She took a small sip of water, the ice cubes clinking pleasantly in the glass. “He asked you who was going to pay. Why?”

“If I’m here on bureau business, on an expense account, he will charge me two or three times more. A common practice. Not just for our bureau, but for all state-run companies. The ‘socialist expense.’ “

“But how come-I mean two or three times more?”

“In China, most people work for state-run companies. The system calls for a sort of averaging. Theoretically, a general manager and a janitor should earn about the same salary. So the former uses company money for his own benefit-for dining and entertaining: ‘socialist expense,’ even if they are treating their families or friends.”

The waitress brought in a bottle of wine in a basket and two small dishes of caviar on a silver tray. “Compliments of the house.”

They watched the waitress go through the ceremony of uncorking the bottle, pouring a bit into Chen’s glass, and waiting expectantly. He handed it over to Catherine.

She sampled it. “Good.”

As the waitress withdrew, they raised their glasses in a toast.

“I’m glad you told him that I’m your friend,” she said. “But let’s split the check.”

“No. It’s on the bureau. I told him I was paying because I did not want to incur too much expense. It would be a serious matter of loss of face for a Chinese not to pay in the company of his girlfriend-let alone a beautiful American girlfriend.”

“A beautiful American girlfriend!”

“No, I did not tell him that, but that’s probably what he imagines.”

“Life here is so complicated-’socialist expense’ and ‘face loss.’ “ She raised her cup again. “Do you think Gu came here on purpose?”

“Gu did not mention his visit to me last night, but I think you are right.”

“Oh, did you see him again last night?”

“Yes, for a karaoke party. I took Meiling, the secretary of the Traffic Control Office.”

“So you took another girl there!” She feigned shock.

“To show how serious I am about the parking lot, Inspector Rohn.”

“In exchange for information, I understand. Did you get anything new, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Not about Wen, but he promised he would try.” He drained his wine, remembering the Mao Tai mixed with the snake blood, choosing not to talk about the karaoke party in detail. “The party did not finish until two, with all the exotic foods you can imagine, plus two bottles of Mao Tai, and a splitting headache for me this morning.”

“Oh, poor Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”

Their main course arrived. The food was excellent, the wine mellow, and his companion charming, Chen’s hangover almost vanished. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window. A Russian folk song entitled “The Red Berry Blossom” played in the background.

For a moment, he reflected that his assignment for the day was not that bad. He took another sip. Fragments of lines came to his mind.

The sunlight burning gold,

We cannot collect the day

From the ancient garden

Into an album of old,

Let’s pick our play.

Or time will not pardon-

He was momentarily confused. These were not exactly his lines. Was he still drunk? Li Bai claimed that he wrote best when intoxicated. Chen had never experienced this.

“What are you thinking about?” she said, carving into her fish.

“Some lines. Not mine. Not all of them.”

“Come on, you’re a well-known poet. The librarian in the Shanghai Library knows about you. How about reciting one of your poems?”

“Well-” He felt tempted. Party Secretary Li had told him to keep her entertained. “Last year, I wrote a poem about Daifu, a modern Chinese poet. Remember the two lines on my folding fan?”

“About whipping the horse and the beauty alike, right?” she said with a smile.

“In the early forties, Daifu was caught in a tabloid typhoon over his divorce. He left for a Philippine island, where he started a new life, living anonymously. Like someone in your witness protection program. He changed his name, grew a big beard, opened a rice shop, and bought an ‘untouched’ native girl, about thirty years younger, who did not speak a single word of Chinese.”

“Gauguin did something like that,” she said. “Sorry, please continue.”

“It was during the war against Japan. The poet was involved in resistance activities. Allegedly he was killed by the Japanese. A myth has since evolved. Critics claim that he did everything- the girl, the rice shop, and his beard-as a cover for his anti-Japanese activities. My poem was a reaction to those claims. The first stanza is about the background. I’m skipping it. The second and third stanzas are about the poet’s life as a rice merchant in the company of the native girl.

“A gigantic ledger opened him / in the morning, figures / moved him up and down / along a mahogany abacus / all day, until the curfew / closed him in her bare arms, / in a peaceful sack of darkness: / time was a handful of rice streaming out / through his fingers. A chewed betel nut / stuck on the counter. He quit / holding himself like a balloon / forsaken against a horizon blazing / with cigarette butts.

“One midnight he awoke with the leaves / shivering, inexplicably, at the window. / She grasped at the mosquito net / in her sleep. A gold fish jumped out, / dancing furiously on the ground. / Wordless, a young woman’s capacity / for feeling jealousy and / the incorrigibly plural correspondence / of the world illuminated him. / It must have been another man, dead / long before, who had said: / ”The limits of his poetry / are the limits of his possibility.”

“Is that all?” She gazed at him over the rim of her glass.

“No, there’s one more stanza, but I cannot remember all the lines. It tells that years later, critics came like pilgrims to that native woman who, in her sixties, could bring nothing back, except the memory of Daifu making love to her.”

“It’s so sad,” she said, twisting in her slender fingers the stem of the glass. “And so unfair to her.”

“Unfair to feminist critics?”

“No, not just that. It’s way too cynical. Not that I do not like your poem, I do.” She continued after taking another small sip. “Let me ask you a different question. When you wrote the poem, what kind of a mood were you in?”

“I cannot remember. It was such a long time ago.”

“A lousy mood, I bet. Things were going wrong. Messages did not get through. Disillusionment hit home. And you became cynical-” She added, “Sorry if I’m intruding.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, taken aback. “You’re right in a general sense. According to our Tang dynasty poet Du Fu, people do not write well when they are happy. If you are content with life, you simply want to enjoy it.”

“Antiromantic cynicism can be a disguise for the poet’s personal disappointment. The poem reveals another side of you.”

“Well-” He was at a loss. “You’re entitled to your reading. Inspector Rohn. In deconstruction, every reading can be a misreading.”

Their talk was interrupted by a phone call from his deputy, Qian.

“Where are you, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Moscow Suburb,” Chen said. “Party Secretary Li wants me to entertain our American guest. What do you have to report?”

“Nothing particular. I’m in the bureau today. Detective Yu may call in at any time, and I’m still making phone calls to hotels. If anything comes up, you can reach me here.”

“So you’re working on Sunday, too. Good for you, Qian. Goodbye.”

Chen felt slightly disturbed, however. It was possible that Qian had intended to show how hard working he was, especially after the Qingpu incident. But why did he want to know where Chen was? Perhaps he should not have disclosed his whereabouts.