and made her way up a back set of dimly lit stairs. Up here the stonework gave way to worn linoleum. Just as there was every day, a woman was on her hands and knees washing the floor. Hulan skirted the wet areas, passed several closed doors, and entered her office.
Eleven years ago, a year after her return from the United States, Hulan had been hired by the ministry as a tea girl. With her American law degree, she had been overqualified for the job, which required that she look pretty, smile, and pour tea. Eventually she had gone to her superior and asked to be assigned to a case, then another. By the time
his
superior found out, she had already solved enough crimes that to demote her back to tea girl would have caused several people to lose face.
Since that time she had received standard promotions based on seniority rather than the accelerated promotions based on political integrity or “staying in touch with the people.” As a result, for the last decade, she had been tucked away in what was perceived to be an unimportant part of the building, which was fine with her.
Gray winter light filtered into the drab room. It was sparsely outfitted with a proletarian metal desk, two swivel chairs, a telephone, a bookcase lined with notebooks, and a single file drawer, which she kept locked. The only decorations on the walls were a calendar left over from last year and a hook on which to hang her jacket. The room was chilly—most government buildings in the capital were—so she kept her coat on and her muffler draped around her shoulders as she sat down at her desk to write her report.
Five hours later, as frigid darkness settled on the city, Liu Hulan still worked at her desk. The phone rang. “
Wei?
” she said into the receiver.
A voice said, “You’re wanted in the vice minister’s office. Please come immediately.” The caller didn’t wait for a response.
Hulan sat in the anteroom of the vice minister’s office for a half-hour before being summoned inside. She stepped into the room and, not for the first time, marveled at its richness. The crimson carpet felt plush and thick under her feet. A Ming dynasty altar table served as a credenza. On it were gaily painted ceramic cups each with its own ceramic top to keep tea warm, an oversized flowered thermos, which Hulan assumed was filled with tea, and a tin of Danish sugar cookies. Several straight-backed chairs lined the walls. The windows were covered with red velvet drapes edged with thick gold trim.
At the center of the room was a desk. On her side, two overstuffed chairs, upholstered in a deep blue velvet, angled toward each other. On the backs and arms were tatted antimacassars. In one chair sat her immediate supervisor and the head of her work unit, Section Chief Zai. Behind the desk, Vice Minister Liu leveled his enigmatic gaze on his daughter.
“You may sit down,” he said.
Hulan did as she was told, then waited. She knew that silence was one of her father’s favorite ways of making people ill at ease. Although she had known both men her entire life and saw both weekly and sometimes daily, it had been many months since she was last in their company at the same time. Her father looked prosperous, as usual. His suit was natty—probably custom-made in Hong Kong. The appearance he presented gave no hint of the hardships of his life. His hair was still black, his face unlined, and his back rigid. He was lean, sinewy, and still strong. Like many in his generation, he wore severe black-framed glasses. Other than this last concession to his age, he looked to Hulan every inch the smooth politician as he feigned disinterest in their presence and impatiently tapped a stack of papers with the sharp tip of a pencil. Section Chief Zai—her father’s old friend—brooded in his chair. His suit bagged at all the wrong places, his cuffs were frayed, his hair was mostly gray. He looked more beaten down than usual, and Hulan wondered if his pallor
Eleven years ago, a year after her return from the United States, Hulan had been hired by the ministry as a tea girl. With her American law degree, she had been overqualified for the job, which required that she look pretty, smile, and pour tea. Eventually she had gone to her superior and asked to be assigned to a case, then another. By the time
his
superior found out, she had already solved enough crimes that to demote her back to tea girl would have caused several people to lose face.
Since that time she had received standard promotions based on seniority rather than the accelerated promotions based on political integrity or “staying in touch with the people.” As a result, for the last decade, she had been tucked away in what was perceived to be an unimportant part of the building, which was fine with her.
Gray winter light filtered into the drab room. It was sparsely outfitted with a proletarian metal desk, two swivel chairs, a telephone, a bookcase lined with notebooks, and a single file drawer, which she kept locked. The only decorations on the walls were a calendar left over from last year and a hook on which to hang her jacket. The room was chilly—most government buildings in the capital were—so she kept her coat on and her muffler draped around her shoulders as she sat down at her desk to write her report.
Five hours later, as frigid darkness settled on the city, Liu Hulan still worked at her desk. The phone rang. “
Wei?
” she said into the receiver.
A voice said, “You’re wanted in the vice minister’s office. Please come immediately.” The caller didn’t wait for a response.
Hulan sat in the anteroom of the vice minister’s office for a half-hour before being summoned inside. She stepped into the room and, not for the first time, marveled at its richness. The crimson carpet felt plush and thick under her feet. A Ming dynasty altar table served as a credenza. On it were gaily painted ceramic cups each with its own ceramic top to keep tea warm, an oversized flowered thermos, which Hulan assumed was filled with tea, and a tin of Danish sugar cookies. Several straight-backed chairs lined the walls. The windows were covered with red velvet drapes edged with thick gold trim.
At the center of the room was a desk. On her side, two overstuffed chairs, upholstered in a deep blue velvet, angled toward each other. On the backs and arms were tatted antimacassars. In one chair sat her immediate supervisor and the head of her work unit, Section Chief Zai. Behind the desk, Vice Minister Liu leveled his enigmatic gaze on his daughter.
“You may sit down,” he said.
Hulan did as she was told, then waited. She knew that silence was one of her father’s favorite ways of making people ill at ease. Although she had known both men her entire life and saw both weekly and sometimes daily, it had been many months since she was last in their company at the same time. Her father looked prosperous, as usual. His suit was natty—probably custom-made in Hong Kong. The appearance he presented gave no hint of the hardships of his life. His hair was still black, his face unlined, and his back rigid. He was lean, sinewy, and still strong. Like many in his generation, he wore severe black-framed glasses. Other than this last concession to his age, he looked to Hulan every inch the smooth politician as he feigned disinterest in their presence and impatiently tapped a stack of papers with the sharp tip of a pencil. Section Chief Zai—her father’s old friend—brooded in his chair. His suit bagged at all the wrong places, his cuffs were frayed, his hair was mostly gray. He looked more beaten down than usual, and Hulan wondered if his pallor