The Mao Case

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     where. Diao wasn’t in Shanghai, of that much she was sure.
    Chen followed up by making a long-distance call to Wang, the chairman of the Chinese Writers’ Association in Beijing, asking
     him to find out the whereabouts of Diao. Wang promised to call back as soon as he learned anything.
    Placing the phone by the coffee cup, Chen took out the file on Xie, turning to the part about the history of the mansion.
    A lot had happened to the prestigious buildings in this area. In the early fifties, high-ranking Party officials had moved
     in, driving out most of the former residents, only a few of whom remained. Things got much worse at the beginning of the Cultural
     Revolution. At the time, a large house could be forcefully seized by dozens of working-class families, each of them occupying
     one room — a “revolutionary activity” that abolished the remaining privileges of the pre-1949 society. In the early nineties,
     a number of those old buildings were pulled down to make way for new construction. It was a miracle that Xie kept his house
     intact for all these years, and according to the legend told and retold in that social circle, it was achieved through a sacrifice
     made
by Xie’s ex-wife. It was said that she had an affair with a powerful Red Guard commander, who consequently let the family
     remain in the house undisturbed. Then she and her husband divorced and she went to the United States before the value of the
     mansion was rediscovered.
    Whatever the truth behind the stories, the mansion across the street looked magnificent in the afternoon sun. Looking up
     from the file, Chen didn’t see anyone approaching the building yet. He decided to measure out his time, alone, with the coffee
     spoon.
    A group of young people came in, clamoring for coffee, Coca Cola, and a variety of snacks in a boisterous chorus. They took
     no notice of him.
    About twenty-five minutes later, he saw a black car pulling up in front of the mansion. Two girls emerged, waving their hands
     to the driver. There was no taxi sign on top of the car. They went up to the front door and pushed the bell. From where he
     was sitting, Chen couldn’t see who opened the door for them. Soon another man arrived in a taxi and headed toward the door.
    Chen rose, paid for his coffee, and walked out.
    On close examination, Xie Mansion struck him as slightly shabby and dilapidated. The paint on the door had faded badly. There
     was no intercom. Pressing the discolored doorbell, he had to wait minutes before a lanky man in his early fifties came out,
     examining the Italian leather briefcase in Chen’s hand like a business card.
    “Mr. Xie?” Chen said.
    “He is inside. Please come in. You are a bit early for the party.” Chen didn’t know the exact time the
     party would start, but newcomers seemed to be arriving from time to time. People who might not necessarily know one another.
    He walked into a spacious living room, which was oblong, with large French windows on one side looking out into a garden.
     There were several people standing by the windows, holding drinks in their hands. The party hadn’t started yet and no one
     bothered to greet or acknowledge him. He noticed a middle-aged woman in the group, slightly plump, incessantly fanning herself
     with a round silk fan. The air conditioning was
barely on. Opposite the French window, there were several chairs along the wall, unoccupied.
    At the other end of the living room, there was another room with frosted-glass sliding doors. Through the slightly opened
     door, Chen caught a glimpse of a red skirt. That had to be where the female students had their painting lessons. It seemed
     that there were two events this afternoon, the painting class, and the dancing party.
    He moved over to the group by the French window. These people were sometimes called Old Dicks in the Shanghai dialect — from
     the phrase
Old Sticks
in Colloquial British English. In Shanghai the phrase carried association of high-class gentlemen in the thirties, brandishing
     brass-topped walking sticks, hence the embodiment of the values of that time. Now in the nineties they had staged a comeback,
     their knowledge of the thirties marketable and fashionable.
    “My name is Chen,” he introduced himself to a silver-haired man with gold-rimmed glasses and a gold watch chain dangling from
     his vest pocket. “I’m a writer.”
    The silver-haired man nodded, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses along the ridge of