The Mao Case

incomprehensible, at Jiao’s apartment. A list for
     Yu and Old Hunter. If she couldn’t make much out of it, they might. Or possibly Chief Inspector Chen.
    First, the large bed, so old-fashioned, with a wooden-board mattress. For the majority of the Shanghainese, it was common
     to have a
zongbeng
mattress — something woven netlike with crisscrossed coir ropes. Peiqin insisted on having such an airy, resilient
zongbeng
at home. For younger people, a spring mattress was more popular and Qinqin had one. Only some really old and old-fashioned
     people would think of a wooden-board mattress as a possible choice; they would believe it to be good for their back.
    And then there was the miniature bookshelf set into the head-board. Was Jiao such an avid reader? She hadn’t even finished
     middle school. Not to mention the custom-made mahogany bookshelves with those Mao and history books.
    Peiqin wasn’t sure about the silk scroll of Mao’s poem in the living room and the portrait of Mao in the bedroom, but to her,
     they also seemed unusual.
    As for the dinner with all the unusual dishes, Peiqin was inclined to suppose it was a meal for two. The guest could be an
     old-fashioned one, at least so in his taste, though Jiao hadn’t said a word about any visitor coming that night. Peiqin thought
     that she’d better tip Old Hunter to it, making sure that he would keep lookout this evening.
    She was about to dial when a knock sounded on the door. She put the list into her bag and looked out through the peephole.
     It was a man in a dark blue uniform with something like a long-handled sprayer in his hand.
    “What do you want?” she asked uncertainly.
    “Insect spray service.”
    “Insect spray service?” She sprayed at home, by herself, but it was not her business to question it. Rich people might have
     all kinds of things done by professionals.
    “I scheduled it with Jiao,” he said, producing a slip of paper. “Look.”

    Jiao must have forgotten to tell her about it, which wasn’t that important.
    “So you’re the new maid here?”
    “Yes, it’s my first day.”
    “I came last month,” he said, “and there was another one.”
    He must have come here before, so she opened the door. He moved in, nodding and putting on a gauze mask before she could get
     a close look at his face. He appeared quite professional, his glance instantly sweeping round to the kitchen table. “Better
     cover the dishes, though the spray is practically harmless.”
    Extending the spray head, he started spraying around, poking and reaching into the corners behind the cabinet.
    After four or five minutes, he headed for the bedroom. She followed, though not closely.
    “So you’re not a provincial girl.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Then how did you end up here?”
    “My factory went bankrupt,” she improvised. “Where else could I go?”
    After he checked into the corners as well as hard-to-reach areas, he squatted down, reaching into the space under the bed.
     Perhaps that was the professional way.
    When he finally started to pull in the spray head, she said, “How much does Jiao owe you?”
    “Oh, she has already paid.”
    It was almost four when he left the apartment. Peiqin moved back to the kitchen where she tore the steamed eggplant into slices
     and added salt, sesame oil, and a pinch of MSG. Simple yet good. She also sliced a piece of jellyfish for another cold dish
     and prepared a small saucer of special sauce.
    She finally poked a chopstick into the pork. The chopstick pierced it easily. She turned the fire down to the lowest setting.
     The pork looked nicely done, rich in color.
    That was about all she could do for the day. The clock on the
kitchen wall said four forty-five. She surveyed the dishes prepared and half prepared on the kitchen table, nodding with approval.
    Taking off her apron, she thought she should let Jiao know about all that she had done that afternoon. So she left a note,
     mentioning the visit of the insect spray man as well.

SEVENTEEN
    MUCH TO HIS CONFUSION, Chen found himself sitting beside Yong in a black limousine, which was rolling down the once familiar Chang’an Avenue in
     the growing dusk.
    He hadn’t expected such a grand ride upon his arrival in Beijing. On the Shanghai-Beijing express train he had decided that,
     rather than go through a travel agency and have his name registered, it would be better to call Yong, ask her to book a hotel
     for him, and have her purchase a prepaid