The Mao Case

fallen, in dust, in mud, / in spite of a remaining fragrance.
    “Like other poems, ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom’ was commonly read as one full of Mao’s revolutionary spirits,” Long said, stirring
     the sauce in the crab shell with a toothpick. “That interpretation is taken for granted. According to an article I read, someone
     who had worked with Mao wrote him a letter, quoting Lu’s poem to express admiration, and Mao wrote his ode in response. But
     mind you, Lu’s poem has nothing to do with admiration. If anything, it is full of complaint and self-pity. A patriotic poet,
     Lu wanted to serve his country by fighting against the Jin army, but he wasn’t able to, serving instead as merely a petty
     official. Again, it’s conventional in our traditional poetics to compare someone disappointed to a deserted beauty or neglected
     blossom, so the meaning of the poem is unmistakable.”
    “I think you are brilliantly perceptive here,” Chen said, poking the meat out of a crab leg with a chopstick.
    “So who could have sent that poem to Mao? A reasonable guess would be a woman with an unusual relationship with Mao. Only
     in that circumstance would such a gesture have made sense. She knew that Mao had other women, but she knew better than to
     complain to his face. So Mao’s poem in response was one of approval of her stance. From his perspective, it’s nothing but
     natural that an emperor should have three hundred and sixty imperial concubines. In spite of knowing about the other flowers
     competing for spring’s attention, she should be content as one favored by him earlier, smiling in the midst of all the flowers
     over the mountains.”
    “Why did those official critics cover up the real occasion of the poem? I think the answer is self-evident,” Chen said, hardly
     able to con
ceal the excitement in his voice. “Yes, Shang’s perhaps the only one with enough education to quote a poem like that to Mao.
     Those working around him were mostly young, little-educated, working-class girls.”
    Long bent over the crab shell, draining the sauce in it in silence. “Also, about that scroll of the poem in Mao’s calligraphy,”
     Chen said. “Did Shang’s colleague tell you anything else? For instance, when Mao wrote a poem to someone else, he would usually
     add a short line as a dedication, and a red chop seal as an indication of its authenticity. Did her colleague see anything
     like that on the scroll?”
    “No, he didn’t see clearly — just a glimpse of it. It was in her bedroom, you know. But he was sure it wasn’t a photocopy, which
     wasn’t available at the time.”
    “If possible, I would like to meet with that colleague of Shang’s. It could be crucial to establish the identity of the person
     Mao wrote the poem for. Of course, we don’t have to get into explicit details in our book.”
    “I’m not sure if he’s still in town. I contacted him several years ago, But I’ll try.”
    “That would be fantastic. Let’s toast to our collaboration —”
    The door opened unexpectedly, however, before either of them heard the turning of the key in the lock.
    Long’s wife returned, a short woman with gray hair and black-rimmed glasses, who frowned at the sight of the litter on the
     table.
    “Oh, this is Chief Inspector Chen of the Shanghai Police Bureau, also a leading member of the Shanghai Writers’ Association.”
     Long introduced him in a sudden stutter suggestive of a henpecked husband. “He brought a whole bamboo basket of crabs. I have
     kept some for you.”
    It was out of the question for them to continue talking about Mao in her presence.
    “Oh, you shouldn’t have drunk so much,” she said to Long, pointing at the empty Shaoxing yellow rice wine bottle standing
     like an inverted exclamation mark on the table. “You are forgetting about your high blood pressure.”

    “Chief Inspector Chen and I are working together on a new translation of Mao’s poetry to be published here as well as abroad.
     So I won’t have to worry about my ‘professional writer’ status anymore.”
    “Really!” she said incredulously. “This calls for a celebration. Oh, we will have crabs just like before.”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Long. I didn’t know about his high blood pressure, but he is giving me so much help on this book project,”
     Chen said, rising. “I have to leave now. Next time, I promise we will have nothing but crabs, not a single drop.”
    “It’s not your fault,