The Mao Case

him in the eye. “You have to tell me more about
     your work.”
    So he told her what information he was looking for, though without going into detail. He knew that honesty would be the best
     way to enlist her help.
    “You’re somebody in your field, Chief Inspector Chen —”
    But her cell phone rang. She snatched it up in frustration. In spite of her initial reluctance, she began speaking in earnest.
     Possibly an important business call.
    “Quota is no problem …”
    He stood up, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and made a gesture with it. Pushing open the door, he headed into the courtyard.
    The courtyard was even more deserted than he had first thought. The quadrangle house was holding out in desperation against
     the development. He watched her profile silhouetted against the window paper, the phone pressed to her cheek. Almost like
     an ancient shadow play. At that instant, she seemed to have moved far away.
    She was capable. No question about it. There was no forgetting, however, that she had succeeded in the business world not
     because of
her capability, but because of her family connections. It was part of the system — the way of the system. The quota she was
     talking about, presumably for export business, was an example: she could get the quota easily with a phone call to her “uncle”
     or “aunt,” yet it was way beyond ordinary people.
    He wasn’t able to identify with the system, not yet, not totally, in spite of his “success” in the system. In his heart of
     hearts, he still yearned for something different, something with a sort of independence, albeit a limited one, from the system.
    He saw she was finishing the call, putting the phone down on the table. Grinding out the cigarette, he hastened back into
     the room.
    “You’re a busy CEO,” he said in spite of himself.
    “You don’t have to say that. As a chief inspector, you’re busier.”
    “It’s a job you have to put more and more of yourself into. Then it becomes part of you, whether you like it or not,” he said
     wistfully. “I’m talking about myself, of course. So I may redeem myself, ironically, only by being a conscientious cop.”
    “Will the visit to Mao’s residence make such a difference to your police work?”
    She was right to ask the question. The visit alone would make no difference. In fact, the very trip to Beijing could be a
     pathetic attempt to treat a dead horse as if it were still alive. “A special team was sent to Shang’s home,” he said, taking
     her question as a subtle hint. “After so many years, no one could know anything about what they did. The archive may still
     be listed as confidential —”
    But her phone rang again. She took a look at the number and turned it off. “Those businesspeople will never let you alone,”
     she said, her fingers brushing against the paper window, like against the long-ago memories. “That night, I remember, there
     was an orange pinwheel spinning in the window. You were drunk, saying it was like an image in your poem. Have you totally
     given up your poetry?”
    “Can I support myself as a poet?” He had a hard time following her as she jumped to the topic of poetry. She might be as self-conscious
     as
he was at the unexpected reunion. “I published a collection of poems, but I found out that it was actually funded by a business
     associate of mine without my knowledge.”
    “When I first started my business, I, too, had the naïve idea, that among other things, you might be able to write your poems
     without worrying about anything else.”
    He was touched by a faraway look in her eyes, but she was intensely present too. She had never given up on the poet in him.
     Was it possible, however, for him to let her support him like that?
    “When I first met you, I never imagined I would be a cop.”
And I never thought you would be a businesswoman
— “In those days, we still had dreams, but we have to live in the present moment.”
    “I don’t know when Yong will come back,” she said, glancing up at the clock on the wall.
    “It’s late,” he responded, almost mechanically. “It may be difficult for you to find a taxi.”
    “I’ll leave a note for her. She will understand.”
    So it ended in a whimper, this evening of theirs, but whether Yong would understand it, he didn’t know.
    As they walked out of the courtyard, he was surprised to see the limousine still waiting there, like a modern monster crouching
     against the ruins of