It was a question he’d prepared for, but it was the first time that anyone had asked.

“Well, I’ve been asking myself another question. People are busy making money – true, they live on money, but can they live in money?”

“People make money, but money makes people too.”

“An excellent point, Jiao. By the way, I forgot to ask about your line of business – or your illustrious family, as the people here have made such a point of bringing up their family background.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. And please don’t start now. You want to write about the past, not live in the past,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips. Her teeth were white, slightly uneven. “But what a coincidence! I’ve made some money working at a company, like you, so I’m doing what I want to do – recharging myself for a short period.”

He wasn’t too surprised at the response. She must have given the same answer many times. Only it didn’t sound convincing, given what he knew of her work history. The character he was playing had a company of his own and could have saved enough to “be a writer.” She had been a receptionist, however, working at a company for low pay.

“In today’s society, it’s not easy for a young pretty girl like you to retreat courageously from the swift waves,” Chen said, paraphrasing a proverb like a would-be writer. “Mr. Xie must be a wonderful teacher.”

“Most of his works are of the old mansions in the city. He has a passion for his subject matter, so he projects a sort of value in what he sees through his passionate touches. Each of the buildings in his paintings seems to have a story shimmering through its windows. It’s really fascinating. Of course, he has his skill as well as his perspective.”

“That’s very interesting,” Chen said, his turn to resort to a stock response. “How long have you been taking lessons here?”

“About half a year. He’s quite well-known in this circle.” Sipping at her wine, she changed the subject. “Tell me about what you’re writing, Mr. Chen.”

“It’s about old Shanghai, in the thirties. That’s why people recommended Xie to me.”

“Yes, there’s no better man for that purpose. No better place, either,” she said, rising. “Now that we’ve taken a break, let’s go out and dance. It’ll be good for your book.”

“I can hardly dance, Jiao.”

“You’ll learn so quickly. I didn’t even know the difference between a two-step and a three-step a year ago.”

That was probably true. At that time, she still worked at a low-end job, alone, with no social life at all.

They went back to the party and onto the “dance floor.” She was a capable and patient partner. It was not long before he found himself being guided around by her, not that smoothly, but not precariously, either. Turning in her high-heeled slippers, she danced in an effortless way, her black hair flashing against the white walls.

It was a summer evening. Holding her supple waist, he noticed she left the top button of her white blouse unbuttoned, revealing an alluring cleavage, as a dreamy ballad swelled into the soft fantasies of the mansion. She looked up at him, wisps of her hair brushing against his face, the lambent light burnishing her cheek with a painter’s brush. He suddenly thought of what he had read about Mao and Shang, in another magnificent mansion like this one, in the same city…

In the celestial palace, which year is this year? A fragment of a Song-dynasty poem came swirling across his mind, her hand clasping his.

“You’re not bad at all,” she said, her soft lips close to his ear, in a mock-serious assessment of his qualities as a dancing partner.

“Perfect,” Xie said, gliding by them in the arms of the middle-aged woman.

“She’s leading me well,” Chen said. “Oh, some people are playing Monopoly over there, a fascinating game.” Xie added, “All in English, if you care to join.”

A popular Western game – Chen had heard of it. Little wonder that it was being played here, but it reminded him of the lines by Li Shangyin about a different game, at a different party.

Here, the game of the palm-hidden hook / between the seats, the spring wine warm, / the candlelight red, and the game / of the napkin-cover surprise in groups.

When the Tang-dynasty poet felt like a total outsider in spite of being around others enjoying a happy night, he composed those lines, lamenting about “lacking the soaring wings of a colorful phoenix” to fly to his love far away, and comparing himself to “a tumbleweed turning and turning around” for no purpose. At least he had written some wonderful lines out of the experience. What about Chen himself?

The night went on, one dance after another, one cup after another, one melody after another…

Chen did not dance much. He talked to some others, including the silver-haired man with the gold spectacles and the gold pocket watch – Mr. Zhou, from the illustrious Zhou family that had monopolized the importation of red wine in the thirties. Zhou proved to be friendly after learning of Chen’s connection to Mr. Shen.

“Xie is an embroidered pillow stuffed with straw,” Zhou commented. “What a joke! But Mr. Shen is of the real old class, from a prominent banker family and himself a man of great learning too.”

Chen was surprised at the harsh criticism of the host. He murmured something vague in response. There were Old Dicks and Old Dicks.

Alternating between talking and dancing, Chen managed to stay to the end of the party. With the melody of “Auld Lang Syne” falling in the half-deserted room and Xie rubbing his sleepy eyes, Chen left along with Jiao and several other girls.

They parted outside the mansion. He saw a luxurious car waiting for one of the girls. Jiao and another girl nicknamed Golden Oriole shared a taxi, for they lived not far from each other. Jiao since waved out at him under the starry night. Chen waited for a second taxi.

Standing on the curb, alone, he thought he heard a piano from an open window somewhere along the quiet street. He decided to walk along Ruijin Road to the subway station. It hadn’t been too bad a start, he reflected, strolling along.

There was no judging Jiao from just one meeting. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of her being a kept girl, but at least there was no car waiting for her at the end of the party. A Big Buck would have arranged for her to be picked up. Nor did she get any phone call during the party, either. A clever, vivacious girl, she didn’t strike him as being involved in some “little concubine” arrangement.

As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.

Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.

The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.