Death of a Red Heroine

would not be necessary.”
    “So what do you think the result will be?”
    “Wu will be punished. No question about that. Or it does not make sense to have all the fanfare going on,” Yu said. “But the trial could last for days.”
    “Death sentence?”
    “With reprieve, I bet, with the old man still in the hospital. But not anything less than that. People will not consent.”
    “Yes, I think that’s most likely,” he said. “What else has Wang told you?”
    “Wang wanted me to convey her congratulations to you. And Old Hunter, too—a salute from an old Bolshevik. Old Bolshevik— that’s his word. I haven’t heard him say it in years.”
    “He’s an old Bolshevik indeed. Tell him I’ll treat him at the Mid-Lake Teahouse. I owe him a big one.”
    “Don’t worry about that. He’s talking about treating you. The old man does not know what to do with his adviser’s allowance.”
    “He absolutely deserves it after his thirty years in the force,” Chen said, “not to mention his contribution to the case.”
    “And Peiqin is preparing another meal. A better one, that much I can promise you. We have just got some Yunnan ham. Genuine stuff.” Detective Yu, who should have been years beyond such overexcitement at concluding a case, kept rambling on. “What a shame. You are missing all the fun here.”
    “Yes, you are right,” Chen said. “I’ve been so busy with the conference. I’ve almost forgotten that I’m in charge of the case.”
    Putting down the phone, he hurried back to the hotel. He had a presentation to make in the morning, and a group discussion to attend in the afternoon. In the evening, Minister Wen was scheduled to make an important concluding speech. Soon he was overwhelmed by the conference details.
    During the lunch break, he tried to make another call to inquire about the trial but in the lobby he was stopped by Superintendent Fu, of the Beijing Police Bureau, who talked to him for half an hour. Then another director came up to him. And he had no break at all during dinner, as he had to toast all the invitees, table after table. After dinner, Minister Wen, who seemed to be especially well-disposed toward him, sought him out. Finally, after the long speeches, well after nine o’clock, Chen stole out of the hotel to another phone booth on Huanpi Road. Yu was not at home.
    Then he dialed Overseas Chinese Lu. Wang Feng had called him. “She’s so happy for you,” Lu said. “That much I could tell. Even in her tone. A really nice girl!”
    “Yes, she is,” Chen said.
    When Chen got back to his room, the maid had prepared everything for the night. The bed was made, the window closed, and the curtain partly drawn. There was a pack of Marlboros on the night stand. In the small refrigerator, he saw several bottles of Budweiser, an imported luxury that suited his status here. Everything signified that he was an “important cadre.”
    Turning on the bedside lamp, he glanced at the TV listings. The room had cable, so there were several Hong Kong martial arts movies available. He had no desire to see any of them. Once more, he looked out toward the First Department Store silhouetted against the night by the ever-changing neon lights.
    Had there been an emergency, Yu would have contacted him.
    After taking a shower, he put on his pajamas, opened a Budweiser and began studying the newspaper. There was not much worth reading, but he knew he could not fall asleep. He was not drunk—certainly not as drunk as Li Bai, who had written a poem about dancing with his own shadow under the Tang dynasty moon.
    The he heard a light knock on the door.
    He was not expecting company. He could pretend to be asleep, but he had heard of stories about hotel security checking rooms at unlikely hours.
    “Okay, come in,” he said with a sense of resignation.
    The door opened.
    Someone stepped through the doorway, barefoot, in a white robe.
    He stared at the intruder for a few seconds, fitting the image against his memories before recognition came to him.
    “Ling!”
    “Chen!”
    “Imagine seeing you—” he broke off, not knowing what else to say.
    She closed the door after her.
    There was no suggestion of surprise in her face. It was as if she had just come from the ancient library in the Forbidden City, carrying a bundle of books for him, the pigeons’ whistles echoing in the distance in the clear Beijing sky; as if she had just come walking out of the Beijing subway mural painting, an Uighur