When Red is Black

bureau car at his. disposal, a new apartment in his own name, and an occasional photo appearance in local newspapers. As an iron-rice-bowl holder, however, his monthly income of around five hundred Yuan was sometimes barely enough to cover his needs. But for the extra money from his translations of foreign mysteries and the occasional short technical translation, as well as the “gray area” perquisites of his position, he didn’t know how he could have managed.
     
    And, as an emerging Party cadre, he also felt the need to live up to certain unwritten standards. When he met with connections like Gu, for instance, he considered himself obliged to offer to pay occasionally, even though those businessmen would invariably insist on picking up the check.
     
    Of late he’d also had sizable expenses due to the increasing cost of medical treatment for his mother, whose former employer, a state-run factory, had fallen into terrible shape and was unable to reimburse its retirees for their medical bills. She had talked to the factory director a number of times without success. The company was on the brink of bankruptcy. So Chen had taken it upon himself to pay. The money from the translation of the New World business plan would be like timely rain in the dry season.
     
    “You have to help me,” Gu pleaded with utter sincerity. “I cannot turn in an unreadable proposal to an American banker. The translation must be first-class.”
     
    “I cannot guarantee anything. To translate a total of fifty pages will take time. I doubt I will be able to manage in just one or even two weeks, even if I take a leave from the bureau.”
     
    “Oh, I forgot. For such a large project, you will surely need help. What about White Cloud? That girl you danced with in the Dynasty Club, remember her? She’s a college student. Bright, capable, and understanding. She will be a little secretary for you.”
     
    A “little secretary”— xiaomi —another current term, which actually meant a “little mistress.” Newly rich businessmen—Mr. Big Bucks—like Gu made a point of having young, beautiful “little secretaries” in their company. A necessary sign of one’s social status, if not of something else. Chen had met White Cloud—a “K girl”— in the private karaoke room at Gu’s Dynasty Club while pursuing an earlier investigation with triad ramifications.
     
    “How I can afford secretarial assistance, General Manager Gu?”
     
    “It’s in the interest of the New World that you have help. I will take care of it.”
     
    The fragrance from her red sleeves accompanies your uniting deep in the night ... a Tang dynasty line rose from the recesses of his mind, but Chen pulled himself back to the present. A free little secretary. Like a bottle of Maotai in addition to the moon cake falling from the skies.
     
    So far, there had been no strings attached, Chen thought. A shrewd businessman like Gu might not play all his cards too obviously, so early, but the chief inspector believed he did not have to worry yet. It seemed that he was being offered a straight business proposition, albeit a very favorable one. If something came up later, he would then decide how to deal with it.
     
    There are things a man can do, and things a man cannot do. That was one of the Confucian dictums his father, a Neo-Confucian scholar, had taught him at the time of the Cultural Revolution, when the old man refused to write a dictated “confession” incriminating his colleagues.
     
    “Let me to talk to Party Secretary Li,” Chen said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
     
    “He won’t refuse you, I know. You are a rising star, with a most promising future. Here is part of the advance.” Gu took a bulging envelope out of his brief case. “Ten thousand Yuan. I’ll have the rest delivered to you tomorrow.”
     
    Chen took the envelope, making up his mind not to worry about it. There were other things to concern him. He would buy a box of red ginseng for his mother. That’s the least he could do as her only son. Perhaps he should also engage an hourly maid for her; she lived alone in an ancient attic, and was in poor health. He drained his cup, saying, “Drinking with you, we talk to our hearts’ content, my horse tied to a willow tree, by a high building.”
     
    “What is the allusion? You have to enlighten me, my poetic chief inspector.”
     
    “It’s just a quote from Wang Wei,” Chen said without further explanation. The couplet