The Mao Case

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     him!”
    “Hold on, Auntie Zhong. A
guiren
in Jiao’s life. How do you know?”
    “Like you, some people know about my relationship with the Shang family. So he came to me one day.”
    “What kind of a man is he?”
    “A real gentleman. He said that he knew Jiao’s parents. He is about their age, I guess. He gave me money to buy food and clothing
     for Jiao.”
    “When did that start?”
    “Two or three years after the end of the Cultural Revolution. In the late seventies or early eighties. He did all his good
     deeds anonymously, insisting that I not say anything to Jiao. What noble benefaction!”
    “What Buddhist spirit!” he sort of echoed, trying to come up with more Buddhist improvisations. “A peck, a drink, everything
     happens with a cause and consequence.”
    “You, too, kowtow to Buddha, don’t you? He might not have been that rich at first, giving me just a little cash each time,
     but he must have come from a good family, the way he talked and behaved. Good deeds will never go unnoticed. Now he’s so incredibly
     rich. So is Jiao — all through his help.”
    “Can you give me his name and address, Auntie Zhong? I really want to thank him for what he had done for the Shang family.”
    “He sows without caring about reaping. In fact, he has never given me his real name.” She said shaking her head resolutely,
     “I wouldn’t give it to you even if I knew. It’s against his principles.”
    “I don’t know how to thank you enough,” he said as he got up, realizing it would be useless to push any further. “Like that
     noble benefactor, you have done so much for her family. The way of Buddha is truly beyond us. Karma works out in the life
     of her granddaughter.”

    “Yes, may Buddha bless her, and him too. Goodbye, Mr. Yu.” Zhong rose, and opened the door to the dark staircase.
    He nearly stumbled again, beginning to grope slowly down, grasping the railing, his stiff legs moving with difficulty. It
     took him several minutes before he reached the foot of the staircase, the way down being even longer than the way up.
    Walking out into the busy and bustling street, he blinked in a burst of afternoon sunshine. It was a random harvest. He lit
     a cigarette, waving the match. The information from Zhong threw light on some, if not on all, of the mysteries about Jiao’s
     life. Particularly regarding the self-effaced “incredibly rich” benefactor. Zhong seemed convinced that his fortune had brought
     about the metamorphosis in Jiao’s life.
    Could the benefactor be the man Old Hunter had glimpsed in the company of Jiao the other night? Not likely. The man seemed
     to be younger, whereas Zhong described the benefactor as being about the same age as Jiao’s parents.
    It wasn’t until he was passing by the convenience store again, that he thought of something. In spite of Zhong’s ambiguous
     response about what she had told Jiao about her benefactor, if the changes in her life had been related to him, Jiao should
     know him by now.
    Jiao didn’t seem to have any friend that age — not from what he had learned from Chen — except Xie. An old-fashioned gentleman,
     and from a good family too, but Xie was far from rich.
    So Old Hunter would get hold of a picture of Xie and with it, go back to Zhong. She might acknowledge the man in the picture
     even if she didn’t know his name.
    He started humming some fragments from a Suzhou opera. “Bursting with anger, I denounce you…”

TWENTY-TWO
    CHEN GOT A TEXT message on his cell phone early the following morning.
    “I’ve talked to a friend who works at his residence. She’ll arrange a visit for you today. Her name is Fang, and her number,
     8678856.”
    The message was unmistakable, even though the sender didn’t leave a name.
    He hastened out the hotel, got into a taxi, and headed for Tiananmen Square again.
    The traffic wasn’t too bad along Chang’an Boulevard that morning. The taxi driver, for once, was not a talkative one, looking
     sullenly ahead, his face in the rearview mirror almost as gray as the sky. Chen rolled down the window. A pigeon whistle could
     be heard trailing high overhead.
    It took him only fifteen minutes to arrive at Xinhua Gate, the magnificent front entrance to the Central South Sea, which
     was located just west of Tiananmen Gate.

    Originally, the Central South Sea had been something of an extension of the Forbidden City, with gardens, lakes, villas, woods,
     halls, and studies for the