“I’ve been working on a manuscript about his work, but it is not finished yet. As for new information, there may not be such a lot, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t wait to read it,” Chen said. In a manuscript meant for publication in China, however, the “new” material would be understandably limited. Nor would it provide what he was looking for. “Now with translation, the first step is interpretation. The poem Mao wrote for Madam Mao’s picture, for instance, could be a personal one.”

“ ‘Inscription on a Picture of the Celestial Cave in the Lu Mountains Taken by Comrade Li Jin.’ ” Long began reciting the poem from memory, holding a crab claw like a stick of chalk. “Against the gathering dusk stands a pine, sturdy, erect / in composure with riotous clouds sweeping past. / What a fairy cave it is, born out of the nature! / Ineffable beauty comes at the perilous peak.”

“In the sixties, the poem was read as a revolutionary stance against imperialism and revisionism – riotous clouds could be symbolic of the reactionary force, and also as an example of the closeness between Mao and Madam Mao,” Chen said, taking up a crab leg and, like Long, holding it like a piece of chalk. “After the downfall of the Gang of Four, Madam Mao became dog shit, and the poem was said to be simply the expression of Mao’s revolutionary spirit – nothing to do with Madam Mao. However, there’s a recent interpretation by Wang Guangmei.” Long would not need to be told who Wang Guangmei was – everyone was familiar with the wife of Liu Shaoqi, the late chairman of the People’s Republic of China. “According to Wang, Mao invited her to swim. Afterward they had lunch together without waiting for Madam Mao, who was pissed off. To appease her, Mao wrote a poem for her picture.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Long said, nodding over the dazzling white meat and the shining scarlet ovary of a female crab he had just broken open, “but I doubt it’s reliable. Mao wouldn’t have told others about the occasion. Nor would Madam Mao. It is quite possibly merely a guess by Wang, who may still bear a grudge against Mao. And it’s understandable. After all, her husband was persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution.”

“True. But even so, and even though Madam Mao was a shallow bitch, Mao could also have written it as man to woman, in a moment of passion. There is need to insist on a political interpretation, right?”

“That’s right, but what can I do for you, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Help me understand the background of these poems, so we’ll have a reliable interpretation. I’ll acknowledge your help as a consultant for the project. And I’ll put it in my foreword that my translation is based on your studies.”

“You don’t have to do that -”

“Furthermore, I’ll pay you ten percent of the royalty, both here and abroad.”

“That’s way too much, Chief Inspector Chen. You have to tell me more specifically what you need.”

“Let’s continue on with that poem for Madam Mao. I’ve heard of another interpretation – an erotic one. In classical Chinese literature, a ‘fairy cave’ can be a metaphor for – well, what you know. The journey to the perilous peak is even more loaded with sexual suggestions. The fact that it was a poem between husband and wife lends itself to such an interpretation, though Madam Mao later used it for her own political gain.”

“No, that’s not the way to interpret a poem.”

“But you can’t miss some images. The sturdy and erect pine. And that against the dusk too. As if all those weren’t enough, there is the image of flying clouds. You know what cloud and rain mean in classical Chinese literature. Finally there is the perilous peak at the end of poem. Mao wasn’t young at the time. It might not have been so easy for him to reach the peak, you know what I mean.”

“But that’s almost absurd!”

“For a romantic poet, after a night of cloud and rain, in the fantastic view of the Lu Mountains – is it so hard to believe?”

“The poem was written in 1961. Mao and Madam Mao had separate room arrangements long before that. They didn’t live together in the Central South Sea. Why, all of a sudden, should Mao have written such a poem for her?”

“Well, after an unexpected reunion or reconciliation up in the mountains. Mao knew better than to write about such a night in an explicit way -”

“It’s in our poetic tradition to write about a painting or a picture – as a compliment or a comment. People shouldn’t read too much into it. That’s really all I can say, I think.”

“That’s fine, Long. Let’s set this poem aside for the moment and take a look at another one. ‘On the Photograph of a Militia Woman.’ Not a difficult poem. Also in the poetic tradition of writing about a picture. During my school years, the poem was even made into a song.”

“Yes, I can still sing it.” Long rose, eager for a change in their discussion. “Valiant and handsome, she shoulders a five-foot rifle, / in the parade grounds first lit by the sunlight. / A Chinese girl with an extraordinary aspiration, / she loves her military attire, not the extravagant fashion.”

“You are singing it so well,” Chen said, waving a crab leg meditatively like a conductor’s wand.

“Mao said that the Chinese people, every one of them, should be soldiers. The picture embodied such a heroic spirit. The poem was a great inspiration to people in the sixties.”

“But have you heard about the background of it – about the identity of the militia woman in the poem?”

“Well, some stories shouldn’t be taken too seriously.”

“From what I’ve heard, Long, Mao wrote the poem to please that militia woman.”

“No, that’s nothing but hearsay. Give me a poem – any poem you choose – and I could claim that it was written for someone and come up with a far-fetched story.”

“But it was in an official newspaper – the identity of the militia woman, I mean.”

“I’m sorry that I cannot help you,” Long said with hesitation, visibly troubled, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, the crabs are getting cold. Let’s steam more fresh ones.”

“Good idea.”

While Long was busy putting more crabs into the steamer, Chen sized up the situation. His approach had proved to be too abrupt. In spite of his offer of the crabs and the book project, Long remained unwilling to reveal details of Mao’s private life to a cop.

So Chief Inspector Chen had no choice but to play his trump card. For the Mao Case, such means were justified.

When Long returned to the table with another platter of steaming hot crabs, Chen resumed speaking in a more serious tone, “Now, I have to tell you something from the Writers’ Association.”

“Oh yes, you’re an executive member.”

“People want to carry out reforms to the system of professional writers. Because of the government funding cuts, you know, some changes may be inevitable.”

That change was barely relevant to Chen, who had his regular income from the police department, but for a number of professional writers like Long, it would be crucial. And it would be hard for them to find another job in the current, highly competitive market.

“What have you heard?”

“To be fair to the professional writer system,” Chen said, unraveling the thread around a crab, “the change has its merits. We have to take into consideration the special circumstances of each writer. For some, with their bestsellers, they don’t need any money from the association. But for some, whose work requires a lot of research, the ‘professional writer pay’ is still necessary, even more so in today’s society. I made a point of it at the meeting.”

“What did others say?”

“They made a point about publication. After all, people may say a lot about their own works, but there has to be a criterion. So it will come to vote in a special committee.”

“And you’re on the committee?”

“Yes, I am, but I think the odds are against me. Now,” Chen paused to crack the crab claw with his fist, repeatedly, on the table, “with this new English translation, and with you being the Chinese advisor for the book, I can definitely say something on your behalf. And on mine, too.”