“Yours?” Long cut in. “You’re not even a professional writer, are you?”

“Some people have been saying that I’m interested only in Western modernism. That’s untrue. I have translated a number of classical Chinese poems. And a collection of Mao’s poetry may speak volumes for me.”

That sounded like a convincing motive to Long, who nodded, having heard comments about Chen’s controversial work.

“With your publication both here and abroad,” Chen went on, “I don’t think anyone could vote against you.”

“Chief Inspector Chen, I appreciate your support, and I admire your passion for Mao’s work,” Long said, raising the cup slowly. “Your insistence on a reliable and objective translation speaks for your integrity.”

Chen waited for Long to continue. What made the difference was the threat to his “professional writer” status. Without Chen’s support, his case was hopeless.

A short silence ensued, broken only by the noise made by the crabs still crowding and crawling at the bottom of the plastic basin, blowing bubbles.

“Back to your questions, Chief Inspector Chen,” Long resumed. “I’ve gathered some information that didn’t come from proper research. It is more or less hearsay, you know. But as a responsible translator, you surely know how to select and judge.”

“Of course I’ll have to do that,” Chen said, seeing this as a necessary step for Long to distance himself from the information. “I will take full responsibility for the translation.”

“Now, about the identity of the militia woman, where did you read this?”

“In a Beijing newspaper. According to the article, Mao wrote the poem for a phone operator in the Central South Sea. She took a picture of herself in a militia woman’s costume and showed the photograph to Mao. But how could that have happened? An ordinary phone operator wouldn’t have been able to get close to Mao.”

“Exactly,” Long said, crunching a crab leg forcibly. “There are actually several different versions of the story behind the poem. It’s no secret that Mao had a number of dancing partners. In addition to those ensemble girls, his partners also included those working for him, like the waitresses in the special train, the special nurses, and the phone operators. In one version, a special nurse instead of the phone operator showed the picture to Mao, who wrote the poem to show his appreciation.”

“So what are some of the other versions?”

“Well, have you heard of a movie actress named Shang?”

“Yes, what about her?” Chen said, immediately alert.

“She, too, danced with Mao. The poem was said to be for the actress who played a militia woman in a movie. I saw the movie for that very reason and Shang won an award for her performance. But how reliable is the story about her being the inspiration? I don’t know. Stories about Mao are often blown out of proportion. Anyway, there’s no ‘final word’ about the identity of the militia woman.”

“Can you go into more details here? About Shang, I mean.”

“She’s quite well-known, called ‘the phoenix of the movie industry.’ There’s a Beijing opera called Dragon Flirting with Phoenix. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, it’s about a Ming emperor’s romantic affair with Sister Phoenix.”

“In traditional Chinese culture, the dragon symbolizes the emperor, and the phoenix, its female partner.”

“I see.” Whether Mao believed in such an interpretation, consequently falling for Shang, Chen didn’t know, but he understood the roundabout way in which Long responded to his inquiry.

“That also could be related to the poem for Madam Mao too,” Long went on, finishing the cup in one gulp. “In another, more elaborate version, Madam Mao knew the origin of the militia-woman poem, so she asked Mao to write one for her picture as well – for balance of imperial favor, or like in the old saying, ‘to share the favor of the divine rain and dew.’ Mao came to Shanghai so many times… By the way, have you read the book Cloud and Rain in Shanghai?”

“Yes, I have.”

“So you know the story. With the background research I’ve done, I’m more inclined toward the supposition that Shang was the militia woman in the poem.”

“Why?”

“Mao actually copied poems for Shang. I interviewed a colleague of hers and, according to him, when he visited Shang’s place before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, he saw a scroll in Mao’s calligraphy in her bedroom.”

“The ‘Militia Woman’?”

“Not that one, but ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom.’ ”

“Really!” Chen had never thought about that poem in connection with the investigation. He took out a copy of Mao’s poems from his briefcase and turned to the ode.

After wind and rain seeing off the spring, / flying snow comes as a harbinger of the spring. / On the ice covered cliff, / the plum blossom still shines. / Pretty, she does not claim the spring for herself, / content to be a herald of spring. / When hills are ablaze with wildflowers, / in their midst she smiles.

“It was written in December 1961, after a poem by Lu You, a Song-dynasty poet,” Long said. “It’s also a poetic convention, you know, to write in response or correspondence to another poem. In both poems, the plum blossom symbolizes an unyielding spirit, but in each, from a different perspective.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” Chen turned a page and read Lu’s poem as an appendix.

Outside the post house, beside the broken bridge / a lone plum blossom stands deserted, / against the worries of the solitary dusk, / against the wind and rain. / Not anxious to claim spring for herself, / she endures the envy of other flowers. / Her petals fallen, in dust, in mud, / in spite of a remaining fragrance.

“Like other poems, ‘Ode to the Plum Blossom’ was commonly read as one full of Mao’s revolutionary spirits,” Long said, stirring the sauce in the crab shell with a toothpick. “That interpretation is taken for granted. According to an article I read, someone who had worked with Mao wrote him a letter, quoting Lu’s poem to express admiration, and Mao wrote his ode in response. But mind you, Lu’s poem has nothing to do with admiration. If anything, it is full of complaint and self-pity. A patriotic poet, Lu wanted to serve his country by fighting against the Jin army, but he wasn’t able to, serving instead as merely a petty official. Again, it’s conventional in our traditional poetics to compare someone disappointed to a deserted beauty or neglected blossom, so the meaning of the poem is unmistakable.”

“I think you are brilliantly perceptive here,” Chen said, poking the meat out of a crab leg with a chopstick.

“So who could have sent that poem to Mao? A reasonable guess would be a woman with an unusual relationship with Mao. Only in that circumstance would such a gesture have made sense. She knew that Mao had other women, but she knew better than to complain to his face. So Mao’s poem in response was one of approval of her stance. From his perspective, it’s nothing but natural that an emperor should have three hundred and sixty imperial concubines. In spite of knowing about the other flowers competing for spring’s attention, she should be content as one favored by him earlier, smiling in the midst of all the flowers over the mountains.”

“Why did those official critics cover up the real occasion of the poem? I think the answer is self-evident,” Chen said, hardly able to conceal the excitement in his voice. “Yes, Shang’s perhaps the only one with enough education to quote a poem like that to Mao. Those working around him were mostly young, little-educated, working-class girls.”

Long bent over the crab shell, draining the sauce in it in silence. “Also, about that scroll of the poem in Mao’s calligraphy,” Chen said. “Did Shang’s colleague tell you anything else? For instance, when Mao wrote a poem to someone else, he would usually add a short line as a dedication, and a red chop seal as an indication of its authenticity. Did her colleague see anything like that on the scroll?”