Red Mandarin Dress

one’s ego to imagine an alternative career.”
    “I have to ask a favor of you,” she said. “Father has diabetes and high blood pressure. He does not go to school every day. Can you come here to study instead?”
    “Sure, if it’s convenient for him.”
    “Don’t you remember the line by Gao Shi?” Bian said. “‘Alas, the most useless is a scholar.’ Here I am, an old man capable of only ‘carving insects’ at home.”
    “Literature is of significance for a thousand autumns,” Chen said, quoting a line in response.
    “Well, your passion for literature is something. As in a Chinese saying, people with the same sickness pity one another. Of course, you may have to worry about your own kind of ‘thirsty illness.’ You are a romantic poet, I’ve heard.”
    Xiaoke zhi ji —thirsty illness. Chen had heard the term before, in reference to diabetes, which made one thirsty and tired. Bian had a way of talking, making a subtle reference both to his diabetes and to his thirst for literature, but what did that have to do with Chen’s being a romantic poet?
    When Chen got back into the car waiting for him outside, he caught Little Zhou examining a naked model in a copy of Playboy from Hong Kong. The term “thirsty illness” in ancient China, Chen suddenly recalled, might have been a metaphor for a young man’s helpless romantic passion.
    Then he was not so sure. He could have read the term somewhere but mixed it up with irrelevant associations. Sitting in the car, he found himself thinking like a cop again, searching for an explanation for Professor Bian’s usage. He shook his head at his confused reflection in the rearview mirror.
    Still, he felt good. The prospect of starting the literature program made the difference.

TWO
    DETECTIVE YU GUANGMING , OF the Shanghai Police Bureau, sat brooding in the office—not exactly his, not yet. As the acting head of the special case squad, Yu had the office during Chen’s leave.
    Few seemed to take Yu seriously, though he had been in effective charge of the squad for longer periods before: weeks when Chen had been too busy, what with his political meetings and his well-paid translations. Still, Yu was seen as stepping in the shadow of Chen.
    What troubled Yu was Chen’s inexplicable determination to undertake the literature program. It was a decision that had given rise to numerous interpretations at the bureau. According to Liao Guochang, head of the homicide squad, Chen was trying to stay low after having ruffled high feathers, and so was adopting a bookish pose to keep himself out of the limelight for a while. It seemed to Little Zhou that Chen had his eye on a MA or a PhD—something crucial to his future career, for an advanced degree made a huge difference in the new policy of the Party cadre promotion. Commissar Zhang, a semiretired cadre of the older generation, saw Chen’s studies in a different light, claiming that Chen planned to study abroad with a hongyan zhiji —an appreciating and understanding beauty—who was a US marshal. Like most of the rumors about Chen, no one could prove or disprove it.
    Yu was not so sure about any of those views. And there was another possibility he could not rule out: something else might be going on. Chen had asked him about a housing development case without offering any explanation, which was unusual between the chief inspector and Yu.
    Yu did not have much time to worry that morning. Party Secretary Li had summoned him to Inspector Liao’s office.
    Liao was a solidly built man in his early forties, owlish-looking with an aquiline nose and round eyes. He frowned at Yu’s entrance.
    At the bureau, only a case of extraordinary political significance would go to the special case squad under Chen and Yu. Liao’s sour expression implied that another case proved to be too much for Homicide.
    “Comrade Detective Yu, you have heard about the red mandarin dress case,” Li said, more a statement than a question.
    “Yes,” Yu responded. “A sensational case.”
    A week earlier, a girl’s body in a red mandarin dress had been found in a flower bed on West Huaihai Road. Because of its proximity to a number of high-end stores, the case had been much reported and was now conveniently nicknamed the red mandarin dress case. The news about it had caused a terrible traffic jam in the area—people hurried over, window-shopping and gossip-shopping, in addition to all the photographers and journalists milling around,