The Mao Case

loves her military attire, not the extravagant fashion.”
    “You are singing it so well,” Chen said, waving a crab leg meditatively like a conductor’s wand.
    “Mao said that the Chinese people, every one of them, should be soldiers. The picture embodied such a heroic spirit. The poem
     was a great inspiration to people in the sixties.”
    “But have you heard about the background of it — about the identity of the militia woman in the poem?”
    “Well, some stories shouldn’t be taken too seriously.”
    “From what I’ve heard, Long, Mao wrote the poem to please that militia woman.”

    “No, that’s nothing but hearsay. Give me a poem — any poem you choose — and I could claim that it was written for someone and
     come up with a far-fetched story.”
    “But it was in an official newspaper — the identity of the militia woman, I mean.”
    “I’m sorry that I cannot help you,” Long said with hesitation, visibly troubled, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, the crabs
     are getting cold. Let’s steam more fresh ones.”
    “Good idea.”
    While Long was busy putting more crabs into the steamer, Chen sized up the situation. His approach had proved to be too abrupt.
     In spite of his offer of the crabs and the book project, Long remained unwilling to reveal details of Mao’s private life to
     a cop.
    So Chief Inspector Chen had no choice but to play his trump card. For the Mao Case, such means were justified.
    When Long returned to the table with another platter of steaming hot crabs, Chen resumed speaking in a more serious tone,
     “Now, I have to tell you something from the Writers’ Association.”
    “Oh yes, you’re an executive member.”
    “People want to carry out reforms to the system of professional writers. Because of the government funding cuts, you know,
     some changes may be inevitable.”
    That change was barely relevant to Chen, who had his regular income from the police department, but for a number of professional
     writers like Long, it would be crucial. And it would be hard for them to find another job in the current, highly competitive
     market.
    “What have you heard?”
    “To be fair to the professional writer system,” Chen said, unraveling the thread around a crab, “the change has its merits.
     We have to take into consideration the special circumstances of each writer. For some, with their bestsellers, they don’t
     need any money from the association. But for some, whose work requires a lot of research, the ‘professional writer pay’ is
     still necessary, even more so in today’s society. I made a point of it at the meeting.”

    “What did others say?”
    “They made a point about publication. After all, people may say a lot about their own works, but there has to be a criterion.
     So it will come to vote in a special committee.”
    “And you’re on the committee?”
    “Yes, I am, but I think the odds are against me. Now,” Chen paused to crack the crab claw with his fist, repeatedly, on the
     table, “with this new English translation, and with you being the Chinese advisor for the book, I can definitely say something
     on your behalf. And on mine, too.”
    “Yours?” Long cut in. “You’re not even a professional writer, are you?”
    “Some people have been saying that I’m interested only in Western modernism. That’s untrue. I have translated a number of
     classical Chinese poems. And a collection of Mao’s poetry may speak volumes for me.”
    That sounded like a convincing motive to Long, who nodded, having heard comments about Chen’s controversial work.
    “With your publication both here and abroad,” Chen went on, “I don’t think anyone could vote against you.”
    “Chief Inspector Chen, I appreciate your support, and I admire your passion for Mao’s work,” Long said, raising the cup slowly.
     “Your insistence on a reliable and objective translation speaks for your integrity.”
    Chen waited for Long to continue. What made the difference was the threat to his “professional writer” status. Without Chen’s
     support, his case was hopeless.
    A short silence ensued, broken only by the noise made by the crabs still crowding and crawling at the bottom of the plastic
     basin, blowing bubbles.
    “Back to your questions, Chief Inspector Chen,” Long resumed. “I’ve gathered some information that didn’t come from proper
     research. It is more or less hearsay, you know. But as a responsible translator, you surely know how