The Mao Case

friend, ‘Chairman Mao is big — in everything.’
    “Come on, ‘big’ may simply mean ‘great.’ People always called Mao a great leader,” Chen said, stroking his chin again. “So
     then why the persecution?”
    “You still don’t see? Madam Mao was a fury. Shang was younger, prettier, and more in Mao’s favor — at least for a while. As
     soon as Madam Mao gained power on through the Cultural Revolution, she retaliated by dispatching that special investigation
     team to Shanghai. That’s the real story behind the story of Qian in the book.”
    That was a story that the average reader could easily imagine, but it didn’t account for the Beijing authorities’ sudden interest
     in Jiao. Chen decided to push his luck a little further.
    “Speaking of Mao, do you carry a book written by his personal doctor?”
    “If that book were ever found here, my store would be closed overnight. You’re not a cop, are you?”
    “Oh, I was just curious, since we were already on the subject.”
    “No, don’t carry it and haven’t read it, but a friend of mine has. It
is filled with stories about Mao’s private life with sordid and vivid details you’d never find in any official publications.”
    “I see.”
    “Let me dig out
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
for you,” Fei said, disappearing behind a shelf, into the back.
    Chen chose a book on the history of the Shanghai movie industry and another about intellectuals and artists during the Cultural
     Revolution. Along with
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
, he might be able to patch together Shang’s life story. He also put into his basket a new volume of Tang-dynasty poetry.
     There was no point making Fei suspect he was researching Shang.
    Fei came back with a book in his hand. There was a picture of Qian on the cover, in a corner of which was another picture,
     that of Shang, faded, nearly lost in the background.
    As Chen was taking out his wallet at the counter, Fei seemed to think of something else. “Look at her,” he said, pointing
     at Shang’s image. “What a tragedy! I sometimes wonder if she was murdered.”
    “Murdered!”
    “Many celebrities committed suicide during those years, but many of them were practically beaten or persecuted to death. Suicide,
     however, was nobody’s fault but the dead — a convenient conclusion for the Party government.”
    “Ah,” Chen said, more or less relieved. Again, Fei’s comment was no more than common knowledge about what happened during
     those years.
    “As for the special team from Beijing, there’s another interpretation,” Fei went on. Chen was the only customer in the store,
     and Fei appeared unwilling to let him go. “Shang might have known some deadly secret. So they silenced her once and for all.
     Remember the trial of the Gang of Four? Madam Mao was accused of persecuting movie stars associated with her in the thirties.”
    That was true. The stars had suffered persecution because they knew Madam Mao as a notorious third-rate actress. But Shang
     would have been too young then.

    Chen thanked Fei and left with his books for the dumpling restaurant.
    When he arrived at the corner, he was disappointed to see a boutique mandarin dress store where the restaurant had been. The
     store was closed and there was only a mannequin posing coquettishly in an unbuttoned red dress in the window.
    There was another eatery open late at night and not too far away, but he had lost the mood. Instead, he plodded home, carrying
     the books.
    Back home, he started reading on an empty stomach. In the distance, a siren pierced the night air. Absurd, he thought, turning
     a page. There’s no guaranteeing a rational account of human existence. Soon, he lost himself in the story — and the story between
     the lines.
    About two hours later, he finished skimming through
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
. Stretching his sore neck, he slumped on the sofa like the crushed fish in Shang’s death scene in the book.
    The story was pretty much as he had anticipated. It was a tale of a beautiful woman’s suffering, which echoed an archetypal
     motif about a beauty’s “thin fate.” The writer was clever, focusing the narrative mainly on Qian, keeping Shang in the background.
     Like a traditional Chinese landscape painting, the book invited readers to see more in its blank spaces.
    There was little about Jiao, though. When Qian passed away, Jiao was only two years old, and the structure of the book made
     her omission