But her phone rang again. She took a look at the number and turned it off. “Those businesspeople will never let you alone,” she said, her fingers brushing against the paper window, like against the long-ago memories. “That night, I remember, there was an orange pinwheel spinning in the window. You were drunk, saying it was like an image in your poem. Have you totally given up your poetry?”

“Can I support myself as a poet?” He had a hard time following her as she jumped to the topic of poetry. She might be as self-conscious as he was at the unexpected reunion. “I published a collection of poems, but I found out that it was actually funded by a business associate of mine without my knowledge.”

“When I first started my business, I, too, had the naïve idea, that among other things, you might be able to write your poems without worrying about anything else.”

He was touched by a faraway look in her eyes, but she was intensely present too. She had never given up on the poet in him. Was it possible, however, for him to let her support him like that?

“When I first met you, I never imagined I would be a cop.” And I never thought you would be a businesswoman – “In those days, we still had dreams, but we have to live in the present moment.”

“I don’t know when Yong will come back,” she said, glancing up at the clock on the wall.

“It’s late,” he responded, almost mechanically. “It may be difficult for you to find a taxi.”

“I’ll leave a note for her. She will understand.”

So it ended in a whimper, this evening of theirs, but whether Yong would understand it, he didn’t know.

As they walked out of the courtyard, he was surprised to see the limousine still waiting there, like a modern monster crouching against the ruins of the old Beijing lane. A wooden pillar still stood out, like an angry finger pointing to the summer night sky.

“Is it your father’s car?”

“No, it’s mine.” She added, “For business.”

HCC were no longer something simply because of their parents. With their family connections, they themselves had turned into high cadres, or into successful entrepreneurs like her, or into both, like her husband.

He followed her over to the limousine, her high heels clicking on the stone-covered lane, a sliver of the moonlight illuminating her fine profile.

Holding the door for her, the chauffeur bowed obsequiously, white-haired like an owl in the night.

“Let me take you to your hotel,” she said.

“No, thanks. It’s just across the lane. I’ll walk there.”

“Then good night.”

Watching the car roll out of sight, he recalled that her earlier reference to the “tide” could have come out of a Tang-dynasty poem. The tide always keeps its word / to come. Had I known that, / I would have married a young tide-rider.

He was no longer a young tide-rider on the materialistic waves today.

CHIEF INSPECTOR CHEN STARTED his second day in Beijing by making a phone call to Diao. It was quite early in the morning.

“My name is Chen,” he introduced himself. “I used to be a businessman, but I’m trying my hand at writing. I talked with Chairman Wang of the Chinese Writers’ Association. He recommended you to me. So I would like very much to invite you to lunch today.”

“What a surprise, Mr. Chen! Thank you so much for your kind invitation, I have to say that first. But we’ve never met before, have we? Nor have I met Wang before. How can I let you buy lunch for me?”

“I haven’t read much, Mr. Diao, but I know the story of Cao Xueqin ’s friends treating him to Beijing roast duck in exchange for a chapter of the Dream of the Red Chamber. That’s how I got the idea.”

“I don’t have any exciting stories for you, I’m afraid, but if you really insist, we may meet for a late lunch today.”

“Great. One o’clock then. See you at Fangshan Restaurant.”

Putting down the phone, Chen realized that he had the morning to himself. So he started making plans.

As he walked out of the hotel, he hailed a taxi, telling the driver to go to the Memorial Hall of Chairman Mao in Tiananmen Square. Afterward, he thought, he could take a short cut through the Forbidden City Museum, to the Fangshan Restaurant in North Sea Park.

“You’re lucky. The memorial hall is open this week,” the taxi driver said without looking back. “I took someone there just yesterday.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s at the center of the Tiananmen Square,” the driver said, taking him for a first-time visitor to Beijing. “The feng shui of the memorial hall is absolutely rotten.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rotten for the dead, wasn’t it? Hardly a month after Mao’s death, his body not even properly placed in the crystal coffin yet, Madam Mao was thrown into jail as the head of the Gang of Four. And inauspicious for the square too. You know what happened in the square in 1989. There was bloodshed all over it. Sooner or later his body will have to be removed, or it will cause trouble again.”

“You really believe that?”

“Believe it or not, there’s no escaping retribution! Not even for Mao. He died sonless. One of his sons was killed in the Korean War, another suffers from schizophrenia, and still another went missing during the Civil War. It was Mao himself who said that, while he was in the Lu Mountains.” The driver added with a sardonic chuckle, “But you never know how many bastards he might have left behind.”

Chen made no comment, trying to look out at the much-changed Chang’an Avenue. They had already passed the Beijing Hotel near Dongdan.

When the taxi came to a stop close to the memorial hall, Chen handed some bills to the driver and said, “Keep the change. But tell your feng shui theory to every customer. One of them may turn out to be a cop.”

“Oh, if that happens, I’ll have a question for that cop. My father – labeled a Rightist simply so his school could meet the quota demand – died during the Cultural Revolution, leaving me an orphan without an education or skills. That’s why I am a taxi driver. So what compensation does the government owe me?”

In the anti-Rightist movement launched by Mao in mid-fifties, there was a sort of quota – each work unit had to report a given number of rightists to the authorities. The driver’s father must have been labeled a Rightist because of that. Whatever the personal grudge against Mao, however, people shouldn’t talk that way about the dead.

“The times have changed,” the taxi driver said, poking his head out of the window, as he drove off. “A cop can’t lock me up for talking about a feng shui theory.”

And whatever its feng shui, the front of the splendid mausoleum, surrounded by tall green trees, had drawn a large group of visitors, standing in a line longer than he had expected. People seemed to be quite patient, some taking pictures, some reading guidebooks, some cracking watermelon seeds.

He joined the end of the line, moving up with others. Looking at a body sometimes helps, if only psychologically, he told himself again. He had to zero in, so to speak, to get a better understanding of someone who was possibly involved.

Peddlers swarmed, hawking watches, lighters, and all sorts of small decorations and gadgets bearing the name of Mao. Chen picked up a watch with an ingeniously designed dial – it showed Mao in a green army uniform with the armband of the Red Guard. The pendulum consisted of Mao’s hand waving majestically on top of Tiananmen Gate, endless like time itself.

A security guard hurried over, shooing away the peddlers like insistent flies. Raising a green-painted loudspeaker, he urged the visitors to purchase flowers in homage to the great leader. Several people paid for the yellow chrysanthemums wrapped in plastic as the line swerved into the large courtyard. Chen did as well. There was also a mandatory booklet on all the great contributions Mao made to China, and he bought a copy, but didn’t open it.