Death of a Red Heroine

Detective Yu. We have nothing but respect for our old high cadres. There is no prejudice whatsoever against the HCC involved in the investigation.”
    “But you’re still going to search for your witness in Guangzhou?” Zhang said.
    “That is the direction to go in.”
    “Now if it proves to be a wrong direction,” Zhang said, “have you considered the possible consequences?”
    “We are not issuing a search warrant or arresting anybody right now.”
    “Political consequences, I mean. If the word gets around that Wu Bing’s son is a homicide suspect, what will people’s reaction be?”
    “Everybody’s equal before the law,” Chen said. “I see nothing wrong with it.”
    “If there’s no further evidence, I don’t think your trip to Guangzhou is called for,” Zhang said, standing up. “The budget of our special case group does not allow for it.”
    “As for the budget,” Chen said, also rising from the table, “I can draw on my Chief Inspector’s Fund for an annual amount up to three hundred fifty Yuan.”
    “Have you discussed your plan with Party Secretary Li?”
    “Li is still in Beijing.”
    “Why not wait until Li comes back?”
    “The case cannot wait. As the head of the special case group, I assume full responsibility.”
    “So you must have it your way?”
    “I have to go there because there’re no other leads for us. We cannot afford to ignore a single one.”
    Afterward, Zhang sat brooding for a while in his own office.
    It was lunchtime, but he did not feel hungry. He went through the contents of a large envelope marked with the date. In addition to notices for several conventional old cadre meetings, there was also an invitation to a restricted neibu or inside movie at the auditorium of the Shanghai Movie Bureau. He was in no mood for a movie, but he needed something to take his mind off the investigation.
    At the ticket window, he turned in his special old cadre pass with the invitation. Tickets had been reserved for old high cadres like him, one of the few privileges he still enjoyed.
    But he saw several young men approaching him near the entrance.
    “Do you want a ticket? R-rated.”
    “Nudity. Explicit sex. Fifty Yuan.”
    “A boost to an old man’s bedroom energy.”
    It was not supposed to happen, Zhang thought, that those young rascals, too, held tickets in their hands. The movie was not supposed to be accessible to ordinary people. The bureau should have put some cops at the ticket window.
    Zhang hurried in and found himself a seat at the rear, close to the exit. To his surprise, there were not as many people as he had expected, especially in the last few rows. There were only a couple of young people sitting in front of him, whispering and nestling against each other. It was a postmodernist French movie with an inexperienced interpreter doing a miserable simultaneous translation, but with one graphic scene after another, it was not too difficult to guess what was happening to the people in the movie.
    He noticed the young couple continuously adjusting their bodies, too, in front of him. It was not difficult for him to guess what they were doing either. Soon Zhang heard the woman moaning, and saw her head sliding down the man’s shoulder, and disappearing out of sight. Or was this a scene from the movie? There were explicit images being juxtaposed on the screen . . .
    When the movie was finally over, the woman got up languidly from the man’s arms, her hair tousled, and buttoned up her silk blouse, her white shoulder flashing in the semi-darkness of the theater.
    Commissar Zhang strode out of the theater, indignant. It was hot outside. There were several cars waiting on the street— imported cars, luxury models, shining in the afternoon sun. But not for him. A retired old cadre. Marching along Chengdu Road, Zhang sensed the cars rushing past him like stampeding animals.
    Back home, he was exhausted and famished. He had had only a bowl of green onion instant noodles in the morning. There was nothing but half a dry loaf left in the refrigerator. He took it out and brewed himself a pot of coffee, using three spoonfuls. That was his dinner: bread that tasted like cardboard and coffee strong enough to dye his hair. Then he took out the case file, though he had already read it several times. After a futile attempt to find something new, he took out the magazines he had borrowed from the club in the morning. To his surprise, there was a poem by Chief Inspector Chen in