The Mao Case

picking up a pork-stuffed sesame cake, a surprisingly ordinary snack that tasted more agreeable than the
     exotic delicacies. “You must have talked to Jiao too.”
    “She knew little about her mother, let alone her grandmother. An ill-fated girl.”
    Diao must have contacted Jiao a couple of years earlier and was unaware of the subsequent change in her life.
    “She’s doing fine now, I think,” Chen said. “Now, tell me more about what happened to Qian after Shang’s death.”
    “Qian was driven out of her apartment —”
    “Immediately?”
    “No, two or three months after Shang’s death.”
    “So, hypothetically, she could have looked around the apartment for something left behind by Shang.”
    “Well, Shang could have left something behind, but the place had been turned upside down by the special group —”
    Once again the waitress entered, serving the celebrated duck soup. The table now appeared overcrowded, several dishes untouched
     or hardly touched.

    “The emperor’s way. You have to have a table full of dishes. Symbolically complete,” the waitress said, smiling before retracing
     her light-footed steps, “like the complete banquet of the Manchurian and Han.”
    “That’s why people want to be an emperor, paying for a banquet they cannot finish,” Diao said, putting a spoonful of the soup
     into his mouth. “The soup is hot.”
    “One can see meaning in anything from the perspective one chooses. For a different question, was there anyone else close to
     Shang in her last years?”
    “No. There’s a superstitious belief about an emperor-favored woman being different, almost divine, through the cloud and rain.
     In ancient China, the imperial concubines or palace ladies had to remain single all their lives, even after the demise of
     the emperor. Untouchable, forbidden too, like part of the Forbidden City. People could have heard of her relationship with
     Mao. They may have known better than to get involved with her.”
    “But I don’t necessarily mean in that sense — not necessarily men.”
    “She didn’t have any close friends, not with such a well-guarded secret.” Diao added broodingly, “Well, except perhaps for
     that maid of hers, who had been with Shang before her first marriage and stayed with her until the outbreak of the Cultural
     Revolution.”
    “Yes, there are stories about exemplary relationships between master and servants, mistress and maid, in classical Chinese
     literature. Like in the play
Seeking and Saving the Only Heir of the Zhao
. It even inspired Brecht, as I recall. So do you think Shang could have trusted her?”
    “You’re no literary novice, Mr. Chen,” Diao said, casting him a sharp look.
    “I’m a novice beside you,” Chen said, regretting that a moment of unrestrained bookishness had given him away.
    “If it was something concerning Mao, I don’t think Shang would have given it to the maid. The maid, because of her class status,
     could have easily denounced Shang in those years.”
    “But did you hear anything about the maid after Shang’s death?”

    “In my research about Jiao’s childhood, I learned that nobody visited the girl in the orphanage except an unidentified old
     woman who came a couple of times. I’m not sure if it’s the maid, who must have been old then,” Diao said, visibly more and
     more uncomfortable with the direction of the talk. He must have started to suspect Chen’s purpose. He glanced at his watch.
     “I’m sorry, I have to go back to babysitting, Mr. Chen. This lunch has taken much longer than I expected. You may call me
     if you have other questions.”
    It was almost three. A long, protracted lunch. Chen also rose, shaking hands with Diao, watching him leave.
    Afterward, Chen sat alone in the private room for several minutes, facing the littered table, on which a number of dishes
     remained untouched.
    He then picked up his cell phone and dialed Old Hunter in Shanghai, while meeting the glare of a golden dragon embossed on
     the vermilion-painted pillar.

TWENTY-ONE
    IN THE HOT-WATER HOUSE, Old Hunter sat alone, drinking tea in silence, in the afternoon sunlight.
    The hot-water house was far less than a tea house, with the sort of dual function of providing hot water to the neighborhood
     and tea to occasional customers. There were only a couple of rough wooden tables behind the stove. There were several cheap
     snack booths nearby. In the past, people sometimes came to the hot-water house