The Mao Case

with a seemingly natural interest in
     the old movies. Jiao did not talk about her family background, but it was no secret there that her grandmother was Shang.
     Chen had been cautious, exhibiting only a reasonable curiosity. Jiao was nice to him, as she was to a lot of people.
    Chen got along well with several of the others. He had a long talk with Mr. Zhou about Zhang Ailing, a writer first discovered
     in the thirties and rediscovered in the nineties. Chen’s knowledge of her novels impressed Zhou.
    “I danced with her at the Joy Gate,” Zhou declared with a light glinting behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “What a woman!
     She danced like a poem, and those beautiful words of hers seemed to dance for page after page. Alas, she should have stayed
     in the city of Shanghai. A Shanghai flower could not survive the wind and storm in Los Angeles.”
    Chen murmured an indistinct response, wondering whether Zhou’s story was true, especially the part about dancing with Zhang
     Ailing.
    Yang, the girl he became acquainted with during his first visit, also appeared to be taking to him, and she was intent on
     taking him to another sort of party.
    “You shouldn’t immerse yourself only in the old-fashioned parties of the thirties, Mr. Chen. You have to experience the nineties.
     An international vote recently named Shanghai the most desirable city for young people. There’s a pajama party this weekend —”
    “You are right, Yang,” he cut her short, “but let me indulge in the thirties a little longer — for my book project.”

    “Your book project again. I can’t figure you out, Mr. Chen.”
    As for Chen, he couldn’t really figure out those girls in the painting classes. For some, it might be fashionable to come
     here, or necessary for their self-conscious social status — taking private lessons at the celebrated mansion. Quite a few of
     them were like Jiao, with no regular job or any known income. If there was anything different about Jiao, it was that she
     was hardworking, not only staying after, but occasionally arriving before the session as well. She painted in the studio,
     in the living room, and in the garden. She sometimes attended the parties too, though she didn’t seem so interested in the
     elderly dance partners.
    Having unsuccessfully pressed the bell several times, Chen started knocking with his fist. Finally, Xie came to the door.
    “Sorry, something’s wrong with the old doorbell, Mr. Chen,” Xie said apologetically.
    As usual, Xie led Chen straight into the studio, where Xie was giving the class. Chen saw Jiao painting by the window, wearing
     a pair of beige overalls, practically barebacked, her hands and feet covered in paint, her hair tied up simply with a light
     blue handkerchief. She was absorbed in her watercolor, oblivious to his entrance. So were the other students, all busy with
     their sketches or oil paintings. The afternoon light came streaming in through the large window, painting the people in the
     room too.
    There was something informal, almost intimate, about the class. Xie gave no formal lectures. There were no models from the
     outside, either, though some of the students themselves might have posed. Sitting on the same worn-out sofa in the corner,
     Chen thought he recognized a girl student in a couple of nude sketches that were stacked against the corner.
    He knew little about painting so he couldn’t judge. His knowledge of poetry, however, enabled him to make occasional comments
     about image and symbol without giving himself away. At least, no one objected to his presence in the painting class.
    Xie moved from one student to another, but he seemed moody that afternoon, saying very little. The students were all painting
     in silence.
After a few minutes, Xie sat himself in a plastic chair by the long table, his right cheek pressed against his fist.
    Yang worked on a sketchpad next to Jiao, attacking the white paper with a stick of charcoal, ripping off one sheet of paper,
     striking out at the new one. Abruptly, she threw away her charcoal stick in frustration and stamped her sandaled feet on the
     hardwood floor.
    “I’d better not disturb the class,” Chen whispered to Xie. “Let me sit outside.”
    “I’ll go out with you,” Xie said.
    So they moved out into the garden. It was huge, considering its location in the center of the city, but far from well-kept.
     The grass was uncut, the meadow showed brown and bare patches here and there, and