Red Mandarin Dress

closed the cell phone, he almost forgot he was in the company of the neighborhood committee cadre. He turned back to her, his thoughts still in turmoil.
    “Thank you so much, Comrade Weng.”
    “It’s a great honor that you have visited us here,” Weng said, walking him to the door. “I’ll check around first thing tomorrow morning. It’s something urgent, I understand. Now, you’d better hail a taxi on Hengshan Road. It’s cold outside.”

TWENTY-FIVE
    OUTSIDE , IT WAS A cold night.
    Turning toward Henshan Road, he glanced at his watch again. Almost nine thirty.
    Henshan Road stretched ahead, like an unfolded belt of neon lights glittering around the restaurants and nightclubs. Not too long ago, he had visited one of the nostalgic bars here, with White Cloud.
    Where could she be tonight? In another bar, or in another’s company, possibly.
    He was not in a hurry to go home.
    Some of the pieces he had gathered seemed to be coming together. He had to make sure that they converged into a whole before those half-formed thoughts faded into the chilly night, like in a song.
    The Old Mansion was close by. It was magnificently lit at this late hour, as if still intent on stirring up memories of the nightless city, though he wondered if it could have been so flashy and flamboyant in Mei’s day.
    He walked in, waiting in a spacious lobby for a hostess to lead him to a table. It was evident that the restaurant enjoyed good business.
    There were several old pictures on the walls. One of them presented a middle-aged man standing with several foreigners in front of the then new mansion. A picture taken in the thirties. There was a small line underneath the picture: Mr. Ming Zhengzhang, the original owner of the mansion. Chen didn’t find a picture of Mei. It wasn’t a good idea to evoke the memory of the Cultural Revolution; nowadays, few would be interested.
    The restaurant owner had done a good job reviving the place. The dark-colored oak panels, the antique grand piano, the oil paintings on the walls, the carnation in a cut glass vase, not to mention the shining silverware on the tables, all contributed to the period atmosphere. People here could believe they were back in the thirties, instead of in the nineties.
    But what about those years in between?
    History is not like a soy sauce stain, easily wiped away by the pink napkin in the hand of the pretty waitress who was leading him to a table by the tall French window. He asked her a question about how the mansion became a restaurant.
    She said with an apologetic smile, “Our general manager paid a large amount to the original residents, more than ten families, and then refurbished the whole house. That’s about all I know.”
    He opened the menu, which was almost as thick as a book. Turning to the last two pages marked as “Mansion Specials,” he noticed one called Live Monkey Brains, probably like what he had seen in the vacation village, and another, Live White Rats. He doubted that Mei would have served those dishes in her elegant mandarin dress.
    The waitress stood beside his table, observing with an attentive smile.
    “Can I have just a cup of coffee?”
    “Coffee is served only after dinner. The minimum expense is two hundred Yuan here,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late for coffee?”
    She was right about that. After that scary morning, he really should be wary of coffee.
    “A pot of tea, then. And a couple of cold dishes for the minimum expense—let’s see, pork tongue in Shaoxin wine, lotus root stuffed with sticky rice, deboned goose feet in special house sauce, and cold tofu mixed with chopped green onion and sesame oil. Don’t bring up the dishes in a hurry. Just tea for now.”
    “Whatever way you like,” she said. “Here is the tea.”
    He realized he must be one of those “cheap customers” here, choosing the inexpensive dishes. He thought he detected a touch of snobbishness in her voice.
    He poured himself a cup of tea. It wasn’t that strong. He started chewing a tea leaf, thinking of the information he had gathered during the day.
    According to Auntie Kong, the old photographer got into trouble because of the picture, so could Mei as well. Her mandarin dress in the picture appeared to be identical to those in the serial murder case. According to Professor Xiang, Comrade Revolutionary Activity, possibly responsible for her death, was none other than Tian, and his daughter Jasmine was the first victim. And