The Mao Case

by Beijing to act however he chose. With the tape recording
     he’d made, and with Old Hunter as a witness, he would be able to nail Hua for the murders of Jiao, Yang, and Song. That should
     be more than enough.
    He didn’t have to do anything else, except turn the Mao scroll over to Beijing. Nor would it be difficult for him to tell
     his story. It might be necessary to omit some parts, of course. But it would be best for him, and for everybody else, to have
     the case conclude this way.
    This way it wasn’t a Mao case.
    Hua would be put away, conveniently, as a “nut.” With Mao in the background, no one would raise any questions, and all would
     be hushed up. A murder case, simple and pure, perhaps with details selectively revealed, such as Jiao being kept by Hua in
     secret, as a “little concubine.” It might prove a plausible interpretation to some: like grandmother, like daughter.
    Such a conclusion would be acceptable to the Party authorities. There was no need for them to worry about any Mao material.
     If she had had any, she took its whereabouts to the grave with her. It was the end of the Shang saga.
    And it would be acceptable to Internal Security too. It avenged Song, and brought closure to their nightmare, though they
     would still complain to Beijing about Chen.
    Chief Inspector Chen had delivered what was expected of him — a satisfactory answer sheet to the Party authorities.
    But what about the answer sheet he presented to himself?
    Brooding, he cast another look to her body on the bed.
    He had striven to do a good job, so that Jiao might avoid a tragedy like Shang’s. But was he really so anxious to help her?
     Being honest with himself, he admitted that his responsibility as a law enforcement officer came first. As a cop who worked
     within the system, and for the system, he went out to retrieve the Mao material despite all his misgivings.
Consequently, he was preoccupied with the broom, not paying attention to what was happening in the room, resulting in two
     or three minutes of fatal negligence.
    “You are really an exceptional cop,” Old Hunter murmured, trying to comfort the obviously distraught Chen.
    “An exceptional cop,” Chen echoed, reminded of what Ling had said to him in that
siheyuan
room, against the memories of the orange pinwheel spinning out of the paper window, of their reading
Spring Tide
together on a green bench at North Sea, of the phone call fading in the glittering wing of white gulls over Bund Park, and
     the water still lapping against the bank …
    For that — for the drive to be an exceptional cop — he had given up, or irrecoverably lost, so much. It was too agonizing for
     him to think about. His head hung low, he stepped back into the bedroom.
    He saw the broom lying on the floor, near the closet.
    What was he going to do about it?
    He would check it out before turning it over to the Beijing authorities. It was up to them to decide what course of action
     would best serve the Party’s interests. whatever their decision, it would mean more credit for him, and secure his promotion.
    It would also be in line with the principle of not judging Mao on his personal life, though as far as Mao was concerned, the
     personal might not be that personal after all. With T. S. Eliot, the personal went into a poem, into the manuscript of
The Waste Land
, but with Mao, the personal became a disaster for the whole nation.
    And what about Jiao’s wants?
    He didn’t have to ask the question. The answer was loud and clear in that painting of the witch flying on a broom over the
     Forbidden City —
To sweep away all the bugs
! He felt as if he himself were turning into a bug, drowning in waves of guilt, unable to look her in her still-staring eyes.
    His head hung even lower, he saw a fleck of chopped green onion on the elegantly arched sole of her foot, a tiny detail that
     made her feel intensely real, yet forever lost. She had walked barefoot in the kitchen
just a short while ago. Admittedly he didn’t know her that well. She might have had her problems, possibly she was vain, coquettish,
     vulnerable, and materialistic, like other girls her age, but like them, she should have lived.
    Instead, like her mother, and grandmother, she had perished in the shadow of Mao.
    If the chief inspector hadn’t been able to save her, he should at least try to do something for her, after death.
    He looked again at the broom lying outside the closet. As it was, it would be