“You definitely need help, Chief Inspector Chen. There is no way you could you manage to cover it all on your own. I’m a retired busy-body, as everybody knows. If I ask a question or two about things from those years, no one will take it seriously. As an advisor to the Traffic Control Office – thanks to you for this honorary position – I may choose to patrol any particular area, pretending it is a sort of a field study. Indeed, you couldn’t find a better assistant.”

“You’re really experienced. You must have heard the old saying, ‘People think of a capable general at the sound of the battle drums,’ so I want to discuss the case with you. I don’t exactly know how to proceed, but you could help, I think, by paying attention to the area where Jiao lives. You have to be careful. There may be somebody else walking behind you.”

“They may take the broad way, but I’ll cross the single-plank bridge. Don’t worry about me. People don’t call me Old Hunter for nothing.”

“Also, there are a couple of men for you to check out. Tan, Qian’s first lover, who died years ago, and then Peng, her second one, who is still alive.” Chen wrote down their names on a scrap of paper. “Whatever single-plank bridge you choose to cross, never go as a cop, either active or retired. Internal Security is involved.”

“Internal Security indeed! So the last battle may be the best. The Mao Case. Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen,” he said, rising slowly. “Now I’ve finally got a chance to redeem myself.”

IT WAS HIS FOURTH visit to Xie Mansion in the last few days.

Chen rang the doorbell with one hand, carrying in his other a large box of chocolate, Lindt’s, the expensive German brand just recently available in Shanghai for the newly rich.

That afternoon, it took longer than usual for the host to answer the door.

Chen thought that he was fairly well accepted by the others, who took him as simply party-chaser, one who used a book project as a pretense. Which might be just as well. One’s identity might always be in conjunction with or a construction of others.

There were two or three parties there every week. As it turned out, the role of an ex-businessman interested in the old Shanghai was not too difficult for him to play. He was able to mix with the Old Dicks, throwing in English phrases, using business jargons, and showing off literary anecdotes as well as lines from old movies, all of which successfully made him out to be someone other than a cop.

With a different identity, Chen found himself thinking about them. He had come to accept these people, who were pathetic yet harmless, simply trying to hold on to an illusion, in whatever way possible. These old-fashioned parties happened to be one of their ways. They might be aware of their own absurdities, but what else could they do? If they couldn’t be Old Dicks, they were nothing.

So it was for Chief Inspector Chen – he was aware of the absurdity of his own behavior, but if he wasn’t an investigator, what was he?

There was another advantage in his calculated guise: it enabled Chen to approach Jiao with a seemingly natural interest in the old movies. Jiao did not talk about her family background, but it was no secret there that her grandmother was Shang. Chen had been cautious, exhibiting only a reasonable curiosity. Jiao was nice to him, as she was to a lot of people.

Chen got along well with several of the others. He had a long talk with Mr. Zhou about Zhang Ailing, a writer first discovered in the thirties and rediscovered in the nineties. Chen’s knowledge of her novels impressed Zhou.

“I danced with her at the Joy Gate,” Zhou declared with a light glinting behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “What a woman! She danced like a poem, and those beautiful words of hers seemed to dance for page after page. Alas, she should have stayed in the city of Shanghai. A Shanghai flower could not survive the wind and storm in Los Angeles.”

Chen murmured an indistinct response, wondering whether Zhou’s story was true, especially the part about dancing with Zhang Ailing.

Yang, the girl he became acquainted with during his first visit, also appeared to be taking to him, and she was intent on taking him to another sort of party.

“You shouldn’t immerse yourself only in the old-fashioned parties of the thirties, Mr. Chen. You have to experience the nineties. An international vote recently named Shanghai the most desirable city for young people. There’s a pajama party this weekend -”

“You are right, Yang,” he cut her short, “but let me indulge in the thirties a little longer – for my book project.”

“Your book project again. I can’t figure you out, Mr. Chen.”

As for Chen, he couldn’t really figure out those girls in the painting classes. For some, it might be fashionable to come here, or necessary for their self-conscious social status – taking private lessons at the celebrated mansion. Quite a few of them were like Jiao, with no regular job or any known income. If there was anything different about Jiao, it was that she was hardworking, not only staying after, but occasionally arriving before the session as well. She painted in the studio, in the living room, and in the garden. She sometimes attended the parties too, though she didn’t seem so interested in the elderly dance partners.

Having unsuccessfully pressed the bell several times, Chen started knocking with his fist. Finally, Xie came to the door.

“Sorry, something’s wrong with the old doorbell, Mr. Chen,” Xie said apologetically.

As usual, Xie led Chen straight into the studio, where Xie was giving the class. Chen saw Jiao painting by the window, wearing a pair of beige overalls, practically barebacked, her hands and feet covered in paint, her hair tied up simply with a light blue handkerchief. She was absorbed in her watercolor, oblivious to his entrance. So were the other students, all busy with their sketches or oil paintings. The afternoon light came streaming in through the large window, painting the people in the room too.

There was something informal, almost intimate, about the class. Xie gave no formal lectures. There were no models from the outside, either, though some of the students themselves might have posed. Sitting on the same worn-out sofa in the corner, Chen thought he recognized a girl student in a couple of nude sketches that were stacked against the corner.

He knew little about painting so he couldn’t judge. His knowledge of poetry, however, enabled him to make occasional comments about image and symbol without giving himself away. At least, no one objected to his presence in the painting class.

Xie moved from one student to another, but he seemed moody that afternoon, saying very little. The students were all painting in silence. After a few minutes, Xie sat himself in a plastic chair by the long table, his right cheek pressed against his fist.

Yang worked on a sketchpad next to Jiao, attacking the white paper with a stick of charcoal, ripping off one sheet of paper, striking out at the new one. Abruptly, she threw away her charcoal stick in frustration and stamped her sandaled feet on the hardwood floor.

“I’d better not disturb the class,” Chen whispered to Xie. “Let me sit outside.”

“I’ll go out with you,” Xie said.

So they moved out into the garden. It was huge, considering its location in the center of the city, but far from well-kept. The grass was uncut, the meadow showed brown and bare patches here and there, and the bushes were untrimmed, withered, black in color as if burnt. To their left, a winding trail overrun with rank weeds led to an open pergola, which was dust-covered, seemingly deserted for a long time. Apparently, Xie couldn’t afford professional help, and as a rather feeble man in his sixties, Xie himself could do little about gardening.