Lieutenant Song had a point, Chen reflected. Without any regular income all these years, Xie had to be in dire need of money. What he got from his paintings was barely enough to keep up the appearance of the building – just enough for utilities and basic maintenance. The air conditioning alone, though never on very high, had to run up a huge electricity bill. Not to mention all the drinks and snacks at the parties. Those Old Dicks, more often than not, arrived empty-handed. In fact, all the other rooms in the building, according to Mr. Zhou, were barely furnished, and except the bedroom upstairs, not used at all. So people never got to see beyond the living room. As for the fees from his students, they were symbolic at best.

There was one thing that Chen was pretty sure of. Xie’s ex-wife had left him because of the financial strains, what with his refusal to find a regular job or to sell off the old house or anything in it. The Old Dicks lost no time telling Chen that account. So the scenario suggested by Internal Security about Xie’s need to act as an agent for Jiao was not totally without basis.

“Let’s sit here under the pear tree,” Xie said. “It used to be my grandfather’s favorite spot.”

They seated themselves on two plastic deck chairs. Half reclining, Chen thought of what Huan Daoji, an Eastern Jing-dynasty general, said at the sight of a large tree: “The tree has grown like this, how about the man?”

Chen was surprised to see a squirrel scurrying across the lawn, something he had never seen elsewhere in the city. There was an air of melancholy, and the two men did not start talking for two or three minutes. Then, Xie sighed, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“You have something on your mind, Mr. Xie?”

“Well, East Wind Property Company has come again, making an offer on the house. They want to pull it down and build a high-end apartment complex here.”

“You don’t have to sell it to them,” Chen said, moving his chair closer. “In today’s market, it’s worth a huge fortune.”

“Their offer is ridiculous – and a capped offer too, but that’s irrelevant. I won’t sell. I’m nothing without the house. But the buyer has connections – in both black and white ways.”

It might not have been the first time that Xie had received an offer for his house, but the combination of the “black,” in reference to the Triad gangsters, and the “white,” to the government officials, was proving more than he could handle. Chen had heard of stories about these powerful developers.

“Such a buyer is capable of anything,” Xie concluded.

“Your house is of historical significance,” Chen said contemplatively, “and should be preserved as such. Officially, I mean. That way no one could snatch it from you so easily, no matter what their black or white connections. I happen to know someone in the city government. If you think it’s okay, I can make a couple of phone calls on your behalf.”

“What a resourceful man you are!” Xie said, his face lighting up. “As I said to you when we first met, Mr. Shen has never recommended someone so highly. I happened to call him yesterday, and he said that you are not just well-connected, you are simply a modern Menshang – generous in your help to people. You must have helped him too, I bet.”

“Modern Menshang – come on. Don’t take his words too seriously. Shen’s an impossible poet.”

“I am not a man of the world, you know what I mean, Mr. Chen. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. If there’s anything I can do, for your book project, please tell me.”

“There is no need for that. It is such a pleasure for me to come to your party and class, or to sit in the garden like today. There is no place like it in the city, and coming here helps my book project greatly. Let’s just chat a little more here,” Chen said, smiling. “I’m from an ordinary family. My father was a schoolteacher. It’s quite an experience for me to mix with people from good old families. Jiao in particular. The first day I came here, someone told me that she’s from a most well-known family, but she herself does not talk about it.”

“A well-known family background indeed. Her grandmother was Shang, as you know, but Jiao may not know any more than that.”

“That’s fascinating. How did she come to study painting with you?”

“People are interested in my work because of the subject matter – the old mansions. Most of them have already disappeared except in the memory of a has-been like me, but they are suddenly fashionable again,” Xie said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Some students may come here to be trendy, but I believe Jiao is earnest.”

“I’m no art critic, you know. Still, I think there’s something in her paintings, something she can call her own. Unique, though I don’t know how to define it,” Chen said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s still so young, and she has a long way to go. She’s almost a full-time student here, isn’t she? She must have a comfortable nest egg.”

“I wonder about that too, but I’ve never asked her about it.”

“Do you think her parents have left her a huge fortune?” Chen added. “I’m just curious.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Xie said, looking up at him. “Considering the circumstances of her mother’s death, she couldn’t have left anything to her. Besides, any valuables at her family’s home were taken away by the Red Guards.”

“Such a tragedy for her family – her grandmother and mother.”

“It’s depressing even to think about those years.”

Xie was obviously not comfortable with the direction of their conversation. Chen switched topics. “People talk about the thirties and about the nineties, as if the history between the two periods had been wiped out like a coffee stain.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Xie said, glancing at his watch. “Oh, it’s the time for the class to end. I have to move back in.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Xie. I’ll stay in the garden for a while.”

From where he was sitting, Chen shifted slightly, looking toward the living room window. Soon he saw the silhouette of Xie moving from one student to another, talking, pointing, gesturing. He could not hear anything across the lawn.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Old Hunter. The call didn’t go through. But he noticed there was a missed call – from Yong in Beijing. He decided not to call her back. He knew it was about Ling.

You said you would come – only in a dream, and gone without a trace, the moon slanting against the window at the fifth-night watch.

Again, he found himself thinking of lines from Li Shangyin, his favorite Tang-dynasty poet. After translating a collection of classical Chinese love poetry, Chen was contemplating a selection from Li Shangyin, having already translated more than twenty of his poems. Chen imagined that someday he might be able to collect them. He had made a special study of Li’s poems in relation to Li’s love for and marriage with the daughter of the Tang prime minister. It was not an impersonal way of reading poetry, not the poetics that T. S. Eliot would have approved of.

Then Chen saw a few students in the living room gathering their things. They were beginning to leave.

Jiao seemed to be staying on, however, still adding touches to her work. There might also have been another student there, of whom Chen caught only a fleeting glimpse.

Shortly afterward, Xie also left the room.

Chen remained sitting, like a writer lost in reveries, when Jiao came out into the garden. She was still in her overalls, high-stepping barefoot among the tall grass, her legs long and elegant, moving like a dancer. Her face bore a radiant smile.

“Hi. You are enjoying yourself in the garden, Mr. Chen?” she asked. “Xie has a headache. Let me keep you company.”

“Oh, I wanted to absorb the atmosphere – for my book project, you know.”

“Mr. Xie told me about your generous offer to help. We appreciate it,” she said, perching on the edge of the chair Xie had recently occupied.