Red Mandarin Dress

three-accompanying girls, who were easy to pick up, and also suggestive of depravation. He was totally possessed, not caring that the women weren’t related to his revenge, that they were innocent victims.”
    “Innocent victims,” Jia echoed. “Few would so describe them. Of course, a narrator has his own perspective.”
    “Psychologically, it was also crucial,” Chen went on without directly responding to him. “He’s not delusional. Most of the time, he may be just like you and me, like ordinary people. So he still has to justify what he does, consciously or subconsciously. In his twisted mind, these girls, because of their possible sex service, deserved such a disgraceful ending.”
    “You don’t have to launch into a lecture in the middle of a narrative. As you have said, it’s an age of the individual’s perspective.”
    “From whatever perspective, serial murder is inexcusable. And he knows that too. He’s not so willing to see himself as a murderer.”
    “You are full of brilliantly creative imagination, Chief Inspector Chen,” Jia said. “Let us say that you are going to publish the story, but what then? It’s not a work of high taste, not becoming a well-known poet like you.”
    “A story is told for an implied audience, the audience that will be most affected by it. In the present case, that is, of course, J.”
    “So it’s like a message to him? I know you did it, so you’d better confess . But what would be J’s reaction?” Jia said deliberately. “I can’t speak for him, but for me, as a common reader, I will say that the story doesn’t hold up. It’s conjecture about things that happened over twenty years ago, and all based on a psychological theory totally foreign to Chinese culture. So do you think J will turn himself in? There is no evidence or witness. It’s no longer the age of proletarian dictatorship, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
    “With four victims in the city, evidence will be found. I’m working on it.”
    “As a cop?”
    “I am a cop, but I’m telling a story here—at the moment. Let me ask you a question. What makes a story good?”
    “Credibility.”
    “Credibility comes from vivid and realistic details. Here, except for a couple of paragraphs, I’m only giving you something like an outline. For the final version, I’ll include all the details. I don’t have to use abstract terms like Oedipus complex. I’ll simply elaborate on the boy’s sexual desire for his mother.”
    Jia rose abruptly, poured another cup for himself, and drained it in one gulp.
    “Well, if you believe your story can sell, that’s great. It’s none of my business. You’ve finished, and I think I’d better leave—to prepare for the trial tomorrow.”
    “No, don’t leave in such a hurry, Mr. Jia. Several courses are not served yet. And I need more of your specific opinions.”
    “I think you are trying to tell a sensational story,” Jia said, still standing there, “but people will take it as a sordid fantasy embraced by a cop without a shred of evidence. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have resorted to storytelling.”
    “When they learn that the story is written by a cop, they will pay more attention to it.”
    “In China, a story from official channels would more likely than not be discredited.” Jia added, “In the last analysis, your story has too many holes. No one would take it seriously.”
    Their talk was once again interrupted by the arrival of White Cloud. This time she was dressed like a country girl, wearing an indigo homespun top, shorts, and a white apron. Her feet were bare. She was serving them a live snake in a glass cage.
    At their first meeting in the Dynasty karaoke club, Chen recalled, she had also served a snake platter, but now she was preparing the snake before their eyes.
    She proved to be up to the task, swooping the snake out in a quick motion, striking it like a whip on the ground, and slicing open its belly with a sharp knife. With one pull, she took the snake’s gall bladder in her hand and put it in a cup of spirits. She must have received professional training.
    Still, her bare arms and feet were splashed with snake blood, and the blood spatters looked like peach blossom petals falling on her fan-shaped apron.
    “This is for our honored guest,” she said, handing Jia a cup that contained the greenish gall in the strong liquor.
    The scene produced little effect on Jia, who swallowed the gall in the liquor in one gulp, producing a