Death of a Red Heroine

printed instructions. Morning in the City God’s Temple, lunch with local writers, an afternoon’s riverboat cruise, then shopping on Nanjing Road, and a Beijing opera for the evening . . . . There were several places they’d had to visit—politically necessary—such as the Red Brick House where the Chinese Communist Party had allegedly held its first meeting, the well-preserved remains of the Fangua slum under the Nationalist regime in contrast to the new building under the Communist regime, and the new development zone east of the Huangpu River, all of which they had already covered.
    “Where are we going?”
    “In accordance with the morning schedule, to the City God’s Temple.”
    “A temple?” Vicky asked.
    “Not really. It’s a market with a temple in the center of it,” Chen explained. “So some people call it City God’s Temple Market. There are quite a few stores—including the temple itself—selling all kinds of local arts-and-crafts products.”
    “That’s great.”
    As usual, the market around the temple was packed with people. The Rosenthals were not interested in the newly refurbished temple front with the vermilion posts and huge black gate, nor in the display of arts and crafts inside, nor even in the Yuyuan Garden behind the temple, with its glazed yellow dragons atop the white walls. The sight of various snack bars impressed the Americans more than anything else.
    “Cooking must have been an integral component of Chinese civilization,” Rosenthal said, “or there wouldn’t be such a variety of cuisines.”
    “And such a variety of people,” Vicky added cheerfully, “eating to their hearts’ content.”
    According to the schedule of the foreign liaison office, they were supposed to have Coca-Cola and ice cream for their morning snack. Each activity was listed in a printout, including the place and price range. Chen would be reimbursed after turning in the receipts.
    The Rosenthals came to a stop in front of the Yellow Dragon Bar, behind the window of which a young waitress was cutting up a roast duck, still steaming from its stitched rump, while an iridescent fly sucked the sauce on her bare toes. It was a dingy, crowded snack bar, but known for its variety of exquisite appetizers. For once, Chen decided to break the rules. He led them into the bar. At his recommendation, the Rosenthals had special sticky rice dumplings with mixed pork and shrimp stuffing. One dumpling had cost six cents in his elementary-school days— nowadays it was five times more. Still, he could afford to pay out of his own pocket even if he did not get reimbursed.
    He was not sure whether the Americans liked it. At least he had given them a genuine taste of Shanghai.
    “It’s delicious,” Vicky said. “You are so considerate.”
    “With your command of English,” Rosenthal said, busy between his bites, “there is a lot you could do in the States.”
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “As English department chairperson, I would be delighted if something could be arranged for you at our university.”
    “And you will always be welcome at our home in Suffern, New York,” Vicky added, nibbling at the transparent dumpling skin. “Try our American cuisine, and write your poems in English.”
    “It would be so wonderful to study at your university and to visit your home.” Chen had thought about studying abroad, especially when he had first entered the force. “It’s just there is such a lot to be done here.”
    “Things can be difficult here.”
    “But things are improving, though not as fast as we wish. After all, China is a large country with a history of more than two thousand years. Some of the problems cannot be solved overnight.”
    “Yes, there’s a lot you can do here for your country,” Rosenthal nodded. “You’re not just a wonderful poet, I know.”
    Chen was annoyed, however, by his own mechanical response. Clichés—nothing but clichés from the newspapers—as if a People’s Daily cassette was being played inside him. He did not mind occasionally saying stupid things, but it had gotten to the point where he was turning into an automatic recording.
    And the Rosenthals were sincere.
    “I’m not sure whether there is such a lot I can do,” he said reflectively. “Lu You, a Song dynasty poet, dreamed of doing something great for the country, but he proved to be a mediocre official. Ironically, it was Lu’s dream that vitalized his poems.”
    “Well, the same can be said of