Death of a Red Heroine

slumped on a stool next to her. The change in him was even more striking. With his make-up removed, he was just a bald, middle-aged man with heavy bags under his eyes— his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and shoelaces undone. The aura of possibility that surrounded him on stage was gone. But they appeared relaxed, at ease, sharing a large cup of pink-colored drink. Probably they were a couple. They had to play their role, Chen reflected as he lit his cigarette, on whatever stage they managed to land. When the curtain fell, they stepped out of the limelight and out of their roles.
    The world is a stage—or all sorts of stages.
    So with everybody.
    So with Guan.
    She, too, had to play her role in politics, but it was little wonder that she had decided to play a different character in her private life.
    His cigarette had been consumed without his awareness.
    “Everything is wonderful,” Rosenthal said, when they met again in the cabin.
    “Were you enjoying a moment of privacy?” Vicky asked.
    “Well, “privacy” is a word that is difficult to translate into Chinese.”
    He had stumbled over it several times. There was not a single-word equivalent to “privacy” in his language. Instead, he had to use a phrase or sentence to convey its meaning.
    On their way back to the hotel, Rosenthal asked about the schedule for the evening.
    “Well, there’s nothing special for dinner tonight,” Chen said. “It is listed as ‘no activity,’ so you can decide for yourselves. Around eight thirty, we’re going to the Xishuang Garden in the hotel for a karaoke party.”
    “Great,” Rosenthal said, “so it can be our turn to treat you to dinner. Choose a good Chinese restaurant.”
    Chen suggested Moscow Suburb.
    It was not just because he had promised Overseas Chinese Lu to dine there after numerous phone invitations. There might be some new message from Peiqin. His accompanying the Americans would not appear suspicious to Internal Security, and it would bring some business to Lu. Afterward, he could even write a short article about “The Rosenthals in Shanghai,” mentioning Moscow Suburb.
    And Moscow Suburb proved to be as splendid as Lu had promised. With its castlelike front, golden dome, and fully landscaped sides, Lu had totally transformed the appearance of the originally shabby restaurant as if by magic. A tall, blond, Russian girl stood at the gate, greeting the customers, her slender waist supple like a young birch tree in a Russian folk song popular in the sixties.
    “It seems the current economic reforms are really transforming China,” Rosenthal said.
    Chen nodded. Entrepreneurs like Lu were springing up, as in an old Chinese saying, “like bamboo shoots after a spring rain.” One of the most popular slogans nowadays was xiang qian kan . A play on Chinese pronunciation, it meant: “Look to the money!” In the seventies, with the character qian written differently, the slogan had been “Look to the future!”
    Gorgeous Russian girls were walking around in their miniskirts and the restaurant was doing a booming business. Every table was occupied. Several foreigners were dining there.
    The Rosenthals and Chen were seated in a private room. The tablecloth gleamed snow white, glasses shimmered under highly polished chandeliers, and the heavy silverware could have been used by czars in the Winter Palace.
    “Reserved for special guests,” Lu declared proudly, opening a bottle of vodka for them.
    The vodka tasted genuine. And there was caviar. The service was impeccable. The Russian waitresses were the best, attentive to the point of embarrassing them.
    “Wonderful,” Vicky nodded.
    “To China’s economic reform,” Rosenthal proposed.
    Everybody raised a glass.
    When Overseas Chinese Lu excused himself, Chen followed him into the rest room.
    “I’m so glad you could come tonight, buddy,” Lu said, flushed from the vodka. “I’ve been so worried since I got that call from Wang.”
    “So you’ve heard.”
    “Yes, if everything Wang told me is true—and there is nothing else.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m still a trusted Party member, or I would not be here tonight with the American guests.”
    “I know you do not want to discuss the details with me—confidential, the Party interests, a cop’s responsibilities, all that crap,” Lu said, “but are you going to listen to my suggestion?”
    “What kind of suggestion?”
    “Quit your job, and become my partner. I have discussed it with