Death of a Red Heroine

Guan, with Mrs. Weng the only exception. But then her information was not something he could count on.
    It was long past lunchtime, but on his list there was still one person, who happened to have the day off. He left the department store at two forty. At a street corner minimarket, he bought a couple of pork-stuffed pancakes. Peiqin was right in her concern about his missing lunch, but there was no time for him to think about being nutritionally correct. The last person’s name was Zhang Yaqing, and she lived on Yunnan Road. She was an assistant manager working in the cosmetics section, who had called in sick for the day. According to some employees, Zhang had been once regarded as a potential rival for Guan, but Zhang had then married and settled into a more prosaic life.
    Detective Yu was familiar with that section of Yunnan Road. It was only fifteen minutes’ walk from the store. North of Jinglin Road, Yunnan Road had turned into a prosperous “Delicacy Street” with a number of snack bars and restaurants, but to the south, the street remained largely unchanged, consisting of old, ramshackle houses built in the forties, with baskets, stoves, and common sinks still lined up on the sidewalk outside.
    He arrived at a gray brick house, went up the stairs, and knocked on a door on the second floor. A woman opened the door immediately. She was in her early thirties, with ordinary but fine features, her short hair deep black. She wore blue jeans and a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up high. She was barefoot. She looked rather slender, and she was brandishing a huge cloth strip mop in her hand.
    “Comrade Zhang Yaqing?”
    “Yes?”
    “I am Detective Yu Guangming, of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”
    “Hello, Detective Yu. Come on in. The general manager has called, telling me about your investigation.”
    They shook hands.
    Her palm was cool, callused, like Peiqin’s.
    “Sorry, I was just cleaning up the room.”
    It was a cubicle of eight square meters, containing two beds and a white dresser. A folding table and chairs stood against the wall. There was an enlarged picture of her with a smiling big man and a smiling little boy. The Happy Family photo. She pulled out a chair, unfolded it, and gestured to him to sit down.
    “Would you like a drink?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “Just answer a few questions about Guan.”
    “Yes, of course,” she said, settling into another chair.
    She drew back her legs under it, as if intent on hiding her bare feet.
    “How long have you worked with Guan?”
    “About five years.”
    “What do you think of her?
    “She was a celebrated model worker, of course, and a loyal Party member, too.”
    “Could you be a bit more specific?”
    “Well, politically, she was active—and correct—in every movement launched by the Party authorities. Earnest, loyal, passionate. As our department head, she was conscientious and thoroughgoing in her job: The first to arrive, and often the last to leave. I am not going to say that Comrade Guan was too easy to get along with, but how else could she have been, since she was such a political celebrity?”
    “You have mentioned her political activities. Is it possible that through those activities she made some enemies? Did anyone hate her?”
    “No, I don’t think so. She was not responsible for the political movements. No one would blame her for the Cultural Revolution. And to be fair to her, she never pushed things too far. As for someone who might have hated her in her personal life, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.”
    “Well—let me put it this way,” Yu said. “What do you think of her as a woman?”
    “It’s difficult for me to say. She was very private. To a fault, I would say.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She never talked about her own life. Believe it or not, she did not have a boyfriend. Nor did she seem to have any close friends, for that matter. That’s something beyond me. She was a national model worker, but that did not mean that she had to live her whole life for politics. Not for a woman. Only in one of those modern Beijing operas, maybe. You remember, like Madam A Qin?”
    Yu nodded, smiling.
    Madam A Qin was a well-known character in Shajiabang , a modern Beijing opera performed during the Cultural Revolution, when any romantic passion—even that between husband and wife—had been considered to detract from people’s political commitment. Madam A Qin thus had