“Huang Teng wine. The wine served by Tang Wan in Lu You’s ci poem.”
“What’s Huang Teng?” She took one of the cups from his hand.
“It’s possible it was the name of the place where the wine was brewed at the time.”
They sat down in the pavilion, which didn’t provide comfortable seating. The stone bench was narrow, cold, hard. Also a bit too high—Lianping sat with her feet dangling, barely touching the ground. She shifted and tucked her feet up under her, the cup still in her hand.
Once again she tried to conjure up the ancient scene between the lovers in the garden—the same pavilion, the same pine tree, the same stone bridge, thousands of years ago. Lu and Tang met on a day just like today, aware of a message, perhaps the same as today, drawing nearer to them in the late afternoon.
“The gardens have been rebuilt a couple of times,” Chen said, as if reading her thoughts again. “The pond and the pavilion appear / no longer to be the same.”
The pavilion must have been rebuilt too. Relatively new graffiti, comments, and lines written by tourists decorated the posts and railings. Some wrote sentimental lines in imitation of Lu You’s, and some simply left their names with a red heart beneath.
“It’s nothing but clichés,” he said with a cynical note in his voice.
“You translated the love poems into English, didn’t you?”
“No, not me. They were translated by Yang, a talented poet and translator like Xinghua. I happened to get his manuscript while working on a murder investigation. He died during the Cultural Revolution, and the manuscript had been kept by his ex–Red Guard lover, who was murdered several years ago. That in itself was a touching story. I made some changes to the manuscript, added a few poems, and then sent the collection to the publisher. The editor insisted on adding my name to the book as a political cushion, since Yang’s name could be too much of a reminder of the atrocities committed during the Cultural Revolution.” He resumed after a short pause, “By the way, you should see the Shaoxing opera version of the love story. My mother is a loyal fan. I’ll have to buy a bunch of postcards for her.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll buy some for my mother too. But I have a question for you. When Lu You and Tang Wan met again, she not only had remarried but also was no longer that young. Why was he still smitten?”
“Good question. In his mind, she was still what she was when he first saw her, just like that little…” he said, trailing off at the end.
“Just like who?” she pushed, in spite of herself, wondering whether he was thinking, Just like Wang Feng, the ex-Wenhui journalist whom Chen was said to have dated. Wang Feng had recently come back to Shanghai for a short visit. They could have met up again.
“Oh, somebody I met here this morning,” he said, and then added, “whom I didn’t meet until this morning.”
In the short silence that ensued, the light drizzling rain was letting up. A bird started chirping somewhere among the glistening foliage. So it wasn’t someone from his past, she reflected. But who was it, then? Possibly someone involved in the investigation.
Did he come to Shaoxing just for her company? Or did he have other motives?
Quickly, she let the thought pass, saying to herself that if he wanted to tell her about it, he would.
“I interviewed someone here for the investigation I’m working on.”
She felt a wave of disappointment rippling through her, which was followed by a wave of relief. He didn’t come because of her or because of her suggestion after all.
Looking over at him, she saw he was hurriedly taking out his cell phone.
“Sorry, I have to take this call. It’s from the doctor at East China Hospital. It could be urgent—”
“Oh, go ahead.”
He pushed the button, then stood up and walked two or three steps out of the pavilion. A short distance away, he started talking, his brows knitted.
It was difficult for her to guess the content of the phone conversation from the fragmented words she occasionally overheard. He seemed to be saying little except “yes,” “no,” and other terse, disjointed words.
While he talked to the doctor, she turned to look at the distant hills wrapped in light mist. The mist came rolling off the hills like a scroll of traditional Chinese landscape painting, as if what wasn’t painted in the space was telling more than what was.
Finally, he came back, putting his hand on her shoulder absentmindedly as he joined in and gazed at the same view.
“Is everything fine with your mother?”
“She’s fine. The doctor had something else to discuss with me.” He then changed the subject abruptly, “Oh, we’d better go to the festival for the dinner party. Otherwise, people will start complaining about Inspector Chen.”