“Well, if you say no, Party Secretary Li will lose face. The bureau will, too-including me.”

“Oh no! Yours is one face I have to save.” She laughed. “What shall I wear to the Beijing Opera?”

“Beijing Opera is not like Western opera. You don’t have to dress formally, but if you do-”

“Then I’m giving face, too.”

“Exactly. Shall I pick you up at the hotel?”

“Where is the theater?”

“Not far from your hotel. On the corner of Fuzhou and Henan Roads. The City Government Auditorium.”

“You don’t have to pick me up. I’ll take a taxi there. See you.”

“Oh, by the way, I have not discussed this afternoon’s visit with Party Secretary Li.”

She understood this last remark was a deliberate warning.

She started to dress and reached for her suit, but after such an eventful day, especially after their argument in Qingpu, she felt tempted to appear more feminine. She decided on a black dress with a low neckline.

In front of the City Government Auditorium, she saw the surprise on Chen’s face before she noticed somebody standing by him, Party Secretary Li, a stout man in his early sixties, his wrinkled face dominated by the heavy bags under his eyes.

They were ushered into an elegant reception room where there was an impressive array of pictures on the walls showing high-ranking officials shaking hands with distinguished foreign guests or with the actors and actresses.

“I welcome you on behalf of the Shanghai Police Bureau, Inspector Catherine Rohn.” Li spoke in a rather stiff official tone, despite the smile on his face.

“Thank you, Mr. Party Secretary Li. It is a great honor to meet you today.”

“It is the first time that our two countries are cooperating on an illegal immigration case. It is a top priority for our bureau, and for our Party authorities and government.”

“I appreciate the cooperation of the Shanghai Police Bureau, but there has been no progress so far.”

“Don’t worry, Inspector Rohn. We’ve been doing our best, both in Shanghai and Fujian. You will escort Wen Liping to the United States in time.” Li changed the subject abruptly. “Now, this is your first trip to Shanghai, I’ve heard. What is your impression of this city?”

“Fantastic. Shanghai is more marvelous than I imagined.”

“What about the hotel?”

“Fabulous. Chief Inspector Chen has told the hotel people to treat me as a ‘distinguished guest.’”

“That’s what he should have done.” Li nodded vigorously. “So how is your Chinese partner?”

“I could not ask for a better colleague.”

“Yes, he is our ace inspector. A romantic poet to boot. That’s why we have assigned him to you.”

“You call him a romantic poet,” she said, jokingly, “but he calls himself a modernist.”

“You see, modernism is no good. Inspector Rohn says so too,” Li said to Chen. “Be romantic. Revolutionary romantic, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“Romantic, revolutionary romantic,” Chen echoed. “Chairman Mao used this phrase in 1944 in the Yen’an Forum Talk.”

It was obvious to her that Party Secretary Li did not know much about literary terms. Chen seemed to be good-humored, even a bit offhand, toward his boss. Was it because of his special connections within the Party system?

They were ushered to their reserved seats; she sat between Li and Chen. The lights grew dim. An orchestra of traditional Chinese musical instruments started playing and the audience burst out cheering.

“Why are they cheering now?” Catherine asked.

“Beijing Opera is an art of many facets,” Chen said. “Singing, posing, performing martial arts, and playing music. A master of a traditional Chinese musical instrument like the erhu can make a huge difference. The audience is applauding the music.”

“No, that’s not why they are clapping now,” Li interjected. “Our chief inspector knows a lot about literature, but Beijing Opera is different. A well-known actress will soon appear on the stage. So people are applauding in advance. It’s the convention.”

“Yes, our Party Secretary is an expert on Beijing Opera,” Chen said. “I’ve only read about it in a tourist guide book.”

With the rise of the curtain, cymbals preceded the singsong voices of the actors and actresses. An episode of The White Snake unfolded on the stage, a romantic story about a white snake spirit who changes into a beautiful woman in love. The White Snake summoned the turtle soldiers, crab warriors, carp knights, and other animal spirits from the river to overwhelm a temple. In spite of her heroic fight to rescue her lover, detained by a meddlesome monk in the Gold Mountain Temple, she was defeated.

Catherine enjoyed the performance, impressed by the spectacular display of martial arts, glittering costumes, and traditional music. There was no need to understand a single word of the play to appreciate it. Then the White Snake Lady started a series of somersaults across the stage.

“This is symbolic of inner as well as outer intensity,” Chen said. “The banners in her hands outline the waves of the battle. Everything is suggested by her hand gestures and body movements.”

The curtain finally fell amid the thunderous applause of the audience.

Afterward, Party Secretary Li offered to drive Inspector Rohn to her hotel, but she declined, saying that she preferred to walk back along the Bund.

“Splendid, you already know your way around.” Li turned to Chen. “Chief Inspector Chen, you may escort Inspector Rohn.”

The Bund stretched out along the river like an unfurled scarf.

Catherine was still immersed in the Beijing Opera. “So what’s the moral of the story?”

“It’s ambiguous,” Chen said. “From the orthodox perspective, romantic passion between animal spirits and human beings must be forbidden. In fact, with the institution of arranged marriage dominant in traditional Chinese society, any prenuptial romantic passion was forbidden. Even so, this love story has always been popular.”

She nodded. “So the White Snake is a metaphor. You don’t have to believe in ghosts to enjoy Hamlet.”

“No, and the love story does not have to be between animal spirits and human beings. Look at the lovers on the Bund. They stand for hours, as if fixed there. In my high modernist period, I once came up with an image-comparing those lovers to snails stuck on the wall. The poem has never been published.” He changed the topic. “My high school’s not far away, on the corner of Sichuan and Yen’an Roads. As a student, I used to wander along the Bund frequently.”

“The Bund must be one of your favorite places.”

“Yes. The bureau is also close. I enjoy coming here before or after a day’s work.”

They slowed to a stop beside Bund Park. The water lapped against the bank. They watched the moonlight flecking the waves, gulls hovering around the vessels, and the luminous eastern shore.

“I know a place with a better view,” he said, pointing.

“You’re the guide.”

He led the way into the park, climbing a spiral wrought-iron staircase to a large cedar deck that jutted out over the water. They chose a white cloth-covered table. He had a cup of coffee, and she had a bottle of orange juice. The view was spectacular.

It was close to the murder scene he had examined the day he had been assigned to Wen’s case. From where he sat, he could see that corner, partially covered by shrubbery, the top of which seemed to be trembling in a fitful breeze. It was strange, for the leaves on other trees remained motionless. He cast another glance at it. The bush remained eerily alive.

He took a sip of his coffee, turning to her. She drank from the bottle. A candle in a bowl on the table shed a yellowish light on her face.

“You’re like a fashionable Shanghai girl tonight. No one would imagine that you’re a U.S. Marshal.”