Red Mandarin Dress

sticking out of the magazine, marking the page of the picture. The bookmark was a new one, representing the Oriental Pearl, a high-rise landmark east of the river built in the nineties.
    “It was such a long time ago,” Chen said. “There must be a story about it.”
    “Yes, a long story. How old were you at the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution?”
    “Still in elementary school.”
    “Then you have to know something about the background.”
    “Of course. But please tell me from the very beginning, Professor Xiang.”
    “For me, it started in the early sixties. I was then just assigned to the music institute, where Mei had already worked for about two years. So beautiful, and talented too, she was the queen there. Now don’t get me wrong, Chief Inspector Chen. For me, she was an inspiration more than anything else. I was frustrated at being unable to practice the classics—nothing was permitted but two or three revolutionary songs. But for her presence, which lit up the whole rehearsal room, I would have given up.”
    “As you have mentioned,” Chen said, “she was the queen. There must have been a lot of people that admired her—and approached her, too. Have you heard or known about any such stories?”
    “What do you mean?” Xiang said, literally glaring at him.
    “For the investigation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. It doesn’t mean anything disrespectful to her, Professor Xiang.”
    “No, I have not heard any story. A woman of her family background had to live with her tail tucked in, so to speak. Any peach-colored gossip could be disastrous. It was then a Communist-Puritan period—you were perhaps too young to understand. There was not a single romantic love song in the whole country.”
    “Chairman Mao wanted people to devote themselves to the socialist revolution. No room for romantic love—” Chen broke off, unexpectedly reminded of something similar in his paper, except that there it was Confucianism. “Her husband also worked at the institute, didn’t he?”
    “Her husband, Ming Deren, taught there too. Nothing so special about him. Their marriage had been—at least partially, I think—an arranged one. Before 1949, his father was a successful investment banker, and hers was only a struggling attorney. The Ming Mansion was one of the most extravagant in the city.”
    “Yes, I’ve heard of the mansion. Did they have any problems in their marriage?” Chen wondered why Xiang brought up the topic of arranged marriage.
    “Not that I know of, but people thought he was no match for her.”
    “I see,” Chen said, realizing that for Xiang, no one could have been worthy of her. “Now, how did you come to know about the picture? She must have told you or shown you the magazine.”
    “No. We shared an office, and I happened to overhear her phone conversation with the photographer. So I bought a copy of the magazine.”
    “About the mandarin dress in the picture—had you seen her wearing it?”
    “No, I didn’t. Neither before nor after the picture. She had several mandarin dresses, which she occasionally wore for performances, but not the one in the picture.”
    “So she got into trouble because of the picture?”
    “I don’t know. Shortly afterward, the Cultural Revolution broke out. Her father-in-law passed away and her husband committed suicide, which was condemned as a serious crime against the Party. She was turned into a ‘black family member of a current counterrevolutionary’ and driven out of the mansion into the attic above the garage. The mansion was taken over by a dozen ‘red families.’ She suffered the worst humiliating persecution.”
    “So she died a tragic death because of it?”
    “About the circumstances of her death,” Xiang said, taking a long sip at his tea, as if sipping at his memory, “my recollection may not be so reliable, you know, after all these years.”
    “It happened more than twenty years ago, I understand. You don’t have to worry about the accuracy of the details. Whatever you tell me, I’ll check and double-check,” Chen said, also sipping at the tea. “Look at the picture. It’s like in a proverb, a beauty’s fate as thin as a piece of paper. Something really should be done for her.”
    That clinched it for Xiang.
    “You really mean it?” Xiang said. “Yes, you cops should have done something for her.”
    Chen nodded, saying nothing for fear of interrupting.
    “You have heard of the campaign of Mao Zedong