The Mao Case

for twenty years.”
    “Oh, it’s a great honor to meet you, Comrade Bi.”
    “I’m retired, but I still come here from time to time. Oh, those un-forgettable years by the side of our great leader! He
     built a socialist new China out of a poor, backward country. Without Chairman Mao, without China.”
    Without Chairman Mao, without China
? Chen didn’t ask. It sounded like a much-chanted line from a popular song in the sixties, except that it was a statement
     then, not a question.
    “What a great man!” Bi went on in an emotional voice. “During three years of natural disasters, Mao refused to eat any meat.”
    “Yes, millions of people died of starvation under the Three Red Flags those years,” Chen blurted out. The so-called “three
     years of natural disasters” was but a way to shift the blame for the disaster caused by Mao’s political campaign. In a different
     version of events, Chen had been told that Mao made a public show of eating no meat while still enjoying fish and wild game,
     some of them live, directly from the Central South Sea. At least Mao never starved in the Forbidden City.
    “No, you can’t talk about history like that, young man. China was surrounded and sabotaged by imperialists and revisionists
     then. It was Chairman Mao that led us out of the woods.”
    That was the official version. Chen knew it would be pointless to
argue with Bi, an old man who had spent years by the side of Mao. Chen decided to sing a different tune.
    “You’re right, Comrade Bi. I’ve just visited Mao’s bedroom. So simple, not even a soft mattress on the bed. It embodies our
     Party’s fine tradition of hard work, simple living. Indeed, few had the privilege of working with Mao. You, too, have made
     a contribution to China.”
    “Working under Mao, I should say,” Bi said with a toothless grin. “Now, I’m just curious. In his bedroom, there’s such a large
     bed, covered with books. But almost nothing else. Did Madam Mao live here?”
    “No, she didn’t.”
    Chen didn’t push. Instead, he produced a cigarette, lit it respectfully for Bi, and waited.
    “Madam Mao’s a curse,” Bi said, exhaling loudly.
    Another officially approved statement. In the Party newspapers, the Cultural Revolution had been attributed to the Gang of
     Four, headed by Madam Mao.
    “So Mao lived here all by himself?” Chen probed cautiously. “You know what? Mao had long been estranged from her. If she wanted
     to see him, she had to make an appointment, speaking to me first.”
    “Oh, Mao must have trusted you so much.”
    “Yes, we stopped her several times. She tried to break in, but Mao gave us instructions that no one could barge in without
     reporting to us first.”
    That was unusual between a husband and wife. Bi didn’t say why, but it echoed what Chen had just read in the memoir. A guard
     wouldn’t have had the guts to stop Madam Mao, unless specifically instructed by Mao for a reason.
    Instead of moving on to an elaboration of the unspoken reason, Bi leaned down, grinding out the cigarette on a slab of rock
     and putting the butt into the satchel.
    “I have to make my rounds. It’s not easy for you to be let in. Stay here as long as you want. You’ll be able to bathe in the
     greatness of Chairman Mao.”

    Bi shuffled away, humming a song to himself. “Red is the east, and rises the sun. China produces Mao Zedong, a great savior
     who works for happiness of the people.”
    It was a tune that Chinese people would sing every day during the Cultural Revolution. And that the big clock atop the Custom
     House on the Bund played every hour. Watching Bi’s retreating figure against the deserted garden, Chen thought of a Tang-dynasty
     poem titled “The Outside Palace.”
    In the deserted ancient outside palace,
    the flowers bloom
    into a blaze
    of solitary, scarlet splendor.
    Those palace ladies long left behind
    there, white-haired,
    sit and talk in idleness
    about Emperor Xuan.
    For a moment, Chen found himself confounded. He was no politician. Nor a historian. Nor a poet any longer, according to Ling,
     but a cop who did not even know what to do here.
    The blue jay flapped by again, its wings still shiny like in a lost dream. The sudden ringing of his cell phone broke into
     his confusion. It was Detective Yu from Shanghai.
    “I had to call you, Chief. Old Hunter gave me your temporary cell number — wherever you are. Song was killed.”
    “What?” Chen stood up.
    “I don’t know the