class in the old society, still resistant to the socialist revolution. But Peiqin was not exactly disappointed. As in her initial impression, mandarin dresses—in movies and in life—were mostly for those women moving about in fashionable upper-class.
As she was about to watch Golden Lock , her glance fell on a book she had brought home. The white-haired author looked strangely like her late father. She read the short biographical information beneath the picture on the cover. “Shen Wenchang, a well-known poet before 1949, and after 1949, an internationally known expert on the history of Chinese clothing.”
She opened the book, but it touched on the mandarin dress in only two short paragraphs. In the notes at the back of the book, she did not find a single scholar dealing exclusively with the mandarin dress. So perhaps the best she could get would be a paragraph here and there.
The old man must be in his eighties. She put down the book, gazing at the picture. If only she could consult an expert like him, she thought wistfully.
Around dinnertime, the phone rang. It was Chen, who expressed regret upon learning that Yu was still at work.
“Yu’s been so busy the last few days that he often comes back late. Don’t worry about him,” she said. “How is your paper going?”
“Slowly but steadily. I am so sorry about the timing, but it may be the last chance to try my hand at something different,” Chen said. “How are things with you?”
“Not that busy. I’m just reading some books. Everybody is talking about the red mandarin dress, so I thought I might learn something about it.”
“You are trying to help again, Peiqin. Have you found anything interesting?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve just started reading a book on the history of Chinese clothing. The author used to be a poet too.”
“Shen Wenchang?”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes. A great scholar. There’s a new documentary movie about him.”
“I haven’t seen that movie. Oh, I bought a DVD, Random Harvest , from the novel you like. Yu told me about your days in the park.”
“Thank you, Peiqin. It’s so thoughtful of you. I can’t wait to watch it.” Chen added, “When Yu gets home, tell him to call me—oh, and to bring the movie over to me at his convenience.”
SEVEN
CHEN WOKE UP DISORIENTED , as if still floundering in a sea of thoughts.
With the second body found in the center of the city, with the media clamoring like cicadas in the early summer, he had to do something to help. He owed that to Yu. And to Hong too, who had kept him updated with the latest developments, smiling a radiant smile in spite of Liao’s grouchiness.
Having reviewed all the measures taken by his colleagues, however, Chen concluded he could hardly do any more than they, at least not as an “outside consultant.” He was still too much engaged with his paper. Running an investigation could be like writing a paper; ideas come with undivided concentration.
A bitter taste returned to his mouth. Brushing his teeth vigorously, he was struck with an idea—Peiqin’s idea. He happened to know Shen, the authority on the history of Chinese clothing.
Shen had been a poet in the forties, writing in a then-fashionable Imagist style. After 1949, he was assigned a job at the Shanghai Museum, where he denounced his earlier poetry as decadent and threw himself into the study of ancient Chinese clothing. Probably a neck-saving choice in the deteriorating political climate of the mid-fifties. As in Tao De Jing , misfortune leads to fortune. Because of his abrupt disappearance from the literary scene, the young Red Guards in the mid-sixties failed to recognize him as a “bourgeois poet,” and he was spared the humiliations and persecutions. In the eighties, he reemerged with a multivolume work on the history of ancient Chinese clothing, which was translated into several foreign languages, and he became an “internationally known authority.” The literary scene was busy
As she was about to watch Golden Lock , her glance fell on a book she had brought home. The white-haired author looked strangely like her late father. She read the short biographical information beneath the picture on the cover. “Shen Wenchang, a well-known poet before 1949, and after 1949, an internationally known expert on the history of Chinese clothing.”
She opened the book, but it touched on the mandarin dress in only two short paragraphs. In the notes at the back of the book, she did not find a single scholar dealing exclusively with the mandarin dress. So perhaps the best she could get would be a paragraph here and there.
The old man must be in his eighties. She put down the book, gazing at the picture. If only she could consult an expert like him, she thought wistfully.
Around dinnertime, the phone rang. It was Chen, who expressed regret upon learning that Yu was still at work.
“Yu’s been so busy the last few days that he often comes back late. Don’t worry about him,” she said. “How is your paper going?”
“Slowly but steadily. I am so sorry about the timing, but it may be the last chance to try my hand at something different,” Chen said. “How are things with you?”
“Not that busy. I’m just reading some books. Everybody is talking about the red mandarin dress, so I thought I might learn something about it.”
“You are trying to help again, Peiqin. Have you found anything interesting?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve just started reading a book on the history of Chinese clothing. The author used to be a poet too.”
“Shen Wenchang?”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes. A great scholar. There’s a new documentary movie about him.”
“I haven’t seen that movie. Oh, I bought a DVD, Random Harvest , from the novel you like. Yu told me about your days in the park.”
“Thank you, Peiqin. It’s so thoughtful of you. I can’t wait to watch it.” Chen added, “When Yu gets home, tell him to call me—oh, and to bring the movie over to me at his convenience.”
SEVEN
CHEN WOKE UP DISORIENTED , as if still floundering in a sea of thoughts.
With the second body found in the center of the city, with the media clamoring like cicadas in the early summer, he had to do something to help. He owed that to Yu. And to Hong too, who had kept him updated with the latest developments, smiling a radiant smile in spite of Liao’s grouchiness.
Having reviewed all the measures taken by his colleagues, however, Chen concluded he could hardly do any more than they, at least not as an “outside consultant.” He was still too much engaged with his paper. Running an investigation could be like writing a paper; ideas come with undivided concentration.
A bitter taste returned to his mouth. Brushing his teeth vigorously, he was struck with an idea—Peiqin’s idea. He happened to know Shen, the authority on the history of Chinese clothing.
Shen had been a poet in the forties, writing in a then-fashionable Imagist style. After 1949, he was assigned a job at the Shanghai Museum, where he denounced his earlier poetry as decadent and threw himself into the study of ancient Chinese clothing. Probably a neck-saving choice in the deteriorating political climate of the mid-fifties. As in Tao De Jing , misfortune leads to fortune. Because of his abrupt disappearance from the literary scene, the young Red Guards in the mid-sixties failed to recognize him as a “bourgeois poet,” and he was spared the humiliations and persecutions. In the eighties, he reemerged with a multivolume work on the history of ancient Chinese clothing, which was translated into several foreign languages, and he became an “internationally known authority.” The literary scene was busy
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