The Mao Case

along the trails, and at the corners.
     Absent-mindedly, he bought a stick of sugar-glazed hawthorn, a Beijing street food speciality. It tasted surprisingly sour.
    He began to be aware of a subtle effect the imperial surroundings were having on him. A self-contained world of divine sublimity,
     where an emperor couldn’t have helped seeing himself as the son of the heaven, high above the people, a godly ruler endowed
     with the sacred mandate and mission for him alone. Consequently, no ethics or rules whatsoever could possibly apply to him.
    So for Mao, the anti-Rightist movement, the Three Red Banners, and the Cultural Revolution — all those political movements that
     had cost millions and millions of Chinese people’s lives — might have been nothing more than what was necessary for an emperor
     to consolidate his power, at least in his imagination within the high walls of the Forbidden City…
    Instead of stepping into any of the imperial exhibition rooms, Chen kept walking straight ahead. That morning, he was the
     only such determined passerby there.
    Soon, he walked through the museum’s back gate, from which he then glimpsed the tip of the White Pagoda in the North Sea Park.

NINETEEN
    FANGSHAN RESTAURANT, WHICH CHEN had chosen for the lunch meeting with Diao, was in the North Sea Park, originally an outside imperial garden attached to
     the Forbidden City, celebrated for its imperial history.
    The restaurant choice was also made for a personal reason. During his college years, Chen had talked to Ling about having
     lunch there. They had never done so, as it had been far beyond his means.
    There was still about half an hour before the appointment time. So he took a leisurely walk along the lake. In spite of the
     park’s name, there was no sea, only a man-made lake, which was exaggerated for the sake of the emperor. Still, it was a fantastic
     park in the center of the city, adjacent to the Beijing Library, where Ling had once worked, and with the silhouette of the
     White Pagoda shimmering behind.
    He made his way toward a small bridge that he remembered from years before. Cutting across a corner, he saw an arts-and-crafts
     boutique store embosomed in the summer foliage. He stepped in, but
things were too expensive inside. In the evening, he might have some time for a visit to Xidan Department Store to choose
     a present.
    Then the bridge came into view. There, a young girl stood leaning against the railing, gazing out to the verdant mountains
     in the distance, a pigeon whistle buzzing in the air. He was overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu.
The heart-breaking spring ripple / still so green under the bridge, / the ripples that reflected her arrival / light-footed,
     in such beauty / as would shame a wild goose into fleeing.
    One afternoon, in his last years of college, Ling had arranged to meet him here with some books he had requested. He was delayed
     at school, and she must have been waiting for a long time. Hurrying over, he saw her standing on the muddy planks of a little
     bridge, resting one foot lightly on the railing, scratching her ankle, her face framed by wind-tangled hair. The scene was
     inexplicably touching: it was as if she was merging into a backdrop of willow catkins, which symbolized ill-fated beauty in
     Tang-dynasty poetry.
    Whether the scene of the willow catkins had foreshadowed their relationship, no one could tell. But it wasn’t time for nostalgia,
     he told himself, heading back in the direction of the restaurant.
    Fangshan presented an ancient-looking front. In a quiet flagstone courtyard, a waitress dressed like a Qing palace lady came
     up and led him to a private room. What struck him first was the ubiquitous yellow color — the color exclusively for the royal
     family. Against the yellow-painted walls, the table was set up with an apricot-colored tablecloth and gilt chopsticks, and
     behind him, an old cabinet elaborately embossed with golden dragons. Sitting by the window, he opened the briefcase and took
     out the information he had about Diao.
    Diao was a newcomer on the literary scene — a middle school teacher up until his retirement, with no publications whatsoever
     to his credit until he suddenly produced his bestseller,
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
. That practically ruled out the possibility that Diao would recognize Chen. The former wasn’t a member of the Writers’ Association,
     and they couldn’t have met before. The chief inspector should be able