Death of a Red Heroine

into the phone booth. However, there was no one there, no one on the street either.
    He was confused, but decided to wait. Suddenly the public phone started ringing. For the first few seconds, he stared at it before he realized that it might be ringing for him.
    “Hello,” he said.
    “Thank Heaven! It’s me, Wang Feng,” Wang said, “I was afraid you might not pick up.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Yes, but not with me. This afternoon, your passport people turned down my passport application. I’m so worried about you.“
    “About me ?”
    He thought she was incoherent. She had been denied a passport, but that was not a reason for her to be worried about him. Could it have been such a blow that she was no longer her usual composed self?
    “I mentioned your name, but the officers simply stared at me. One of them said that you’ve been suspended, calling you a busybody unable to take care of your own business.”
    “Who said that?”
    “Sergeant Liao Kaiju.”
    “That S.O.B.—never mind him. A small fly. He just cannot stand my being a chief inspector.”
    “Is it because of the Guan investigation?”
    “No, we’ve not seen the end of it yet.”
    “I was so worried, Chen. I’ve got some connections of my own, so I made a few calls tonight. The Guan case may be more complicated than you know. Some people high up seem to be taking it as a deliberate attack on the revolutionaries of the older generation, with you as a representative of the liberal reformists.”
    “That’s not true, you know. I’m not interested in politics. It is a homicide case, that’s all.”
    “I know, but not everybody thinks so. Wu is busy in Beijing, I’ve heard. And he knows a lot of people there.”
    “I’m not surprised.”
    “Some people have even complained about your poems, collecting them, saying that they are politically incorrect, and that they are further proof of your unreliability as a Party member.”
    “That’s outrageous. I cannot see how my poetry has anything to do with the matter!”
    “A piece of advice—if you will accept it from me,” she said, without waiting for his reply. “Stop beating your head against a brick wall.”
    “I appreciate your advice, Wang. But I will take care of my problems,” he added “and yours, too.”
    There was a short pause. He could hear her agitated breathing from the other end of the line. And then her voice sounded different, filled with emotion.
    “Chen?”
    “Yes?”
    “You sound so worn out. I can come over—that is, if you think it’s all right.”
    “Oh, I’m just a bit tired,” Chen said, almost automatically, “I can do with a good night’s sleep. That is all I need, I think.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, thank you so much.”
    “Then—take care of yourself.”
    “You, too.”
    He put down the phone, but he remained standing in the booth.
    The truth was that he had no idea how to take care of his problem. Let alone hers.
    Two or three minutes passed. The phone did not ring again. Somehow he had been expecting it to. The silence was disappointing.
    She was concerned about him. As a reporter, she was naturally sensitive to the change in people’s attitudes. Officer Liao had promised to help, a promise made at the time when Chen had been considered a rising star. Chen’s trouble had brought about the change. In Liao’s eyes, the chief inspector’s career was practically finished.
    He moved out of the booth. It was no longer unbearably hot on the street; the moonlight streamed softly through the leaves. He was not in the mood to go back to his apartment. There was a lot on his mind. He found himself walking aimlessly along the deserted street, and then before he thought about it, he realized he was walking in the direction of the Bund.
    At the intersection of Sichuan Road, he passed a two-story red brick building, which had once been Yaojing High School, his high-school during the Cultural Revolution. It was no longer a school now, but a restaurant called Red Mansion—subtly suggesting the luxury in The Dream of the Red Chamber . Perhaps its location had been too commercially valuable for a school. He resisted the temptation to go in for a cup of coffee. It was not a night for nostalgia. Silhouetted against the restaurant’s neon lights, several people were exchanging currency with foreign tourists. A young girl was chasing after an elderly American couple with a bunch of Yuan in her hand. In his school days, he and other Little