When Red is Black

library, from reviews, or from people’s reminiscences. “
     
    “Isn’t there anything else?”
     
    “Well, there have been various responses to the book.”
     
    “Tell me about those responses.”
     
    “Some believed that this must be a true story of their love affair. A few even blamed her for his death. But for their affair, Yang would not have ruffled the feathers of the authorities and suffered persecution. He might have survived.” Peiqin shifted to a new position, nestling against Yu’s shoulder. “Some discredited the story totally. For one thing, a cadre school was no place for romantic love. The dorm rooms were so cramped. They would not have been able to find any place to meet, even if they had the desire and the energy. Not to mention the political atmosphere. The officials of the cadre school would have been too vigilant.”
     
    “So what do you think of the book?”
     
    “When I read it for the first time, I had mixed feelings about it. I liked some parts, but not others. And to tell the truth, I used to be such a fan of Yang’s work, so I was more or less disappointed.”
     
    “Really! You have not told me about that.”
     
    “I read most of his poetry in the early seventies, and it was not that safe, you know, to discuss such writing.”
     
    “But I still don’t see why you were disappointed. It’s her book, not his.”
     
    “Well, don’t laugh at me, but I thought he deserved someone better, and my first reading could have been affected by my bias.”
     
    “You mean someone better than the woman in the picture on the back cover of the book—a withered, middle-aged, bespectacled woman?” Yu asked.
     
    “Not exactly. It could also have been a better book,” Peiqin said. “I did not like the overly detailed introduction about Red Guard organizations. It’s almost irrelevant. And then some of the descriptions of the affair put me off.”
     
    “What was wrong with them?”
     
    “Some parts were really touching but some were a bit too melodramatic. It was almost like a teenage infatuation. It’s hard to imagine that a scholar of his age and caliber would have been so naive.”
     
    “Well, in those years, people clung to anything,” he said. “They would grasp at any straw to preserve some semblance of humanity. This might have been true for her—and for him too.”
     
    “That might be so,” she agreed. “Perhaps I was too much of a fan of his writing. This time, after having gone into their backgrounds, and having read the book more closely for a second time, I realize that she must have really cared for him. Too strong an emotion might have not been good for her writing. She was such a pitiable woman.”
     
    “I think so, too,” he said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.
     
    “Please don’t,” she said, turning to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “We have talked such a long time about others.”
     
    Under the quilt, he felt her toes touching his shin. It was just like in their Yunnan years, with the brook gurgling behind their hut.
     
    He saw the message in her eyes and removed the pillow propped against the headboard. It was one of those rare nights of privacy on which they did not have to try to hold their breath, or to make as little sound and movement as possible, as they clasped each other tightly.
     
    Afterwards, he still held her hand, peacefully, for a long while.
     
    To his surprise, Peiqin started snoring a little, though ever so lightly. It happened sometimes when she was overtired. She must have stayed up late reading for the last few nights. For his sake.
     
    After all these years, he still found Peiqin full of surprises.
     
    He sometimes wondered whether she should have lived a different life. Pretty, talented, she might not have crossed his path but for the Cultural Revolution, to which Yu actually had a reason to be grateful. So many years after the national disaster, she was still with him, even joining him now in an investigation.
     
    Despite all his disappointments, Yu considered himself a lucky guy. But all of a sudden, he also felt disturbed. It was not just about Yin and Yang; it was something more vague, yet personal. He realized that there was no telling whether another Cultural Revolution might befall China.
     
    In the moment before he went to sleep, strange ideas came crowding into his mind. Fortunately, Peiqin is not a writer —that was one of his half-formed thoughts as he