Red Mandarin Dress

meet?”
    “Well—” It was not practical to discuss a murder case in the library. Looking around, Chen saw a pottery bar around the corner with only a young couple sitting inside.
    “What about the pottery bar on the corner of Fengyang Road, opposite the library?”
    “Oh, it’s so fashionable, the pottery bar. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    Chen walked into the bar, which had an L-shaped interior. The long side wasn’t that different from a café, and the short side was like a workshop with large desks, piles of clay, and a stove on the end. A customer could try his hand at pottery while enjoying a cup of coffee. Perhaps because of the time of the day, there were only the two young people in the workshop and Chen alone in the café section. The price could have been another reason. A cup of coffee here cost much more than at an ordinary café.
    As he took a sip at the hot coffee, the sight of the young lovers bending over their project brought to mind a scene from a Hollywood movie, and then an image in a classical Chinese ci by a thirteenth-century woman poet, Guan Daoshen.
    You and I are so crazy / about each other, / as if lost in the potter’s fire./ Out of a chunk /of clay, shape a you, / shape a me. Crush us / both into clay again, mix / it with water, reshape / a you, reshape a me. / So, I have you in my body, and you have me in yours too.
    In the workshop, the girl started smearing the boy’s face with her clay-covered hand, her laughter sounding like silver bells, though Chen failed to make out the endearments whispered between the two. A touching image, just like in the poem. He contented himself with black coffee, attempting to digest the information from Shen.
    He thought about Shen’s Imagist approach to the mandarin dress. It was possible that the dress’s meaning was not exclusive to the “author,” but that meaning was difficult for the cops to figure out because the dress had been made in accordance to a model, or an original image, such a long time ago.
    Peiqin had been searching movies for something like an archetype.
    Perhaps he could do more than she in that aspect. Not because of his abilities but because of his connections.
    He took out his address book, looking for the number of Chairman Wang of the Chinese Writers’ Association, who also served as the First Associate Party Secretary of the Chinese Artists’ Association, whose members including fashion designers, photographers, and directors. Not too long ago, Chen had helped Wang in his way.
    “Have you heard or read about the red mandarin case in Shanghai, Chairman Wang?” Chen said directly as soon as the long-distance call got through.
    “Yes, I read about it here in a Beijing newspaper.”
    “I have a favor to ask of you. Supposing the dress is an image some people may have seen, can you try to gather information about it from your members? Send a fax of the mandarin dress to the branch offices all over the country. Any information will help.”
    “I’ll contact all the people I know, Chief Inspector Chen, but who has not seen a mandarin dress or two, in pictures or in movies or in real life? It’s neither here nor there.”
    “There are three things unusual about the dress. First, as you may have read in the newspaper, the red mandarin dress is of high quality and craftsmanship, but in an old fashion, possibly from the fifties or sixties. Secondly, the woman wearing the mandarin dress was barefoot, and finally, she had a possible connection to a flower bed or a park.”
    “That may narrow down the range,” Wang said. “I’ll have my secretary contact every provincial branch, but I can’t promise you anything.”
    “I really appreciate your help, Chairman Wang. You are going out of your way for me, I know.”
    “You would do the same for me,” Wang said, “like last time.”
    Not like last time, Chen groaned. That was a real headache, even thinking about it.
    Closing the phone, he was about to light a cigarette when he saw Yu enter the bar, walking in big strides.
    “A quiet place, Chief,” Yu said, seeing they were the only ones in the café section.
    “Any new developments?” Chen asked, pushing the menu toward his partner. “Anything from the neighborhood committees?”
    “No, nothing substantial or useful.”
    A waitress came over to their table, eyeing the two curiously. Stiff in his cotton-padded uniform, his hair rumpled and his shoes dust-covered, Yu cut a contrasting figure to Chen,