Death of a Red Heroine

a huge picture for the room, but such a size was not uncommon for a national leader’s portrait. In fact, it was the standard size. He had a similar one in his own tiny office.
    He had thought highly of Comrade Deng Xiaoping. Whatever might be said against the old man, it was undeniable that China had made great progress under Deng’s guidance in economic reform and, to some extent, in political reform as well. The last decade had witnessed tremendous changes—in various aspects of people’s lives.
    Even in the way people hung their leader’s portrait.
    During Chairman Mao’s time, it had been a political necessity to hang a huge portrait of Mao and to say morning prayers and evening prayers under it. There were those familiar lines he remembered from one of the modern Beijing operas, “Under the portrait of Chairman Mao, I am filled with new strength.” So the frame had to be specially designed too. A golden frame for the godlike Mao. Not so with Deng. After his retirement, Deng had called himself an “ordinary Party member”— at least the newspapers so reported. Deng’s portrait in the living room was not a political necessity. The frame in Guan’s room was of a light pink color, showing some delicate embossed design. Possibly it was one originally selected for herself, but then used for Deng. He was shown sitting in an armchair, deep in thought, wearing a high-buttoned gray Mao suit, holding a cigarette, an enormous brass spittoon at his foot, a map of China behind him, his forehead deeply lined. There was no seeing through to what was going on behind the deep lines on the old man’s forehead.
    Chen moved a chair against the wall and climbed onto it. He removed the framed portrait from the wall, laid it on the floor, and turned it over. Several clips secured the frame to the board. They were easily bent. He removed the board cautiously.
    A stack of pictures wrapped in tissue paper was revealed. He unwrapped them and spread them out on the table.
    He stared at them, or they stared up at him.
    The first few showed Guan in intricate poses, nude or seminude, her body cleverly composed to heighten various effects— her long hair covering her breasts, or her body partially wrapped in a towel, or even more shockingly, in the newspaper showing her picture as she was awarded the title of national model worker. There was one of Guan lying naked on a brown rug in front of a fireplace. The crackling fire illuminated the curves of her body, her hands handcuffed behind her back, her mouth gagged, and her legs spread wide apart. He recognized the fireplace. It was the one in Wu’s living room, the green marble fireplace.
    The next few were of Guan with Wu, both stark naked. The pictures must have been taken with some time-delay device. One showed Guan in Wu’s lap, smiling nervously at the camera. Her arms were around his neck, and his hands on her nipples. In the next, she had turned over, showing a pair of buttocks cupped by his hands, her pubic hair T-shaped from that angle, and her bare feet enormous. The rest were of various acts of sexual intercourse: Wu entering her from behind, his part vanishing in the curve of her ass, and his free hand steadying her pear-shaped breasts; Guan arching herself up under Wu, her arms clasping his back, her face turning aside on the pillow, taut in orgasm, Wu with her legs over his shoulders, entering her . . .
    To Chen’s astonishment, there was also a picture of Guan with a different man on top of her, posing in a gesture of studied obscenity. This man’s face was partially obscured, but it was not Wu. Guan lay spread-eagled on her back, her eyes closed, as if in ecstasy.
    Then came some pictures of Wu with other women—on the bed, on the rug, in front of the fireplace, or on the floor, in various poses ranging from the erotic to the obscene. One showed Wu having sex with three women.
    Chen thought he recognized one of them, a movie star who had played a talented courtesan of the Ming dynasty.
    Then he noticed some small words on the back of those pictures.
    “14 August. Somewhere between ecstasy and fainting out of fear. Slipping off her panties in five seconds. Entering her vaginally from behind.”
    “23 April. A virgin. Naive and nervous. Bleeding and screaming like a pig, and then writhing like a snake.”
    “A saint in the movie, but a slut off the screen.”
    “Passing out in her second climax, literally. Dead. Cold. Did not come back until two minutes