The Mao Case

Commissar Zhang urged. A “revolutionary
     of the older generation,” long retired, Zhang still attended the bureau’s political studies meetings, believing that the current
     problems were the result of insufficient political study. “Surely you have a lot to tell us about the necessity of rebuilding
     a spiritual civilization.”
    What was behind Zhang’s remark, Chen could easily guess. It wasn’t just an implicit criticism of his being a poet, but also
     of his being, in Zhang’s eyes, too liberal.
    “When I came in to work this morning on a crowded bus,” Chen started over again, clearing his throat, “an old man with a crutch
     struggled aboard. He fell hard when the bus lurched to a stop. No one got up to give him a seat. A young passenger, seated,
     commented that it’s no longer the age of Comrade Lei Feng, Mao’s selfless Communist role model —”
    He left his sentence unfinished again. Perhaps it was coincidental that Mao kept coming up like a returning ghost. Chen ground
     out his cigarette, ready to finish his sentence when his cell phone rang shrilly. Without looking at the others in room, he
     answered it.

    “Hi, this is Yong,” a woman’s voice said, clear and crisp, “I’m calling about Ling.”
    Ling was Chen’s girlfriend in Beijing, or to be exact, ex-girlfriend, though they hadn’t exactly said so explicitly. Yong,
     a friend and former colleague of Ling’s, had tried to help during their prolonged off-and-on relationship, which went back
     as early as his college years.
    “Oh? What’s happened to Ling?” he exclaimed, drawing surprised stares from his colleagues. He stood up in a hurry, saying
     to the room, “Sorry, I have to take this.”
    “Ling got married,” Yong said.
    “What?” he said, striding out into the corridor.
    He really shouldn’t have been astonished. Their relationship had long been on the rocks, what with the insurmountable problem
     of her being an HCC — a high cadre’s child, her father was a top-ranking Party cadre, with his being unable to imagine himself
     becoming an HCC, because of her, even for her sake. The friction was intensified by his dislike of the social injustice, with
     the distance between Beijing and Shanghai, and by so many things between them …
    Ling was not to blame, he had kept telling himself. Still, the news came as a shattering blow.
    “He’s another HCC, but also a successful businessman and a Party official. She doesn’t really care for all that, you know
     …”
    He listened, leaning into a corner, gazing at the opposite wall, which resembled a piece of blank paper. Somehow he felt like
     an audience, listening to a story about something that had happened to others.
    “You should have tried harder,” Yong said, in Ling’s defense. “You can’t expect a woman to wait forever.”
    “I understand.”
    “It may not be too late.” Yong delivered her Parthian shot. “She still cares so much for you. Come to Beijing,
     and I’ll tell you a lot of things. You’ve not been to Beijing for such a long time. I almost forget what you look like.”
    So Yong wasn’t willing to give up even when Ling herself already
had, having married somebody else. Yong, essentially, wanted him to make a trip to Beijing for a possible “salvage mission.”
    How long the phone conversation in the corridor lasted, he didn’t know.
    When he finally went back into the conference room, the political study was coming to a close. Commissar Zhang shook his head
     like a rattle drum. Li gave Chen a long inquiring look. Taking a seat next to the Party secretary, Chen refrained from saying
     anything until the session ended.
    As people began to leave, Li drew Chen aside. “Is everything all right, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”
    “Everything is fine,” Chen said, shifting back into his official role. “It’s an important issue that we discussed today.”
    Afterward, instead of going back to his own apartment, Chen decided to pay a visit to his mother. It wasn’t a night that he
     would enjoy making dinner for himself.
    As he turned onto Jiujiang Road, however, he slowed down. It was almost six. His mother lived alone in the old neighborhood,
     frail in her health, and frugal in her way. He’d better buy some cooked food for the unannounced visit. There was a small
     eatery around the corner, he recalled. In his elementary school years, he had passed by the place many times, peeping in curiously
     without ever stepping in.
    A