Red Mandarin Dress

to boost it up.’ In those years, it was not always easy to serve meat on the table, but for Mao, the Central Party Committee managed to provide a bowl of fatty pork every day. Sure enough, Mao led the People’s Liberation Army from one victory to another. So how could Mao be wrong?”
    “No, Mao could never be wrong,” Chen echoed, finding that the pork tasted quite good.
    The climax of the banquet came in—a caged monkey with its head sticking out, its skull shaven, and its limbs fixed. A waiter put the cage down for them to inspect, holding a steel knife and a small brass ladle, smiling, and waiting for the signal. Chen had heard of the special course before. The monkey’s skull was to be sawed off, so the diners could enjoy the live brain, so fresh and bloody.
    But Chen was suddenly unnerved, sweating, almost like he had been that morning. Perhaps he hadn’t recovered yet.
    “What’s wrong, Master Chen?” Pei inquired.
    “I am fine, Manager Pei,” Chen said, wiping the sweat on his forehead with a napkin. “The pork is so good, reminding me of what my mother cooked for me in my childhood. She is a devoted Buddhist. So I would like to make a proposal on her behalf. Please release the monkey. In the Buddhist belief, it’s called fangsheng —release a life.”
    “ Fangsheng —” Pei was not prepared for it at all, but he was quick coming around. “Yes, Master Chen is a filial son. So we will do what he wants.”
    The others agreed. The waiter carried out the cage, promising to release the monkey into the hills. Chen thanked him, though wondering whether the waiter would keep his word.
    Pei was such a warm, gracious host that soon Chen forgot all about the monkey episode. Outside the window, the evening spread out like a scroll of a traditional Chinese landscape, presenting a winter panorama against the distant horizon. At this altitude, the light remained longer. The peaks had never appeared more fantastic, as if sporting their beauty as a last plea to remain in the glow of the day.
    He was warmed with a sense of well-being, holding a cup. The bu banquet worked, if only psychologically.
    When he got back to his room later that night, he felt almost like a recharged battery in a TV commercial.
    He also felt relaxed. Reclining against the soft-cushioned headboard, he indulged in a wave of pleasant drowsiness. In the city, he had had trouble falling asleep. But he didn’t have to worry tonight. Could that be because of the dinner? The boost to yin, or to yang, to which his body had already responded.
    In the midst of his wandering thoughts, he fell asleep.
    And he slept on. He must have woken up a couple of times, but with the curtains shutting out the daylight, with no city traffic noise coming from below, and with a feeling of laziness enveloping him, he didn’t get up. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even check the clock on the nightstand. It was a rare, inexplicable experience, but good for his recovery, he thought.
    He fell asleep again, losing track of time.

EIGHTEEN
    OUT OF THE BLUE , the Shanghai Police Bureau got a tip.
    The tip—if that it was—came in the Shanghai Evening News . To be exact, in a classified ad clipped from the newspaper and mailed to the bureau, in an envelope addressed to Inspector Liao:
    LET’S GET THROUGH the three-accompanying. After the singing and eating, it’s time for dancing. As for the place, which is better than at the Joy Gate? The usual time, you know.—Wenge Hongqi
    It could have been a humorous message among friends. But the message, when addressed and delivered to Liao, turned sinister.
    “It’s not a tip,” Liao said, frowning.
    Among the red mandarin dress victims, one was an eating girl, and another, a singing girl, so the next should be, as Hong had suggested, a dancing girl.
    “The usual time” sounded even more urgent. Thursday night, or early Friday morning.
    “Wenge Hongqi” was evidently not a real name. It could be interpreted as “red flag in the Cultural Revolution”—an unlikely nickname for anyone in the nineties.
    “Red flag in the Cultural Revolution,” Yu said. “Sounds like the name of a rebel organization from those years.”
    “Hold on,” Liao said. “ Hongqi also sounds the same as the first two syllables in hongqipao —red mandarin dress.”
    Liao lost no time getting in touch with the newspaper. The editor maintained that he hadn’t seen anything improper with the ad. It had been paid for in cash and