When Red is Black

Inspector Chen from his elementary-school textbooks. At that time, all the glitter and glory were represented as decadent, evil, sustained at the cost of the working class. The emphasis was then on what was in back of the glamour, an emphasis that had justified the Communist Revolution.
     
    It had been true to some extent. What had changed was the emphasis. Now it was on the facade, the glitter and glory, an emphasis that justified the reversal of the Communist Revolution, although the Party authorities would have never acknowledged this.
     
    Chen was momentarily confused. History in textbooks was like colored balls in a juggler’s hands.
     
    If truth could not be found in textbooks, then where else could one look?
     
    But what could he do? He was just a cop. He had once beleaguered himself with those questions. He had long since given that up.
     
    Even as a cop, Chief Inspector Chen wondered, when he started thinking about his conversation with Zhuang earlier in the evening, whether he had done a decent job.
     
    * * * *
     

Chapter 18
     
     
    Y
    u awoke early on Saturday morning. He decided not to get up immediately. This was a decision reached from necessity. In his family’s small room, if one got out of bed, the others had to follow.
     
    Qinqin had stayed up late last night studying. Nowadays, middle-school students worked like crazy, and Peiqin pushed him like crazy too, insisting that Qinqin had to enter a first-class college at all costs. “He must never end up like us.”
     
    She might not have meant anything by it, but this statement did not sound pleasant to Yu, especially as he was unable to do anything to assist Qinqin. Peiqin was the one responsible for helping with their son’s homework; it had already proven too much for Yu.
     
    Qinqin was still sound asleep on the fold-out sofa, his feet hanging over the edge. He had grown into a lean, tall boy. The sofa bed was no longer long enough for him.
     
    Normally, Peiqin would have been up and about by this time, but it was a weekend. She had stayed up late with Qinqin, going over math problems with him. In the morning light, her face looked pale, tired.
     
    Lying awake, Detective Yu could not help becoming increasingly upset by the latest developments in the Yin investigation. He was aware of the pressure being brought to bear on the bureau, pressure that was especially maddening to Party Secretary Li. The news of Yin’s tragic death had caused wild speculation not only in China, but overseas as well. The case had been reported in several foreign newspapers, which added fuel to the fire back in Shanghai. In addition, Yin’s novel had now been reprinted by underground publishers, and it was selling like hotcakes in private bookstores. Fei Weijin, the Propaganda Minister of Shanghai, was so concerned that he had visited the Shanghai Police Bureau in person to declare that the longer the case remained unsolved, the greater would be the damage to the new image of China.
     
    As a result, Party Secretary Li was anxious for the immediate conviction of Wan for murder in spite of Yu’s arguments. All Yu’s efforts to persuade Li that they had to look further were like eggs thrown against a concrete wall.
     
    Yu tried to recall how Chen had worked his way through the jungle of bureau politics, though he was not too pleased with Chen either. Last night, he was sure he had heard a girl’s whisper and some music in the background of their phone conversation. What Chen had been up to was none of his business. Perhaps the chief inspector could afford to enjoy himself, with his position, with his “lucrative project,” with his promising career, and with a free “little secretary” too. Still, Yu felt uncomfortable at the thought.
     
    At the same time, he was amazed by Chen’s suggestions. He had no idea how, in the midst of working on a rush translation, Chen had managed to come up with those theories. Still, they were no more than hypotheses, with nothing substantial to support them. Yu himself had made tentative forays in these directions without result.
     
    Peiqin stirred beside him—still dreaming, perhaps.
     
    Suddenly he felt sorry for himself, but more so for Peiqin and Qinqin. All these years, they had been together, squeezed into this tiny shikumen room, in this shabby lane. Working on one homicide case after another, he was more often than not away even on weekends, and he earned so little. Why was he doing it?
     
    Perhaps it was