When Red is Black

time for him to rethink his future career, as Peiqin had suggested.
     
    When Yu had first entered the police force, his objective was a clear-cut one: to do better than his father, Old Hunter, who, though a capable policeman, never rose higher than sergeant in rank. It was from him that Yu had inherited the job in the Shanghai Police Bureau. In terms of rank, Yu had already achieved his objective. As a detective, he was one notch higher, but he did not feel nearly as good as Old Hunter used to feel—in the years of the proletarian dictatorship. In those years, people were not that different from one another, each had the same paycheck, the same housing, and believed in the same Party doctrine of “hard work and a simple life.” A cop was just one of the people, and he might take extra pride in being the tool of the proletarian dictatorship.
     
    But to be a policeman nowadays was not that rewarding. In an increasingly materialistic society, a cop was nobody. Take Chief Inspector Chen, for example. Though a much more successful cop, Chen still had to take a vacation to earn some extra money for himself.
     
    And then there were stories about corrupt cops, true stories, as Yu knew. What was the point being a cop at all?
     
    As he got out of bed, he announced a decision, which was a surprise even to himself.
     
    “Let’s go out to Old Half Place for breakfast.”
     
    “Why?” Qinqin asked, rubbing his eyes.
     
    “Our family deserves to enjoy a good weekend.”
     
    “It’s a great idea. I’ve heard of the restaurant,” Peiqin agreed sleepily, looking startled, for it was not like Yu to take the family out for breakfast in the midst of an investigation.
     
    “So early, for breakfast?” Qinqin said, getting up reluctantly from the creaking sofa.
     
    “Old Half Place is well-known for noodles from the first pot of the morning,” Yu said. “I’ve read about it in a restaurant guide.” He did not want to explain how he had actually learned about the restaurant.
     
    In half an hour, the three of them arrived at Old Half Place, which was located on Fuzhou Road. Sure enough, many customers were already sitting there waiting, most of them elderly people who held bamboo chopsticks in their hands before the noodles even appeared on the tables.
     
    Above the front counter, the variety of noodles listed on the blackboard menu was impressive. Yu hardly had time to choose. People standing behind them were growing impatient. They must be regular customers, familiar with their favorite noodles, capable of telling the round-faced cashier their choices without having to consult the menu.
     
    Yu ordered noodles with pickled green cabbage and winter bamboo shoots, plus a small dish of xiao pork—a must at this restaurant, according to Mr. Ren. Peiqin had noodles with fried rice paddy eels and shrimp, and xiao pork too. Qinqin chose noodles with a smoked carp head, in addition to a Coca-Cola.
     
    The service was far less impressive. The oil-and-soup-smeared round tables were large enough for ten or twelve people, so the Yu’s could not have a table for themselves. The first floor of the restaurant was large, but there were only two middle-aged waitresses who bustled around, carrying plates and bowls overlapped along their outstretched arms. They were unable to clean up the tables in a timely way, especially since other customers were still eating. That might be one of the reasons the restaurant was able to keep prices low.
     
    Two other noodle-eaters shared their table. One looked as thin as a bamboo stick. The other appeared as round as a winter melon. They seemed to know each other well.
     
    “Eat and drink while you can. Life is short.” The thin one raised his teacup, took a sip, and buried a piece of chicken deep under his noodles.
     
    “This bowl of plain noodles has the same delicious soup,” the round one said, smacking his lips. “Besides, I need to keep to my diet.”
     
    “Come on.” The thin one sounded sarcastic. “It’s a miracle that you look so prosperous and can come here every day—on your waiting-for-retirement pay.”
     
    Plain noodles must be the cheapest in the restaurant, but for someone in the waiting-for-retirement program, with a monthly paycheck of around 200 Yuan, a bowl of plain noodles for 3 Yuan might be all he could afford.
     
    From a bamboo container, Peiqin picked out chopsticks which were still wet, dried them with her handkerchief, and gave a pair to each