The Mao Case

for one of his partners,” Diao said. “He had so many. They knew that. And the poems
     Mao wrote for her were unmistakable.”
    “Poems — ‘The Militia Woman,’ right?”
    “So you’ve also heard about that poem? Actually, there’s another one, ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom.’ ”
    “Really!” Chen said, remembering what he had discussed with Long about the poems. “Are you sure? Did you see a scroll of that
     poem that Mao wrote for her?”
    “No, I didn’t, but the meaning of the poem is obvious.
‘Pretty, she does not claim the spring for herself, / content to be a herald of spring. / When hills are ablaze with wildflowers,
     / in their midst she smiles.’
It’s really in the tradition of the Book of Poems. In the first poem of that collection, an emperor’s virtuous wife rejoices
     at his finding a new love. Shang would have known better than to exhibit such a scroll at home, I would think,” Diao said
     thoughtfully. “I interviewed some of her neighbors, and according to one, there was a scroll on the wall of the bedroom. But
     it was a poem by Wang Cangling, a Tang-dynasty poet, entitled ‘Deserted Imperial Concubine at Changxing Chamber.’ ”
    “Yes, I know it.
‘At dawn, having swept the courtyard / with the broom, she has nothing else / to do, except to twirl, / and twirl the round
     silk fan / in her fingers. Exquisite as jade, / she cannot compete with the autumn crow flying / overhead, which still carries
     the warmth / from the Imperial Sun Palace.’
”
    “The meaning of the poem is unmistakable,” Daio said, nodding in approval. “Her complaining about the emperor’s neglect, feeling
     worse than an autumn crow that still carries the warmth, as it were, from the Imperial Sun Palace.”
    “But Shang was no imperial concubine.”

    “He might have made some promise to her. Then the choice of the poem in her bedroom would make perfect sense.”
    “You have a point,” Chen said. “Was there anything else unusual about her that you found out but didn’t mention in your writing?”
    “Let me think. There were some details, but I didn’t pay much attention to them,” Diao said, picking up a piece of pickled
     garlic. “Oh, she had a passion for photography, among other things.”
    “You mean she liked taking pictures?”
    “Yes. I tried to find some of those pictures for the book. According to her neighbors, she took a lot of pictures of Qian,
     but the special group from Beijing must have taken them all away. That’s another thing she and Madam Mao have in common. They
     both loved photography. A weird coincidence. Not many Chinese in the sixties could afford cameras. Shang even did her own
     developing, having converted a storage room into an occasional darkroom.”
    “That’s unusual,” Chen said.
    The waitress reappeared with a golden cart, on which she brought to their table an impressive array of special dishes.
    “Shark fin stewed in the shape of Buddha’s fingers, camel paw braised with scallion, Mandarin-duck-like prawns, abalone in
     white sauce —”
    “Why like Buddha’s fingers?” Diao asked again. “The Empress Dowager had long, long fingernails, like Buddha’s,” the waitress
     explained glibly. “In her day, people at the palace called her Old Buddha —”
    “Thank you. We’ll enjoy them at our leisure,” Chen cut her short before she could start an elaborate introduction. “If we
     need anything else, we’ll let you know.”
    “A different question, Mr. Diao,” Chen said as the cart wheeled out of the room. “In her last days, did Shang say anything
     concerning Mao to the Red Guards or to the special team from Beijing?”
    “I talked to the Red Guards from her movie studio. According to them, she said something to the effect that Chairman Mao knew
     how
much she loved him. No one took it seriously. At least not in the sense that she might have been suggesting. Every one could
     have said those words at the time. But I know nothing about what she might have said to the special team.”
    “Now, why a special team from Beijing?”
    “A common interpretation is that it was because of Madam Mao. Her persecution of her ex-fellow artists was brought up in the
     charges against her after the Cultural Revolution. For her, those who knew of her notorious past, especially those with old
     newspapers and letters in their possession, had to be silenced. Another guess was that it was because of Madam Mao’s jealousy.
     Once she became