Death of a Red Heroine

examined her insides, mechanically, and sewed the body together again before it was finally sent to the mortuary. And all that time Chief Inspector Chen had been celebrating in his new apartment, having a housewarming party, drinking, dancing with a young woman reporter, talking about Tang dynasty poetry, and stepping on her bare toes.
    He felt sorry for the dead woman. There was little he could do for her . . . but then he decided not to pursue this line of thought.
    He made a call to his mother, telling her about the book he had bought during the lunch break. She was very pleased, as it happened to be the one she did not have in her attic collection.
    “But you should have taken the poster as well, son.”
    “Why?”
    “So that the girl could walk down from the poster,” she said good-humoredly, “to keep you company at night.”
    “Oh, that!” he laughed. “The same old story you told me thirty years ago. I’m busy today, but I’ll see you tomorrow. You can tell me the story again.”

Chapter 5
    S everal days had passed since the housewarming party. At nine o’clock in the morning, grasping a Shanghai Evening Post in his hand, Chen had a feeling that he was being read by the news, rather than the other way round. What engaged him was the report of a go game between a Chinese and a Japanese player, with a miniature map of the go board showing all the movements of black and white pieces, each occupying a position full of meaning, and possibly of meanings beyond the surface meaning.
    This was nothing but a last minute self-indulgence before the invariable bureau routine.
    The phone on his desk rang. “Comrade Chief Inspector, you’re such an important high official.” It was Wang’s satirical voice. “As the old Chinese saying goes, an important man has an impoverished memory.”
    “No, don’t say that.”
    “You’re so busy that you forget all your friends.”
    “Yes, I’ve been terribly busy, but how could I put you out of my mind? No. I’m just so busy with all the routine work plus the new case—you know, the one I got the night of the party— remember? I apologize for not having called you earlier.”
    “Never say sorry—” she changed the topic before finishing the sentence. “But I have some good news for you.”
    “Really?”
    “First, your name is on the list of the fourteenth seminar sponsored by the Central Party Institute in Beijing.”
    “How did you learn that?”
    “I’ve got my connections. So we will have to throw another party for your new promotion.”
    “It’s too early for that. But what about having lunch with me next week?”
    “It sounds like I am asking for an invitation to lunch.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you what. Last night it rained, and I happened to be reading Li Shangyin—’ When, when can we snuff the candle by the western window again, / And talk about the moment of Mount Ba in the rain?’ And I missed you so much.”
    “Your poetic exaggeration again.”
    “No. Upon my word as a police officer, it’s the truth.”
    “And a second piece of good news for a poetic chief inspector.” She switched the subject again. “Xu Baoping, senior editor of our literature and art section, has decided to use your poem— ’Miracle,’ I believe that’s the name of it.”
    “Yes, ‘Miracle.’ That is fantastic.”
    That was indeed a piece of exciting news. A poem in the Wenhui Daily , a nationally influential newspaper, could reach far more readers than one in some little magazine. “Miracle” was a poem about a policewoman’s dedication to her work. The editor might have chosen it out of political considerations, but Chen was still overjoyed. “Well, at the Shanghai Writers’ Association, few know that I’m a detective by profession. There’s no point talking to them about it. They would probably say, ‘What, a man who catches murderers should also try to catch muses?’”
    “I’m not too surprised.”
    “Thanks for telling me the truth,” he said. “What my true profession is, I’ve not decided yet!”
    Chief Inspector Chen had tried not to overestimate his poet- ic talent, though critics claimed to discover in his work a combination of classical Chinese and modern Western sensibility. Occasionally he would wonder what kind of a poet he might have become had he been able to dedicate all his time to creative writing. However, that was just a tantalizing fantasy. In the last two or three weeks he had so much work to do during the day