At the eatery entrance, Auntie Yao was selling warm rice balls stuffed with fresh fried dough stick to the customers that stood waiting in line, yawning or eye-rubbing. She appeared astonished at Chen’s arrival that morning, looking over her shoulder while wrapping the sticky balls in her hands. Chen saw Gang sitting at a table inside by himself.

“Oh, Little Chen. You’re quite early today,” Gang said.

“This morning I found this bottle of gin by chance, so I thought of you.”

“When you hear the battle drums and gongs, you think of a general. You are something of a gentleman from ancient times.”

Gang had only a cup of cold water on the wine-stained table. No rice ball or fried dough stick. No liquor, either. He was sitting there perhaps because it was like a home to him.

“It’s too early for me,” Gang said, taking the tiny bottle. “Two bowls of spicy beef noodles, Auntie Yao,” Chen gave his order. “The foreign stuff may be too much for breakfast.” Gang studied the bottle of gin closely, turning it over in his hand.

“You’re right.” Chen said loudly to Auntie Yao again, “And a bottle of Shaoxing rice wine too.”

“You have not come here for noodles, I believe,” Gang said, a sharp light flashing in his eyes. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“All right, let’s get to the heart of the matter, Gang. You were a Red Guard leader at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. I have some questions about the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. I was young then, you know. There was a lot I didn’t understand. So you may start by giving me a general background introduction on the campaign.”

“Well, Mao wanted to snatch back power from his rivals in the Party, so he mobilized young students into Red Guards as a grassroot force fighting for him. As the first campaign of the Cultural Revolution, Red Guards were called on to sweep away the Four Olds – old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits. So the class enemies like capitalists, landlords, well-known artists and intellectuals, all of them became easy targets. They suffered mass criticisms, and their homes were searched for ‘old stuffs,’ which were either smashed or swept away.”

“Yes, my father’s books were all burned. And my mother’s necklace was snatched off her neck.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your family’s suffering. Mao declared ‘Sweeping Away the Four Olds’ to be revolutionary activities, and the Red Guards believed in whatever he said. We beat people, but later we ourselves were beaten too.” Gang bent to pull up the bottom of his pants. “Look, I was beaten into a cripple. Karma.”

“It was the Cultural Revolution, and you paid a price for it too. You don’t have to be too hard on yourself, Gang. But there were so many black class enemies at the time, and so many Red Guard organizations, how was the campaign conducted?”

“For each factory or school or work unit, there was a Red Guard organization or something like it, but there were also larger organizations, like mine, which consisted of Red Guards from various schools. A Sweeping Away action against a particular family usually didn’t take a large organization like ours to carry out. For instance, your father was a professor, so it should have been the Red Guard organizations of the university that raided and ransacked your house.”

With the arrival of the noodles and the rice wine, Gang stopped talking. Auntie Yao had the beef slices placed in a separate small dish instead of atop the noodles. She also gave them a dish of boiled peanuts for free.

“The across-bridge noodles,” Gang said excitedly, opening the rice wine bottle by knocking it against the table corner, raising his chop-sticks for an invitation gesture as if he were the host. “So we can have the beef for wine. Auntie Yao is really considerate.”

“But some special teams were also sent over from Beijing, I’ve heard, from the Cultural Revolution Group of the Central Party Committee.”

“Why are you interested in that?” Gang said, looking up. “I’m a writer,” Chen said, producing a business card provided by the Writers’ Association. “I’m going to write a book about those years.”

“Well, that’s something worth doing, Little Chen. Young people nowadays have no idea about the Cultural Revolution, or if anything at all, only about Red Guards being evil monsters. There should be some objective, realistic books about those years,” Gang said, putting down his chopsticks again. “Back to your question. Who headed the Cultural Revolution Group of CCPC in Beijing then? Madam Mao. Who’s behind her? Mao. When those teams were sent to Shanghai, they were very powerful, capable of doing anything – beating, torturing, and killing people without reporting to the police bureau or worrying about consequences. In short, they were like the emperor’s special envoy brandishing the imperial sword.”

“But did they contact your organization? After all, they were like dragons from somewhere far away, and you were the biggest local snakes.”

“It was usually a small team with a secret mission. Occasionally, they could require our cooperation. For instance, if they wanted to crack down on someone, we would provide all the help, and if need be, keep other organizations away from the target.”

“Do you remember Shang?”

“Shang – just that she was an actress. That’s all I remember.”

“A special team came for her during the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. She committed suicide.”

“So that’s what you want to find out.” Gang drained his cup in one gulp. “You can’t find a better one to help you, Little Chen. I happened to have learned something about those special teams. Some actors knew about Madam Mao in the thirties – about her notorious private life as a third-rate actress. That’s why she wanted to silence those people, persecuting them to death and destroying any incriminating evidence – like old newspapers or old pictures – old stuff, no question about that. What Madam Mao did during the campaign was mentioned as part of her crimes at the trial of the Gang of Four.”

“That’s a possibility.” Though not much of a possibility in Shang’s case, Chen reflected, raising the cup to his lips without tasting it. Shang was much younger, incapable of possessing information or material about Madam Mao’s years as an actress.

“But I’m not sure about Shang. It’s not a name I remember about those days,” Gang went on, pouring himself another cup. “Perhaps I was too busy. But I can try to contact my then assistant about it. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“It would be great if he could remember something.”

“You treat me like a man of the state, and as such, I should naturally do something in return.”

“I really appreciate it,” Chen said, adding his cell phone number to the business card. “Don’t call the office number. I’m not usually there.”

“Oh, you’re a city representative too.” Gang examined the business card closely. “The other day when you condescended to sit with me, I knew you were different. You’re somebody, Little Chen. Now, you’re always welcome to drop in here, but you don’t have to drink with me. Otherwise Auntie Yao would kill me.”

“What are you two talking about?” Auntie Yao said, moving over to the table on full alert.

“About what a gold-hearted woman you are, having tolerated a good-for-nothing drunkard like me for so many years.”

“Anything else?” she said to Chen without responding to Gang.

“No, I’m leaving. Thank you,” he said rising. “Don’t worry, Auntie Yao. Gang told me not to drink with him. I’ll have nothing but noodles next time.”