When Red is Black

a Chinese Professor read like a literal translation.”
     
    “So you are suggesting that Yin might have plagiarized an English text and translated it herself?”
     
    “It’s possible, isn’t it?”
     
    It was possible. A number of books about the Cultural Revolution had been written in English. As a college English teacher, Yin could have read some of them. But, then, Death of a Chinese Professor had subsequently been translated into English too. Yin would surely have considered the possibility of discovery.
     
    Perhaps Peiqin was like him, too focused on what she could do to help in the investigation. The only help she could provide was through her reading; as a result, she was susceptible to exaggerating some possibilities. Still, she did all this for her husband, who had been left to deal with a difficult case all by himself.
     
    Then Chen spoke on the spur of the moment. “Yu told me about your family breakfast at Old Half Place this morning. That’s great. He deserves a break.”
     
    “Yes, he does. He’s been under a lot of pressure of late. Due to a lot of things.”
     
    “I understand. Detective Yu and I are in the same boat. I depend on him, and of course I will do whatever I can for him. He is a great cop. I consider myself fortunate to be his partner.”
     
    “Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so, Chief Inspector Chen.”
     
    Afterward, he regretted having made such patronizing statements, which might have sounded like the empty compliments Party Secretary Li usually paid. It was perhaps little wonder that he was in line to become Party Secretary Chen. What had he really meant, he wondered. And what would Peiqin think?
     
    He brewed himself another pot of coffee before he resumed reading his own translation.
     
    He put the roast beef and steamed buns into the microwave. It was a clever combination. The roast beef was prepared in a Western way, for in traditional Chinese cuisine there was only soy-sauce-stewed beef. The mixing of the opposites, like yin and yang—he stopped himself with the first bite. The digital timer on the microwave read 3:00 in green lights and there was a sharp beep. There was some strange correspondence between this sound and his new thought.
     
    Was it possible that those parts Yin had plagiarized came from an unpublished manuscript, and the original author was in no position to complain?
     
    He had not really considered this possibility because he was aware that Yin had been a nobody until the publication of Death of a Chinese Professor. No one would have given her a manuscript to read—except Yang. But the missing English manuscript that Zhuang had mentioned might have been Yang’s version of a Chinese Doctor Zhivago.
     
    Of course, Yin would never have told anyone if Yang had left the manuscript to her, for it would have brought her no end of trouble. If the Party authorities had gotten wind of it, they would have demanded the manuscript. They would never have left anything potentially damaging to the glorious image of socialist China in such hands. Especially a manuscript written in English, meant for the market abroad. It might also have exposed her to unpleasantness if word got out about the money she might receive in the event of its publication. That, he could understand from personal experience. So far he had hardly talked to anybody about his current translation project—except to Yu. But even to Yu he had not mentioned the exact amount he was being paid. What would others have thought?
     
    Yang could not have sued—or murdered—Yin, of course.
     
    But who else could have known about the existence of such a manuscript? Yin had long since cut off all ties with her relatives. As for her friends and colleagues, Yin must have been too much of a dissident to ever trust anyone with something like that.
     
    What about someone on Yang’s side? He had started the book prior to the Cultural Revolution. In the early sixties, perhaps. Though he would not have talked to people about it, it was possible that one of his relatives might have visited him and stumbled upon his writing, the way Zhuang had discovered it in the dorm.
     
    The other possibility, of course, was Internal Security. They might have somehow learned of the existence of the manuscript, and decided to take matters into their own hands. It was possible—especially if Yin had started contacting people abroad. That would fit with their decision to withhold information about her