Scarcely had the line of people turned into the north hall, however, when they were ordered to lay the flowers beneath a white marble statue of Mao standing in relief against an immense tapestry of China’s mountains and rivers in the brilliantly lit background.

“Shameless,” a square-faced man in the line cursed. “Only a minute after you’ve paid for the chrysanthemums. They cash in on the dead by reselling the flowers.”

“But at least they are not charging an entrance fee,” a long-faced man said. “At all the other parks in Beijing, you now have to buy tickets.”

“Do you think I would come here if I had to buy a ticket?” the square-faced man retorted. “They just want to keep up the long lines by promising no charge.”

Chen wasn’t so sure about that, but it took no less than half an hour for the line to edge into the Hall of Last Respects, and then to move up, finally, to the crystal coffin, in which Mao lay in a gray Mao suit, draped with a large red flag of the Chinese Communist Party, with honor gaurds solemnly standing around, motionless like toy soldiers.

In spite of his anticipation, Chen was stunned at the sight of Mao. So majestic on the screen of Chen’s memory, Mao now appeared shrunken, shriveled out of proportion, his cheeks hollow like dried oranges, his lips waxy, heavily painted. The little hair he had left looked somehow pasted or painted.

Chen had stood close to Mao in the crystal coffin for less than a minute before he was compelled to move on. Visitors behind him were edging up and pushing.

Instead of turning into the Memorial Chamber with pictures and documents about Mao on display, Chen headed straight to the exit.

Once out of the Memorial Hall, he inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. Peddlers again came rushing over. It was close to twelve, so he decided to start moving in the direction of his appointment.

Passing under the arch of the towering Tiananmen Gate, he purchased a ticket to the Forbidden City Museum, mainly for the short cut. With the traffic snarl along Chang’an Avenue, it could take much longer for him to get to the park by taxi.

The Forbidden City, strictly speaking, referred to the palace compound, including the court, various imperial halls, offices, and living quarters, but just beyond the palace, there were royal gardens and other imperial complexes no less forbidden to the ordinary people. After the overthrow of the Qing dynasty, the palace proper was turned into a museum, with various exhibition halls displaying the splendors of the imperial dynasties.

The palace was apparently too huge for a museum. So booths appeared in the courtyards, along the trails, and at the corners. Absent-mindedly, he bought a stick of sugar-glazed hawthorn, a Beijing street food speciality. It tasted surprisingly sour.

He began to be aware of a subtle effect the imperial surroundings were having on him. A self-contained world of divine sublimity, where an emperor couldn’t have helped seeing himself as the son of the heaven, high above the people, a godly ruler endowed with the sacred mandate and mission for him alone. Consequently, no ethics or rules whatsoever could possibly apply to him.

So for Mao, the anti-Rightist movement, the Three Red Banners, and the Cultural Revolution – all those political movements that had cost millions and millions of Chinese people’s lives – might have been nothing more than what was necessary for an emperor to consolidate his power, at least in his imagination within the high walls of the Forbidden City…

Instead of stepping into any of the imperial exhibition rooms, Chen kept walking straight ahead. That morning, he was the only such determined passerby there.

Soon, he walked through the museum’s back gate, from which he then glimpsed the tip of the White Pagoda in the North Sea Park.

FANGSHAN RESTAURANT, WHICH CHEN had chosen for the lunch meeting with Diao, was in the North Sea Park, originally an outside imperial garden attached to the Forbidden City, celebrated for its imperial history.

The restaurant choice was also made for a personal reason. During his college years, Chen had talked to Ling about having lunch there. They had never done so, as it had been far beyond his means.

There was still about half an hour before the appointment time. So he took a leisurely walk along the lake. In spite of the park’s name, there was no sea, only a man-made lake, which was exaggerated for the sake of the emperor. Still, it was a fantastic park in the center of the city, adjacent to the Beijing Library, where Ling had once worked, and with the silhouette of the White Pagoda shimmering behind.

He made his way toward a small bridge that he remembered from years before. Cutting across a corner, he saw an arts-and-crafts boutique store embosomed in the summer foliage. He stepped in, but things were too expensive inside. In the evening, he might have some time for a visit to Xidan Department Store to choose a present.

Then the bridge came into view. There, a young girl stood leaning against the railing, gazing out to the verdant mountains in the distance, a pigeon whistle buzzing in the air. He was overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu. The heart-breaking spring ripple / still so green under the bridge, / the ripples that reflected her arrival / light-footed, in such beauty / as would shame a wild goose into fleeing.

One afternoon, in his last years of college, Ling had arranged to meet him here with some books he had requested. He was delayed at school, and she must have been waiting for a long time. Hurrying over, he saw her standing on the muddy planks of a little bridge, resting one foot lightly on the railing, scratching her ankle, her face framed by wind-tangled hair. The scene was inexplicably touching: it was as if she was merging into a backdrop of willow catkins, which symbolized ill-fated beauty in Tang-dynasty poetry.

Whether the scene of the willow catkins had foreshadowed their relationship, no one could tell. But it wasn’t time for nostalgia, he told himself, heading back in the direction of the restaurant.

Fangshan presented an ancient-looking front. In a quiet flagstone courtyard, a waitress dressed like a Qing palace lady came up and led him to a private room. What struck him first was the ubiquitous yellow color – the color exclusively for the royal family. Against the yellow-painted walls, the table was set up with an apricot-colored tablecloth and gilt chopsticks, and behind him, an old cabinet elaborately embossed with golden dragons. Sitting by the window, he opened the briefcase and took out the information he had about Diao.

Diao was a newcomer on the literary scene – a middle school teacher up until his retirement, with no publications whatsoever to his credit until he suddenly produced his bestseller, Cloud and Rain in Shanghai. That practically ruled out the possibility that Diao would recognize Chen. The former wasn’t a member of the Writers’ Association, and they couldn’t have met before. The chief inspector should be able to play a role similar to the one he had at Xie Mansion.

People attributed the success of Cloud and Rain in Shanghai to its subject matter, but nonetheless it bespoke of the author’s ingenuity. Chen had read the book, impressed by the subtle balance between the stated and the unstated in the text.

At two or three minutes before one, the waitress led in a gray-haired man of medium build, with a deeply furrowed forehead and beady eyes, wearing a black T-shirt, white pants, and shiny dress shoes.

“You must be Mr. Diao,” Chen said, rising from the table. “Yes, I’m Diao.”

“Oh, it’s a great honor to meet you. I’m Chen. Your book, Cloud and Rain in Shanghai, is such a big bestseller.”

“Thank you for your invitation to lunch. This is an imperial restaurant, really expensive, and I’ve only heard about it before.”