“I’m Xie. I didn’t know you had arrived, Mr. Chen. So sorry about that. I’m holding a class inside.”

Xie led Chen to the other room – possibly a large dining room originally, now it was a studio being used for his painting class. There were six or seven girls there, including the two he had seen arrive earlier from window of the café, all of them busy working on their in-class assignments. They were each dressed quite differently. One girl was in a paint-covered overall, another was in a summer dress with something like a turban tied around her hair, and still another was in an extra-large T-shirt and frayed jean shorts. Possibly it was a common scene for a painting class, but Chen hadn’t been to one before.

He then recognized Jiao, a tall girl in a white blouse and a jean skirt by the window. She had large eyes and a straight nose, her melon-seed-shaped face bearing a faint resemblance to Shang. She appeared younger than in the picture from the file and, working on a sketch, was vivacious and animated with a glowing radiance.

Xie didn’t introduce him to the girls, who appeared to be absorbed in their work. Gesturing him to a corner sofa, Xie pulled a chair over for himself.

“It’s quieter here,” Xie said in a low voice. “Mr. Shen speaks highly of you.”

“I talked to him about my book project and he recommended you to me,” Chen said. “I know how busy you are, but it would greatly benefit the writing project for me to come over from time to time.”

“Come anytime you like, Chen. Shen’s a good old friend of my father’s, he’s like an uncle to me. He has also given me a lot of information about the clothes in the thirties. Whoever he introduces is a welcome guest here. You also speak good English, I’m told, and we occasionally have foreign guests.”

“I hope I won’t be any inconvenience to either your class or your party.”

“I teach students two or three times a week. If you’re interested in painting, you can sit in. It is not a formal class. As for the parties, the more people, the more fun.”

The young girl in the overalls came over with a large watercolor in her hands. Xie took it from her and studied it for a minute before he pointed to a corner of it and said, “There is too much light here, Yang.”

“Thanks,” she said, patting his shoulder with a familiarity not usually shown to a teacher.

Xie appeared to mix well with his students. Nodding, he said to Chen, “Girls are really made of water.”

It sounded like an echo from the Dream of the Red Chamber. Xie might really fancy himself as Baoyu, the charming, irresistible protagonist of the classic novel, except that Baoyu was young, born with a piece of precious jade in his mouth.

A stout, middle-aged man pulled open the door and burst in, leading a willowy model-like girl to Xie.

“Oh, let me introduce you,” Xie said to Chen. “This is Mr. Gong Luhao. His grandfather was the white fox king.”

“White fox king?” Chen’s voice rose in puzzlement.

“Oh, my grandfather was in the fur business before 1949, especially known for his unrivaled supply of white fox,” Mr. Gong said, turning to the girl. “Her grandfather was connected to the Weng family. She wants to study with you.”

“She may submit her sample work to me,” Xie said. “This is Mr. Chen. A successful entrepreneur, and now a writer as well. Mr. Shen, of the Industry Bank in the thirties, introduced him to me.”

“Oh Mr. Shen, my father knew him well.”

Apparently, Chen was nobody here, welcome only because of Shen’s introduction.

In the living room, somebody started ringing a bell, declaring in a loud voice, “Time for the ball, Mr. Xie.”

“Class time is over,” Xie said to his students. “If you want to continue your work here, you may stay, or you may join the party.”

Xie led Chen out to the party in the living room, putting a hand on Chen’s shoulder like an old friend, most likely for the benefit of the others.

The scene at the party looked as if time had really rolled backward. The lights were confusing and the melodies played were popular in the thirties, one of which Chen recognized from an old Hollywood movie. There were quite a number of people there, many of whom must have arrived while Chen was with the host in the other room.

Xie was busy greeting and making introduction, saying only a few words to each guest. Still, he managed to take good care of Chen, emphasizing whenever possible that he was introduced by Mr. Shen. While none seemed to be interested in the would-be writer, none were suspicious of him, either. Thanks to his association with businessmen, Chen could talk like one. Curiously, no one at this party turned out to be a real businessman.

Then dancing started. Most of the people here knew one another. Some of them had to be well-practiced partners, coming here for the purpose alone. Chen thought about inviting someone to dance, but then he thought better of it. Though he had studied ballroom dancing, he had hardly had any opportunity to practice. So instead he found himself sitting alone on one of the chairs against the wall. It wasn’t a bad idea for him to take a break and look around. He thought of an English expression: a wallflower, which usually refers to a woman, he thought with a touch of self-irony.

Xie was now busy, constantly changing the records. Instead of a CD player, he kept an old gramophone and a stack of old records. He would wipe each record carefully with a white silk handkerchief, as if it were the most meaningful thing in the world.

The party didn’t strike Chen as that remarkable. The people there overindulged in a world of nostalgic imagination, slow-dancing, giving themselves to the languorous tide of the music, relishing anecdotes of old glories, caring little about what was happening in the outside world. What was the point? he wondered.

But what else could they do? Their “better” days gone, they were merely trying to hold on to the illusion of some meaning or value in their lives. As Zhaungzi mused long, long ago, You are no fish, and how can you know the fish does not enjoy it? It was not a cop’s business to worry about it.

He caught sight of Jiao again. She had perched herself on the arm of the sofa Xie was seated in. They talked for a couple of minutes, almost whispering. She appeared to be rather nice to Xie, but most of the girls were nice to him.

The girl named Yang came over to Chen, still in her overalls, smiling at him. He smiled back, shaking his head apologetically. She understood, moving across to another man. The living room was getting warm.

After a while, he slipped back into the studio. With the sliding door slightly open, he could look out. One of the dancers could be from Internal Security, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. He went over to the sketch Jiao had been working on. He was impressed by it, a picture of hyacinth blossoming out of a young girl’s arm, into a neon night ceaselessly changing in the background. Chen noticed that, on a corner table beside the couch, there was a pile of magazines, most of them published in the thirties. Sitting down on the same sofa, he picked up a painting album.

To his surprise, Jiao then walked into the studio, wearing high-heeled slippers, holding a long-stemmed glass in her hand.

“Hi, you’re new here.”

“Hi. My name is Chen. It’s the first time for me.”

“My name is Jiao. You are a novelist, I’ve heard.”

She could have overheard his earlier conversation with Xie or heard this from Xie a couple of minutes ago.

“No, I have just started writing,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

That seemed to be a stock response to his new identity. Instead of leaving, however, she perched herself on the chair Xie had occupied earlier, drawing one leg under her. Twirling the glass in her hand, she appeared content with his company in the studio.

“It’s a lousy crowd out there. It’s not a bad idea to take a short break here,” she said, waves of smile rippling in her large eyes. “According to Mr. Xie, you are a successful businessman. Why do you want to change your career?”