The Mao Case

in the thirties, introduced him to me.”
    “Oh Mr. Shen, my father knew him well.”
    Apparently, Chen was nobody here, welcome only because of Shen’s introduction.
    In the living room, somebody started ringing a bell, declaring in a loud voice, “Time for the ball, Mr. Xie.”
    “Class time is over,” Xie said to his students. “If you want to continue your work here, you may stay, or you may join the
     party.”
    Xie led Chen out to the party in the living room, putting a hand on Chen’s shoulder like an old friend, most likely for the
     benefit of the others.
    The scene at the party looked as if time had really rolled backward.
The lights were confusing and the melodies played were popular in the thirties, one of which Chen recognized from an old Hollywood
     movie. There were quite a number of people there, many of whom must have arrived while Chen was with the host in the other
     room.
    Xie was busy greeting and making introduction, saying only a few words to each guest. Still, he managed to take good care
     of Chen, emphasizing whenever possible that he was introduced by Mr. Shen. While none seemed to be interested in the would-be
     writer, none were suspicious of him, either. Thanks to his association with businessmen, Chen could talk like one. Curiously,
     no one at this party turned out to be a real businessman.
    Then dancing started. Most of the people here knew one another. Some of them had to be well-practiced partners, coming here
     for the purpose alone. Chen thought about inviting someone to dance, but then he thought better of it. Though he had studied
     ballroom dancing, he had hardly had any opportunity to practice. So instead he found himself sitting alone on one of the chairs
     against the wall. It wasn’t a bad idea for him to take a break and look around. He thought of an English expression: a wallflower,
     which usually refers to a woman, he thought with a touch of self-irony.
    Xie was now busy, constantly changing the records. Instead of a CD player, he kept an old gramophone and a stack of old records.
     He would wipe each record carefully with a white silk handkerchief, as if it were the most meaningful thing in the world.
    The party didn’t strike Chen as that remarkable. The people there overindulged in a world of nostalgic imagination, slow-dancing,
     giving themselves to the languorous tide of the music, relishing anecdotes of old glories, caring little about what was happening
     in the outside world. What was the point? he wondered.
    But what else could they do? Their “better” days gone, they were merely trying to hold on to the illusion of some meaning
     or value in their lives. As Zhaungzi mused long, long ago,
You are no fish, and how can you know the fish does not enjoy it
? It was not a cop’s business to worry about it.

    He caught sight of Jiao again. She had perched herself on the arm of the sofa Xie was seated in. They talked for a couple
     of minutes, almost whispering. She appeared to be rather nice to Xie, but most of the girls were nice to him.
    The girl named Yang came over to Chen, still in her overalls, smiling at him. He smiled back, shaking his head apologetically.
     She understood, moving across to another man. The living room was getting warm.
    After a while, he slipped back into the studio. With the sliding door slightly open, he could look out. One of the dancers
     could be from Internal Security, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. He went over to the sketch Jiao had been working on.
     He was impressed by it, a picture of hyacinth blossoming out of a young girl’s arm, into a neon night ceaselessly changing
     in the background. Chen noticed that, on a corner table beside the couch, there was a pile of magazines, most of them published
     in the thirties. Sitting down on the same sofa, he picked up a painting album.
    To his surprise, Jiao then walked into the studio, wearing high-heeled slippers, holding a long-stemmed glass in her hand.
    “Hi, you’re new here.”
    “Hi. My name is Chen. It’s the first time for me.”
    “My name is Jiao. You are a novelist, I’ve heard.”
    She could have overheard his earlier conversation with Xie or heard this from Xie a couple of minutes ago.
    “No, I have just started writing,” he said. “That’s interesting.”
    That seemed to be a stock response to his new identity. Instead of leaving, however, she perched herself on the chair Xie
     had occupied earlier, drawing one leg under her. Twirling the