Death of a Red Heroine

Red Guards had acted as traffic assistants there, chasing bikes without license plates or with illegally installed baby seats. Zealous volunteers they had been in those days.
    The river came in view.
    Along the Bund, a breeze blew over the parapet, bearing the tang of the river and of the docks, a characteristic Shanghai mixture familiar to him. Even at this late hour, the Bund was still dotted with young lovers sauntering along, hand in hand, or sitting still like statues in the night.
    Before 1949, Shanghai had been described as a “nightless city,” and the Bund “like the folds of a bright girdle furled.”
    He came to a stop at Waibai Bridge. The water smelled of diesel and industrial waste, though it was somewhat less black, dappled with shimmering reflections of the neon. He leaned against the railing, looking down into the silent water. There was a tugboat coming toward the arch of the bridge.
    He made an attempt to sort out the thoughts crowding into his mind.
    He was crushed, though he had not admitted the fact to Wang. Crushed not by the case, but by the politics behind it. An inner-Party power struggle was involved.
    Deng Xiaoping, in his effort to push forward his reform, had promoted some young Party officials, so-called “reformists” through the cadre retirement policy. This did not pose a serious threat to those at the top level, but was a serious problem to most of the lower old cadres. So some had allied themselves against the reform. After the eventful summer of 1989, Deng had to appease these old cadres, retired or being retired, by restoring their influence to some extent. A subtle balance had been maintained. In the Party’s newspaper, a new slogan, “political stability,” became highly important.
    But such a balance was unstable. The old cadres were sensitive to any move by the reformists. And the investigation directed against Wu was being interpreted as an attack on the old cadres. Wu had been propagating this interpretation to people in Beijing. With his family connections, it would not be too difficult for him to elicit the response he wanted. And the response had come. From the office of the Discipline Committee. From Party Secretary Li. From Internal Security.
    An old high cadre such as Wu Bing, lying unconscious under an oxygen mask in the hospital, must remain untouched, including his mansion, his car, and, needless to say, his children.
    If Chen persisted in conducting it his way, it was going to be his last case.
    Maybe he could still quit.
    Maybe it was already too late.
    Once on a blacklist, there was no escaping the inevitable.
    How far would Party Secretary Li go to protect him?
    Not far, probably, since his downfall would affect Li, too. He was sure that Li, a seasoned politician, would not choose to side with a loser.
    A case had already been built up against him. A case to cover up Wu Xiaoming’s case. What awaited him?
    Years at a reform-through-labor camp in Qinghai Province in a dark prison cell, or even a bullet in the back of his head. Perhaps it was too dramatic to evoke these scenarios at the moment, but he was sure he would be thrown out of the bureau.
    The situation was desperate. Wang had tried to warn him.
    The night air was serene, sweet, along the Bund.
    Behind him, across Zhongshan Road, stood the Peace Hotel with its black-and-red pinnacled roof. He had fantasized about spending an evening there in the jazz bar, in Wang’s company, with the musicians doing a great job with their piano, horns, and drums, and the waiters, starched napkins over their arms, serving Bloody Marys, Manhattans, Black Russians. . . .
    Now they would never have the chance.
    Somehow he was not too worried about her. Attractive, young, smart, Wang had connections of her own. Eventually she would be able to get her passport and visa, and board a Japanese plane. Her decision to leave might prove to be the right one. There was no foretelling China’s future.
    In Tokyo, in a floating silk kimono, kneeling on a mat, and warming a cup of saki for her husband, she would make a wonderful wife. A blaze of cherry blossoms silhouetted against the snow-mantled Mount Fuji.
    At night, as an occasional siren sounded in the sleepless skies, would she still think of him, across the seas, and across the mountains?
    He remembered several lines by Liu Yong, written during the Song dynasty:
Where shall I find myself
Tonight, waking from the hangover—
The riverbank lined with weeping willows,
The