The Mao Case

there is buzz on a book, pirated copies come into the market, and you don’t
     get a single penny.”
    “What a shame! Only five thousand yuan,” Chen said. Some of his more lucrative translation projects had paid him as much,
     for only ten pages or so, though he knew he had gotten the project because he was chief inspector. He glanced at his leather
     briefcase. It contained a sum of at least five thousand yuan — which he brought to buy a wedding present for Ling. But he had
     been having second thoughts about it after watching her leave in that luxurious limousine last night. It might be a large
     sum for him, but it was nothing to her.
    He picked up the briefcase, snapped it open, and took out an envelope. “A small ‘red envelope’ of about five thousand yuan,
     Mr. Diao. Far from enough to show my respect, it is only a token of my admiration.”
    It was a bulging envelope, unsealed, with a hundred-yuan bill peeping, which bore a portrait of Mao, declaring as the supreme
     Party leader to China, “The poorer, the more revolutionary.”
    “What do you mean, Mr. Chen?”
    “To tell the truth, I’m interested in writing something about Shang, publishable or not. So the envelope is in compensation
     for your invaluable information. For a businessman like me, it’s an investment, but it also shows my respect for you.”
    “An old man like me, Mr. Chen, doesn’t have anything to brag
about, but I think I can size up a man well. whatever you are up to, you aren’t after money.”
    “whatever you tell me is not black or white. Nor will anyone be able to prove it’s from you, Mr. Diao. Outside of this room,
     you may say you have never met me.”
    “Not that I was so unwilling to tell you the story about Shang, Mr. Chen,” Diao said, draining the cup, “but what I gathered
     could be just hearsay. You can’t take it literally.”
    “I understand. I’m not a cop, so I don’t have to base every sentence on hard facts.”
    “I didn’t write the book about Shang, but that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be written. In ten or fifteen years, aspects
     of the Cultural Revolution may be totally forgotten. Oh, you’re not recording our talk, are you?”
    “No, I’m not.” Chen opened the briefcase again, showing the contents.
    “I trust you. So where shall I begin?” Diao went on, barely waiting for an answer. “Well, I won’t beat about the bush. About
     Shang: believe it or not, I happened to know a peddler, whose fish booth was crushed by her body falling out of a fifth-story
     window —”
    The roast Beijing duck arrived with the waitress as well as a white-clad and -capped duck chef, who peeled the crisp duck
     skin in front of their table with a flourish.
    “The slices of crispy duck skin, wrapped in the paper-thin pancake with the special sauce and green onion was the Empress
     Dowager’s favorite,” the waitress said. “As for this one special dish of fried duck tongues mantled with red peppers like
     maple-covered hills, can you guess how many ducks?”
    “Can I ask you a favor?” Chen said to her. “All of these are fantastic, but can you serve the rest of them together? We are
     just beginning an important talk.”
    “I’ll let our chef know,” she said, bowing low like a Manchurian girl before she headed to the door. “You go ahead.”

TWENTY
    “NOW, BACK TO THE story,” Chen said. “You were just talking about the end of Shang’s life, about the fishmonger.”
    “Oh yes, he was indeed a talkative monger, giving a vivid description of her death scene, though I wonder how he could remember
     those details after so many years.”
    “Did Shang die instantly?”
    “No, she didn’t. She said a few words before she lost consciousness.”
    “What did she say?”
    “She said she lived on the fifth floor.”
    “What could that mean?”
    “He had no clue,” Diao said reflectively, picking a tiny fishbone out from between his teeth. “Did she want to draw attention
     to her room on the fifth floor? She could have been tortured or pushed out of the window. Did she want people to call for
     an ambulance, using the phone in the room? In those days, there was only one public phone station in the neighborhood. What
     went through her mind in her last moments, no one can say.”

    “What then?”
    “Well, she was so ‘black,’ people avoided her like the plague while she lay there. No one did anything except for watching
     and finger-pointing. A couple of