Death of a Red Heroine

Pagoda shimmering in the sun, and close to the Central South Sea Complex across the White Stone Bridge. It was not ideal, however, as a library. The wooden lattice windows, refitted with tinted glass, did not provide enough light. So every seat was equipped with a lamp. The library had no open-shelf system either. Readers had to write the book names on order slips, and the librarians would look for them in the basement.
    She had been one of the librarians, in charge of the foreign language section, sitting with her colleagues in a recess against a bay window, separated from the rest of the room by a long curving counter. They took turns explaining the rules in whispers to new readers, handed out books, and in the interval, worked on reports. It was to her that he handed over his list of books in the morning. Waiting for her to retrieve them, he began to notice her more and more. An attractive girl in her early twenties, she had a healthy build and moved briskly in her high heels. The white blouse she wore was simple, but it looked expensive. She wore a silver charm on a thin red string. Somehow he took in a lot of details, though most of the time she sat with her back to him, speaking in a low voice with other librarians, or reading her own book. When she talked to him, smiling, her large eyes were so clear, they reminded him of the cloudless autumn sky over Beijing.
    Maybe she noticed him, too. His reading list was an odd mixture: Philosophy, poetry, psychology, sociology, and mysteries. His thesis was difficult. He needed those mysteries to refresh himself. On several occasions, she had reserved books for him without his asking, including one by P.D. James. She had a tacit understanding with him. He noticed that on his order slips, which stuck out from between the pages of the books, his name was highlighted.
    It was pleasant to spend the day in the library: to study under a green-shaded lamp beneath the tinted glass, to walk in the ancient courtyard lined with bronze cranes staring at the visitors, to muse while strolling along the verandah, to look at the tilted eaves of yellow dragon tiles woven with white clouds . . . Or to simply wait there, watching the lovely librarian. She, too, read with complete absorption, her head tilted slightly toward her right shoulder. Occasionally she stopped to think, looked up at the poplar tree outside the window, propped her cheek on her hand and then resumed reading.
    Sometimes they would exchange pleasant words, and sometimes, equally pleasant glances. One morning, as she came toward him wearing a pink blouse and white skirt, holding the pile of his reserved books in her bare arms, he was inspired with an image of a peach blossom reaching out of a white paper fan. He even started dashing down lines but the noisy arrival of several teenage readers interrupted him. The following week, he happened to have a poem published in a well-known magazine, and he gave her the usual list together with a copy of the magazine. Blushing in her profuse thanks, she seemed to like it very much. When he returned the books in the late afternoon, he mention the uncompleted poem by way of a joke. She blushed again.
    Another inconvenience was that the canteen in the adjacent building was open only to the library staff. Convenient, small, inexpensive privately-run restaurants or snack booths were nonexistent in those days. So he resorted to smuggling in steamed buns in his rucksack. One afternoon he was chewing a cold bun in the courtyard when she happened to bike past him. The next morning, she handed over his reserved books along with a suggestion: She would take him to the staff canteen, where he could buy lunch in her company. He accepted her offer. The food was far more palatable, and it saved him time, too. On several occasions, when she had to attend meetings somewhere else, she managed to bring him food in her own stainless-steel lunchbox. She seemed to be quite privileged; no one said anything about it.
    Once, she even led him into the rare book section, which had been closed for restoration. It was a dust-covered room, but there were so many wonderful books. Some were in exquisite cloth cases from the Ming and Qing dynasties. He started leafing though the books, but she, too, stayed. There must have been a library rule about it, he thought. It was hot. There was no air conditioning in the room. She kicked off her shoes, and he felt a violent wonder at her bare feet beating a bolero on the