When Red is Black by Qiu Xiaolong Page A

with excellent cooking skills, and equally good taste in classical Chinese literature. Chen had not spoken to her since the apartment had been denied to them. He felt he had let the couple down terribly.
     
    “Yu is working on the Yin case, as you know. He does not have much time for reading. So I am going to read Death of a Chinese Professor on his behalf. Not just the novel, but other material related to it as well, like interviews or reviews. It may take time to find these things in libraries. I’m wondering whether you know of a shortcut to getting that material.”
     
    “I have not read Death of a Chinese Professor.” He had heard of it, but, after reading a review, he had not bothered to obtain the book. Those stories of persecuted intellectuals were nothing new. Chen’s father, a Neo-Confucian scholar, had also died a miserable death during the Cultural Revolution. “I’m afraid I cannot help.”
     
    “Yin, too, belonged to the Chinese Writers’ Association, Shanghai Branch. Were you ever introduced to her at one of those meetings?”
     
    “I don’t remember having met her there.” He said, after considering further, “There’s a small library at the Shanghai Writers’ Association. It’s on Julu Road. Members are supposed to bring their works and related reviews to the library. Sometimes the writers forget to do so, and the librarian has to collect them. At the least, there should be a catalog of her publications. The librarian’s name is Kuang Ming. I’ll give him a call. He should be able to help.”
     
    There was one thing Chief Inspector Chen did not say on the phone. A secret archive would certainly have been kept there with respect to a dissident writer. Peiqin should have no problems finding what she needed.
     
    “Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen. Come to our restaurant when you have time. Now we have a new chef, Sichuan style. He is quite good.”
     
    “Thank you, Peiqin, for helping with our work,” he said.
     
    Afterwards, he thought about the fact that Peiqin had invited him to the restaurant, but not to their home. He had done his best as a member of the bureau housing committee, he thought, but those who had failed to get an apartment would never believe he had done enough, perhaps including Peiqin.
     
    The third phone call he received was from Overseas Chinese Lu, who had earned his nickname in high school from his enthusiasm for foreign things. He was an old friend who called regularly from his restaurant, Moscow Suburb. Not for the first time, Chen received a passionate invitation to have dinner at the newly expanded restaurant.
     
    “I phoned your office. They told me you are on vacation. Now you surely have time to dine at our restaurant.”
     
    “Not this week, Lu. I have to finish a rush translation project for Mr. Gu, of the Dynasty Club, now also the founder of the New World Group. You know him, I think.”
     
    “Oh, Mr. Gu. He asked you to do a translation for him?”
     
    “Yes, for a business project of his,” Chen said. “How is your business?”
     
    “Great. We have unearthed a number of old pictures and posters of Russian girls in old Shanghai. Now they are all over the walls. Impressive pictures. Crowded nightclubs with half-naked Russian girls performing on the stage. It’s like walking back in time into old Shanghai.”
     
    “That’s exciting.”
     
    “I’m thinking of putting a stage in our restaurant, too. Peace Hotel has a band. Old men playing jazz, you know. We’ll do much better. A young men’s band, and Russian girls on stage,” Lu added proudly. “Girls both in old pictures, and in real life.”
     
    “So Moscow Suburb is no longer merely a restaurant, just for gourmets like you.”
     
    “It still is. But people have money now. They want something more than food. Atmosphere. Culture. History. Added value, whatever it may mean. And only in the middle of all this do they think they are really enjoying their money’s