Chen turned to the story with interest. In it, a scholar named Zhang traveled to the Temple of Universal Salvation, where Mrs. Cui was staying with her daughter Yingying on their way to Zhang’an. As the troops nearby rose up in mutiny, Zhang obtained help from his friend to provide much-needed security for the people in the temple. Out of gratitude, Mrs. Cui invited Zhang to a banquet, during which he met Yingying and fell in love with her, though she rebuked his advances with Confucian moralist lectures. One night, however, in a dramatic turn, she came to his western-wing room, offering herself to him. Soon afterward, he left for the civil service examination in the capital, where he received a letter from her. Part of the letter read:

When I offered myself to you in your bed, you took me with the kindest passion. I was so ignorant as to believe that I could depend on you ever after. How could I have realized that having succumbed to the attraction of a gentleman like you without following the proper marriage rites, there was no chance of serving you openly as a wife in the future? To the end of my days that will be an everlasting regret-I could do nothing but to stifle my sighs and be silent. If you, out of the greatest kindness, would condescend to grant the fulfillment of my secret wish, though in death I would be happy as in life. But if, as a man of the world, you curtail your feeling, sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the more important, and regard the affair as shameful, so that our solemn vow can be dispensed with, still my true love will not vanish, and in the breeze and dew it will follow the ground you walk on, even as my body decays, dissolves…

Yuan’s scholar-protagonist then showed the letter to his friends before he deserted Yingying with a surprising moralistic argument, which came at the end of the story:

It is a general rule that those Heaven-endowed beauties invariably either ruin themselves or ruin others. If this Cui girl were to meet someone with great wealth and position, she would use the favor she gains to come in cloud and rain, or dragon and monster-I cannot imagine what she might turn into. Of old, King Yin of the Shang and King You of the Zhou were brought low by such women; in spite of the size of their kingdoms and the extent of their power, their armies were destroyed, their people butchered, and to the present day their names are objects of ridicule. I have no inner virtue to withstand this evil influence. That is why I have resolutely suppressed my love.

At that point in the narrative, the author-posing as Zhang’s close friend in the text-stepped in to endorse Zhang’s behavior in his own words.

Zhang’s contemporaries for the most part commended him as one who had done well to rectify his mistake. I have often mentioned this among friends so that, forewarned, they might avoid making such a mistake, or if they already did, that they might not get totally lost.

Zhang’s decision, Chen observed, came as a volte-face, severing at one stroke the romantic theme. The character’s argument amounted to an assertion that a woman, if irresistibly charming, should be disposed of as an “evil influence,” for she will “ruin” the man close to her like a “monster.”

Chen thought that a better self-defense could have been made. The self-justifying rhetoric about Yingying’s being a monster seemed to Chen nothing but brazen hypocrisy-a poor excuse for Zhang’s having seduced her and then deserted her, making the story fascinating and confounding. It invited speculation about its inconsistencies: romantic passion, for example, was commended in the first part of the story and condemned in the second.

But for the purpose of his paper, the story’s similarities to the other tales he’d read was beginning to suggest a topic for his project. “The Story of Yingying,” like “The Story of Xiangru and Wenjun,” effected a deconstructive turn in the narration of the romance. The Han-dynasty story attributed the hero’s death of thirsty illness to the heroine, who, implicitly evil in her sexual insatiability, depleted and eventually destroyed him. In the Tang-dynasty story, the hero averted his destruction by accusing the heroine of being a monster who ruins people close to her. In both stories, the romantic theme was eventually denounced.

Chen was reminded, unexpectedly, of something in the red mandarin dress case: the killer’s ambivalence or contradiction. The murderer stripped and killed the victims, but he put their bodies in expensive, elegant dresses.

It was an elusive parallel, fading from his thoughts before he could fully articulate it. So he tried to refocus himself on the books, exploring the background of Yuan further. In literary criticism, the biographical approach sometimes contributed to one’s understanding of a difficult text.

But what about the criminal investigation? With the perpetrator’s identity unknown, biographical analysis seemed out of the question, and the meaning of the contradictory clues seemed indecipherable.

Again he found his mind stuck, torn between the two projects, which further confused and confounded him.

Around one o’clock, Shen called him at the library.

“Any discovery, Shen?”

“It’s a long story, Chief Inspector Chen,” Shen said. “I’d better tell you in person, I think. I can show you some pictures.”

“Great. Let me buy you lunch. How about Five Fragrance Resort? It’s a restaurant across the street from the library.”

AS CHEN STEPPED INTO the restaurant, a waiter who had known him for years greeted him warmly.

“You haven’t come here in a long time, Chen. What would you like to have today?”

“Whatever you recommend, but not too much. Only for two people.”

“How about the Chef’s Special Combination for two?”

“Great. And a pot of strong green tea, please.”

While waiting, Chen tried to think about his paper again. Perhaps it was not enough to analyze only one or two stories. If he succeeded in proving the thematic contradiction as something common in classical love stories, it might be an original, worthy project. So he had to choose one or two more stories. He wrote that down in his notebook.

Closing the notebook, he looked up to see Shen shuffle into the restaurant, leaning on a bamboo stick topped with a dragon head. A white-haired and browed man in his early eighties, Shen looked spirited, wearing a cotton-padded traditional Tang costume and black cloth shoes. Chen rose and helped the old man to the table.

As it turned out, Shen hadn’t had a pleasant experience at the bureau. Detective Yu had hurried out for something urgent; Inspector Liao received Shen instead. Liao, declaring that he had already consulted several old tailors, showed little interest in Shen.

There might be another reason, Chen suspected, for Liao’s manner. Shen’s coming to the bureau at Chen’s request could have rubbed Liao the wrong way. It wasn’t necessary, however, to explain the bureau politics to the elderly scholar.

“Don’t worry about Liao. He can occasionally be as stubborn as a mule, and as stupid too,” Chen said, pouring a cup of tea for Shen as the waiter started serving cold dishes. “Please give me an introduction into the history of the mandarin dress. I am all ears.”

Shen, helping himself to a spoon of white jade tofu flavored with green onion and sesame oil and nodding in approval, started. “Now, why is it called mandarin dress? There are a number of theories about it. For one, the Manchurians, both male and female, wore gowns of bright colors. It is also said that in the early period of the Qing dynasty, the Manchurians divided their people into eight groups, or qi, each sporting a flag of a special color and design. Qi is the same as in Qipao-mandarin dress, you know. It was not until the twenties and thirties, however, that the dress suddenly turned into a nationwide hit, shedding its ethnic suggestion. It then enjoyed great popularity until the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. In the mid-eighties, it was reembraced, and now it’s internationally popular. Hollywood stars wear mandarin dresses to the Oscar ceremonies. People believe that it hugs a woman’s body subtly, bringing out her curves like no other dress…”