were covered with muck. There was no point in trying to go out. He decided to have something in the hotel canteen. The dining room was clean, the tables set with starched cloths and shining glasses. There were few choices on the menu. He had a portion of rubbery fish with steamed rice. The food was not the greatest, but it was edible. More important for him, it was inexpensive. Soon, however, he found the lingering aftertaste of fish not so agreeable. He poured himself another cup of tea, hoping that it would quiet his stomach, but the lukewarm water did not help. There were still two or three hours to kill before bedtime.
    Leaning against the bed, he turned on his portable radio. The local news was broadcast in the Guangdong dialect, which he could hardly understand. He turned it off. Then he heard footsteps moving down the corridor and coming to his door. There was a light knock, but before he could say anything, the door was pushed open. In came a man in his early forties, tall, gaunt, prematurely bald, wearing an expensive gray suit with an imported label still attached to the sleeve—a sign of his wealth—and an embroidered silk tie. He had no luggage except for a leather briefcase.
    A popular novelist with one or two books on the bestseller list, Chen guessed.
    “Hi, I’m not disturbing your writing?”
    “No, not at all,” Chen said. “You are also staying in the hotel?”
    “Yes, and in the same room too. My name is Ouyang.”
    “Chen Cao.” He handed over his card. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “So you are a poet—and whoa—a member of the Association!”
    “Well, not exactly.” Chen was going to explain, but he thought better of it. There was no point revealing his identity as a police chief inspector. “I’ve written just a couple of poems.”
    “Wonderful!” Ouyang extended his hand to him. “Fancy meeting a poet today.”
    “You are a novelist, then?”
    “No, I am not—um, as a matter of fact, I’m a businessman.” Ouyang fumbled in his vest pocket and came out with an impressive card. His name was printed in gold beside a long list of companies. “Every time I come to Guangzhou, I choose to stay here. The Writers’ Home is not just open to writers. You know why? I come in the hope of meeting writers. And my dream has come true tonight! Oh, by the way, have you had your dinner?”
    “Yes, down in the cafeteria.”
    “What? That cafeteria’s an insult to writers.”
    “I did not eat much.”
    “Good,” Ouyang said. “There’s a sidewalk restaurant just a few two blocks away. A small family business, but the food there is not too bad. The rain has ceased. So let us go then, you and I.”
    The evening was spreading out against the sky, Chen observed, as he followed Ouyang to a street lined with red-and-black-lettered food booths illuminated by paper lanterns. Pots were broiling over small coal stoves, several labeled with signs advertising