THE SECOND DAY IN Los Angeles was like the first day, busy with meeting, visiting, dining, and discussing. And now it was the third day, which would probably turn out to be just like the day before, Chen thought, waking up early in the hotel room.

In the midst of all the delegation activities, Chen managed to do a few things on his own.

With an international phone card, he had called Detective Yu, his hardworking assistant in Shanghai, who had hardly anything new to tell him. The weather remains cloudy, with little change in the air. If An had been murdered in connection with the anticorruption investigation, it might have been planned at a high level. So getting information would be difficult for a low-level cop like Detective Yu, let alone one without access to the investigation. The people Yu watched showed no unusual signs. Jiang was back in office, and in the newspaper too, the day after Chen had left, delivering a speech on the urgency of making the land development process transparent to the public. Sergeant Kuang kept plodding away at the An case without giving away any details. Yu had to find his own way of exploring the case. Separately, a short poem by Chen appeared in the Shanghai Morning with a note about his new status as the delegation leader. After Yu’s report, made mainly in the weather terminology, Chen told Yu what he had thought of during the night Dai was snoring in his room. The chief inspector found it hard to explain in their agreed-upon jargon, but he believed that he had managed to convey his meaning.

He also called his mother. The old woman was pleased with the phone call from Peiqin and with the visit from White Cloud. In addition, Party Secretary Li sent a small basket of fruit. Everything appeared to be fine there.

And here, he put Dai in the hotel as an honorable delegation member, a proposal Professor Reed had readily agreed with. Dai had a poetry collection translated into English, so there was no question about his writer status. Bao alone seemed not too pleased. Both Zhong and Shasha were on Chen’s side. Peng nodded, as usual.

Also, he delivered a speech on the translation of classical Chinese poetry. Afterward he had a fruitful discussion with a group of people interested in the topic.

So he had been doing an acceptable job for the delegation, he thought, in a number of ways. Little Huang was not always up to the task of literature translation; Chen helped whenever he had time. With his educational background, he also provided a sort of cushion for the culture shock of the delegation.

But the third day in L.A. turned out to be different from the first two. The American host suggested that the Chinese take a day off, considering they had had meeting after meeting without a break. So the day was rearranged to be one of free exchange among the writers. There were informal discussions and seminars on campus, and they could choose the topics they liked.

There were several American writers staying in the same hotel, and they talked over breakfast. Not exactly a productive literature discussion, Chen contemplated. The morning newspapers arrived, with both English and Chinese articles about the conference, carrying Chen’s picture in one of them-under a larger picture of a Chinese supermarket.

Some of the members of the delegation had a hard time adjusting to the American breakfast. There was a microwave in the hotel canteen and they could easily warm up Chinese food for themselves. The Americans had no objection to the request.

Sight-seeing was on the day’s agenda. Zhong suggested that they go out in the morning, and while sight-seeing, they could do some shopping too. The delegation got into a van, driving all the way to Chinatown. Once the van came in sight of those familiar signs and characters under an arch with tilted glazed eaves and dragon-embossed pillars, the visitors felt as if they were arriving home. There, they did not have to move in a group and no one would get lost. Chen stepped into a grocery, where he saw a dazzling array of Chinese products, perhaps even more various than in a Shanghai supermarket. He discovered a small bottle of Liuheju Fermented Bean Curd, a special Beijing product with a pungent flavor. A pity that he could not take it back to the hotel, where Americans might protest against its smell. He did buy a stick of green bean candy, dougen, a Tianjin product. He had so enjoyed it years earlier, sharing a small piece of it with his friend Ling. A small wonder, its rediscovery in another country. He paid for it, tore away its plastic wrapper like an impatient child, and popped it into his mouth. It was not the same taste as in his memory, but like a lot of things in the world, that could not be helped.

He heard no one speaking English in the store. There was only an old American couple examining herbal Chinese medicine in silent curiosity, and all others were Chinese, shopping, bargaining, and speaking in their respective dialects. A middle-aged woman was tearing the yellow leaves off the green cabbage before placing it into her plastic bag, a familiar scene which reminded Chen of Aunt Qiang, who lived down the street from his mother. He came to a counter that displayed cell phones and calling cards. A prepaid cell phone caught his attention. It was expensive, but affordable with the advance from Gu. Chen also purchased a new phone card, one that was cheaper than the one he had bought in the university store. According to the instructions on the back, it cost only ten cents per minute to call China, a benefit of competition. In China, telecommunications was still a state-controlled industry.

He stepped out of the store carrying the phone card. Before he discovered a public phone booth, he saw Pearl coming over with a cell phone in her hand.

“Somebody has been looking for you everywhere,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you,” he said, taking over the phone. “Hello, this is Chen Cao.”

“I am Tian Baoguo. Still remember me, old friend? The same Little Tian who shared the dorm desk with you for four years in Beijing Foreign Language University.”

“Of course. Old classmate. How can I forget those long nights, of talking about the night rain south of the Yangtze River, and of scrambling eggs over your little alcohol stove?”

“I read the news. I saw your pictures. It had a biographical note about you: the distinguished poet and translator. Only one Chen Cao under the sun. I made so many calls. Now I have finally got hold of you. Where are you?

“ Chinatown. In front of a Chinese grocery store called Central Trading.”

“Don’t move. I’m running over. Five to ten minutes. We’ll have lunch together.”

“I would love to, Tian, but I’m here with my delegation.”

“The delegation’s lunch is on me. A small way of showing my respect to you writers-on the behalf of my company. The best Chinese restaurant here. See you soon!”

When Chen discussed Tian’s invitation with others, no one had any objection. They were intrigued at meeting a prosperous overseas Chinese still interested in the literature of his country. With no special activity arranged for that afternoon, Pearl, the American interpreter-escort, did not insist on their dining in the hotel.

And in less than five minutes, Chen saw a tall man striding over and recognized him immediately as Tian, though they hadn’t seen each other for more than ten years.

“As our ancient sage says, there are three wonderful moments in one’s life,” Tian said, grasping his hand. “When one’s name appears at the top of the civil service examination. No more civil service examination today, but your high-ranking position counts. When one gets married with the candle of happiness illuminating the wedding room. I have just married a second time. When one meets an old friend in a faraway place. All apply to us. Isn’t today a perfect day?”