Death of a Red Heroine

fine with me.”
    “Little Zhou, you can join us.”
    “No, thank you,” Little Zhou said, shaking his head vigorously, “I’ve just had my lunch. I’ll wait for you outside—taking a good nap in the car. We had a mahjongg game until three this morning. So enjoy yourselves.”
    The noodle restaurant had changed. He remembered it as a homely place with only four or five tables. Now it appeared more traditionally fashionable. The walls were paneled with oak, against which hung long silk scrolls of classical Chinese painting and calligraphy. There was also an oblong mahogany service counter embellished with a huge brass tea urn and an impressive array of purple sand teapots and cups.
    A young, fine-featured waitress appeared immediately, slender and light-footed, in a shining scarlet silk Qi skirt with its long slits revealing her olive-colored thighs. She led the way to a table in the corner.
    He ordered chicken noodles with plenty of chopped green onion. She decided on a side dish of fried eel with plain noodles. She also had a bottle of Lao Mountain spring water. She slipped her blazer from her shoulders, put it on the chair back, and unbuttoned the collar button of her silk blouse.
    There was no ring on her left hand, he observed.
    “Thank you so much,” he said.
    He did not open the list in his hand. Enough time for him to read it in the library. Instead, he put it down and patted her hand across the table.
    “You know who Wu Xiaoming is,” she said, without taking back her hand.
    “Yes, I do.”
    “And you’re still going on with the investigation.”
    “I’m a cop, aren’t I?”
    “An impossibly romantic cop who believes in justice,” she said. “You cannot be too careful with this case.”
    “I’ll be careful,” he said. “You’re concerned for me, I know.”
    Her eyes met his, not denying his message.
    At that hour, they were the only customers, sitting in the corner as if enclosed in a capsule of privacy.
    “They should have put candles on the table,” she said, “to match your mood.”
    “What about dinner at my place tomorrow night?” he said. “I’ll have candles.”
    “A dinner to celebrate your enrollment in the seminar?”
    “No, that’s in October.”
    “Well—a lot of people may wonder what our chief inspector is doing—over a candlelit dinner.”
    She was right, he admitted to himself. An affair with her was not in his best interest at the moment.
    “What’s the point of being a chief inspector,” he said, “if I cannot have a candlelit dinner with a friend?”
    “But you have a most promising career, Comrade Chief Inspector. Not everybody has your opportunity.”
    “I’ll try to be discreet.”
    “Coming to a restaurant in a bureau Mercedes,” she said, “is not the best way of exercising discretion, I’m afraid.”
    The arrival of the noodles forestalled any reply he was going to make.
    The noodles were as good as he had remembered. The green onion in the soup smelled wonderful. She liked it too, wiping the sweat from her brow with a pink paper napkin.
    Afterward, he bought a pack of Kents at the counter.
    “Not for me,” he said to her.
    He handed the cigarettes to Little Zhou.
    “Thanks, but you don’t have to, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Little Zhou said. “By the way, Superintendent Zhao is going to retire toward the end of year. Haven’t you heard?”
    “No, but thanks for your information.”
    In the backseat, they were sitting close to each other. Feeling her nearness, he was content with a light brushing of her shoulder as the car bumped along. They did not talk much. She let him take her hand. The car passed the black dome of the new city stadium, then swung around Peace Park. Little Zhou explained why he had to make such a detour. Several streets had just been declared one-way.
    It would take them much longer to get there, but Chief Inspector Chen had no cause for complaint.
    But she was already telling Little Zhou to pull up. In front of them was the separator factory, about which she was going to write a report.
    “Thank you,” she said, “for the lift.”
    “Thank you,” he said, “for the opportunity of giving you a lift.”
    When he got back to the library, it was already three thirty. He sent Little Zhou back to the bureau. He had no idea how long it would take him to work on the new list.
    An impressive list it was, including most of the influential journals and newspapers, containing detailed information with dates and