He was shocked by the lines rising out of the unlikely moment. In his college years, he had read about surrealist poets writing automatically, as in a trance. He wondered how such a similar experience befell him. Perhaps he could think of a number of explanations, but he was not in an analytical mood.

Because he would never be able, he knew, to squeeze the moment into a ball, to start it rolling toward where he would like to go. Not just about what he described in those lines, but more symbolically, like Eliot. No, he was not what he had imagined himself to be-not even in those lines. It was just a moment, and then it was gone.

And it was not a long moment.

He saw a black car pull up in front of her building. A man emerged from the driver’s side and opened the passenger door. She stepped out in that black dress with spaghetti straps.

The man did not go in with her, but they hugged outside the door, his hands lingering on her bare shoulders.

A long, passionate hug.

He kissed her on the cheek before moving back into the car. A shining black Jaguar. She stood on the doorstep, watching, waving her hand, until the car rolled out of sight in the growing dusk.

Chen kept watching, spellbound, like sitting in the movies.

She had been busy with the Chinese delegation for days. It was an afternoon when she had a few hours for herself. So of course she had taken care of her personal things.

It was unrealistic to imagine that a young, spirited woman like her would lead a colorless life like his. There should be a man-or men-in her life. Too absurd of him to imagine her shutting herself in after their meeting in Shanghai, as in a Tang dynasty poem-with the fallen petals in the yard, collected too much to open the door.

A chance encounter, like in the poem he had once read for her, memorable as the light produced out of their brief meeting, and then they had to move on, along their respective directions. In fact, they had both known it the first time, in China.

So it was this time. He really should be grateful for the unexpected second time. There’s no stepping twice into the same river, but it sort of happened to him. Different, yet nonetheless wonderful.

But for her generous help, he would have got nowhere in his investigation. Or worse, his fate could have been sealed like that of the interpreter.

She was the more realistic one. There was no future of them being together. She knew. So parting like this would be best.

Long after she had gone back into the building, he remained sitting there, against the window. He took his time sipping, after the fashion of a regular customer. The waitress put down another glass for him, and he nodded over those lines, like one really lost.

The window of her room was lit up. He pushed back his chair one or two inches farther from the window. Dimly, he could see her figure silhouetted against a scroll of traditional Chinese landscape paintings hung on the wall.

The sun is setting in the west-

how many times?

Helpless that flowers fall.

Swallows return, seemingly no strangers.

He was about to finish his last glass of wine when she came out, carrying a black plastic trash bag. Now in a white T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, she looked more like a college student. She went into a small lane next to the building. Then, emerging with the trash bag gone, she came to a stop by the mailbox at the foot of the staircase, the doorway framing her against the twilight, her face wistful. He rose from the table. She took out her cell phone.

To his surprise, his phone rang. He glanced at the number shown on the screen. It was from her. No mistake. But for some inexplicable reason, he hesitated to push the talk button.

What would she like to talk to him about? Not about the scene he had witnessed, surely. And what would he say to her?

Then the ringing abruptly stopped.

And she disappeared into the building again. The street stretched in front of the bar, like a tedious argument of ambiguous intent, again leading to an overwhelming question.

Indeed, what could be said by him? A cop who had hardly met his responsibilities, or, to say the least, who was stuck halfway in his work, with two people killed because of him, and their justice apparently beyond hope, with his investigation ordered to stop, which he accepted without a fight. No use denying the fact to himself, he contemplated. The parody of Prufrock threw unexpected light on his spineless self. After all, he was no poet like Eliot, who redeemed himself through writing about those flickering moments. Chen was but a cop beating a pathetic retreat, in spite of all the high sentences from Beijing, and the lines on the notebook did not change that fact. So how could he prove himself worth answering her call? How should he presume-

His phone rang again. He pressed the button in a hurry. “Catherine-”

“No, it’s Yu.”

“Oh, what’s up?”

“Lei’s in trouble.’’

“Lei?”

“Your friend at the Shanghai Morning.He called me, saying that you alone can help-to prove that he did nothing wrong that afternoon in the bathhouse. It’s urgent, he said, and he insisted that you would understand.”

Chen thought he knew why this was happening. Whatever trouble it was for Lei, it was really designed for the chief inspector. A “confession” by Lei would serve to prove Chen’s “decadent bourgeois way of life.” So those rats were pouncing on him. Lei might be holding on for the moment because he believed in Chen’s power to intervene.

“Tell Lei to hold on for one or two days. I’m coming back. And I’ll take care of it.”

“You are coming back so soon, Chief?”

“Yes. And I’ll have a lot to discuss with you.” Chen added, thinking, “Call Comrade Zhao about Lei’s trouble. You may tell him I wanted you to make this call.”

It might provide some help. Also, Comrade Zhao would explain the Beijing decision to Yu, who had not yet learned anything about the latest development. It could spare Chen the disagreeable task.

“Great. I’ll do that right now. Tell you what. Peiqin has been talking about a special dinner for you.”

“In celebration?”

“Not exactly. She’ll explain. Old Hunter is going to join us too. He’s so proud of the part he had played in breaking China ’s number-one corruption case. And his invention-’red rats’-has gained incredible circulation in the city. He’ll bring an urn of Maiden Red he has saved for thirty years.”

All that sounded wonderful. He wondered what the occasion could be. Surely it wasn’t yet another dinner in honor of his return to Shanghai -in addition to the one in Comrade Zhao’s hotel, with his bottle of Maotai, Chen reflected, draining the glass.

But he was still worried about Lei. It came to an ironic circle. He had first heard of the Xing case in the company of Lei, in that bathhouse, and now at the end of the case, Lei was in trouble because of his company. But how could people have learned about that afternoon in the bathhouse? The net around the chief inspector must be a phenomenally large one. Again, it might prove naive of him to think that Comrade Zhao would step in to help. Then, did he really have a choice?

“One more thing, Chief. Jiang has booked a ticket to Canada. Through a Canadian airline.”

“What’s the date?”

“Early next week.”

That would be before his originally scheduled return, and Jiang could change the date when he got the news that Chen was returning early.

“Hold on, Yu-are you calling from a public phone?”

“Yes, anything else?”

“I’m leaving for China tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, Shanghai time, you move ahead and arrest Jiang and Dong.”

“Jiang and Dong-what about the arrest warrant?”

“Remember the authorization for my work as an emperor’s special envoy with an imperial sword? Don’t worry about a search or arrest warrant. Yu may act on my behalf, that’s what Comrade Zhao has agreed too.”