It took them no more than five minutes to reach the intersection of Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road. She saw a white Western-style restaurant on the corner. A number of young, people were sipping coffee behind the tall, amber-colored windows.

“Deda Cafe,” Chen said. “The coffee here is excellent, but we are going to a street market behind it.”

She looked up to see a sign at the street entrance, the central market. It marked a narrow street. Shabby, too. In addition to a variety of tiny stores with makeshift counters or tables displaying goods on the sidewalk, there was a cluster of snackbars and booths tucked into the corner.

“Formerly, it was a marketplace for cheap and secondhand goods, like a flea market in the United States.” Chen continued plying her with information. “With so many people coming here, eating places appeared, convenient, inexpensive, but with a special flavor.”

The snackbars, food carts, and small restaurants seemed to fill the air with a palpable energy. Most appeared to be cheap, low-class, in sharp contrast to those near the Peace Hotel. A curbside peddler spread out skewers of diced lamb on a makeshift grill, adding a pinch of spices from time to time. A gaunt herbalist measured out ancient medicinal remedies into a row of earthen pots boiling under a silk banner declaring in bold Chinese characters: medical meal.

This was where she wanted to be, at a clamorous, chaotic corner that told real stories about the city. Fish, squid, and turtles, were all displayed alive in wooden or plastic basins. Eels, quails, and frog legs were frying in the sizzling woks. Most of the bustling restaurants were full of customers.

They found a vacant table in a bar. Chen handed her a dogeared menu. After looking at the strange names of the items listed, she gave up. “You decide. I’ve never heard of any of them.”

So Chen ordered a portion of fried mini-buns with minced pork stuffing, shrimp dumplings with transparent skin, sticks of fermented tofu, rice porridge with a thousand-year-egg, pickled white squash, salted duck, and Guilin bean curd with chopped green scallions. All in small dishes.

“It’s like a banquet,” she said.

“It costs less than a continental breakfast in the hotel,” he said.

The tofu came first, tiny pieces on bamboo sticks like shish kebabs. In spite of a wild, sharp flavor, she started to like it after the first few bites.

“Food has always been an important part of Chinese culture,” Chen mumbled, busily eating. “As Confucius says, To enjoy food and sex is human nature.’”

“Really!” She had never come across that quotation. He could not have made it up, could he? She thought she caught a slight suggestion of humor in his tone.

Soon she became aware of curious glances from other customers-an American woman devouring common food in the company of a Chinese man. A pudgy customer even greeted her as he passed their table with an enormous rice ball in his hand.

“Now I have a couple of questions for you, Chief Inspector Chen. Do you think Wen married Feng, a peasant, because she believed so devoutly in Mao?”

“That’s possible. But for things between a man and a woman, I don’t think politics alone can be an explanation.”

“Did many of the educated youths remain in the countryside?” she said, nibbling at the last piece of tofu.

“After the Cultural Revolution, most of them returned to the city. Detective Yu and his wife were educated youths in Yunnan, and they came back to Shanghai in the early eighties.”

“You have an interesting division of labor, Chief Inspector Chen. Detective Yu is busy working in Fujian, and you stay in Shanghai to enjoy delicious snacks with an American guest.”

“It is my responsibility as a chief inspector to welcome you on the occasion of your first trip to China, and of the first instance of anti-illegal-immigration cooperation between our two countries. Party Secretary Li made a special point of it. ‘Make Inspector Rohn’s stay in Shanghai a safe and satisfactory one’ are my orders.”

“Thank you,” she said. His self-mockery was apparent now, which made their talk easier. “So when I go back home, I’m supposed to talk about the friendship between our two countries, and the politics in your newspapers.”

“That is up to you, Inspector Rohn. It’s the Chinese tradition to show hospitality to a guest from a faraway country.”

“In addition to entertaining me, what else are you going to do?”

“I’ve made a list of Wen’s possible contacts here. Qian Jun, my temporary assistant, is arranging for me to interview them this afternoon or tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I will keep exchanging information with you.”

“So I am to sit in the hotel all day, waiting for phone calls, like a switchboard operator?”

“No, you don’t have to do that. It’s your first trip to China. Do some sightseeing. The Bund, Nanjing Road. I’ll serve as your full-time tour escort over the weekend.”

“I would rather join you in your work, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“You mean take part in the interviews?”

“Yes.” She looked him in the eye.

“I don’t see any reason why not, except that most people speak the Shanghai dialect here.”

His answer was a diplomatic one, she thought, but nonetheless an excuse.

“I had no problem talking with my fellow travelers in the airplane. They all spoke Mandarin to me. Can’t we ask our interviewees to do the same? And you can help me out, if need be.”

“I can try, but do you think people will talk freely in front of an American officer?”

“They will be more earnest,” she said, “if they believe we mean business-an American officer plus a Chinese one.”

“You have a point, Inspector Rohn. I’ll consult Party Secretary Li.”

“Is it part of your political culture never to give a straightforward reply?”

“No. I’ll give you a straightforward answer, but I need to get his permission. Surely some procedures have to be followed, even in the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Granted, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “So what do you want me to do now, while I await his permission?”

“If Wen’s disappearance was caused by the phone call from her husband, you’d better check for possible leaks in your department.”

“I’ll talk with my supervisor,” she said, aware of the direction he was trying to lead her in, which she had anticipated.

“I’ve asked the hotel to set up a fax machine in your room. If there’s anything else you need, do let me know.”

“I appreciate your help. Now just one more question,” she said on the spur of the moment. “Last night, looking out at the Bund, I thought of a classical Chinese poem. I studied an English version several years ago. About a poet’s regret at being unable to share a transcendant scene with his friend. I cannot remember the exact lines. By any chance, do you know the poem?”

“Um-” He eyed her in surprise. “I think it is a poem by Liu Yong, a Song dynasty poet. The second stanza reads like this. Where shall I find myself / Tonight, waking from a hangover-/ The riverbank lined with weeping willows, / The moon sinking, the dawn rising on a breeze, / Year after year, I will be far, / Far away from you. / All the beautiful scenes are unfolding, / But to no avail: / Oh, to whom can I speak / Of this ever enchanting landscape?”

“That’s it.” She was amazed at his sudden metamorphosis. His face lit up when he recited those lines.

The CIA information was credible. He was a chief inspector and a poet too-at least he was familiar with both Eliot and Liu Yong. That intrigued her.

Chen said, “Liu’s one of my favorites during the pre-Eliot period.”

“What makes Eliot so special for you?”

“He cannot decide whether to declare himself to his love. At least not in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

“Then Eliot should have learned from Liu.”