can do the job, but our workers’ finger-

polish the precision parts.’

Beside us, women bending over the work,

their fingers

shuttling under the fluorescent light,

My camera focusing on a middle-aged one,

pallid in her black homespun blouse

soaked in sweat. Summer heat overwhelms.

Zooming in, I’m shocked to see myself

galvanized into the steel part

touched by Lili’s fingertips,

soft yet solid

as an exotic grinder.

“Who is the reporter in the first stanza?” she asked with a puzzled expression.

“Let me explain after I finish.

Not that

Lili really touched me. Not she, the prettiest

leftist at the station, July, 1970.

We were leaving, the first group

of ‘educated youths,’

leaving for the countryside,

‘Oh, to be re-re-re-educated by

the po-or and lo-lo-wer middle class peasants!’

Chairman Mao’s voice screeched

from a scratched record at the station.

By the locomotive Lili

burst into a dance, flourishing

a red paper heart she had cut, a miracle

in the design of a girl and a boy

holding the Chinese character-loyal’

to Chairman Mao. Spring

of the Cultural Revolution wafted

through her fingers. Her hair streamed

into the dark eye of the sun.

A leap, her skirt

like a blossom, and the heart

jumped out of her hand, fluttering

like a flushed pheasant. A slip-

I rushed to its rescue, when she

caught it-a finishing touch

to her performance. The people

roared. I froze. She took my hand,

waving, our fingers branching

into each other, as if my blunder

were a much rehearsed act, as if

the curtain fell on the world

in a piece of white paper

to set off the red heart, in which

I was the boy, she, the girl.

‘The best fingers,’

the manager keeps me nodding. It’s she.

No mistake. But what can I say,

I say, of course, the convenient thing

to myself, that things change, as

a Chinese saying goes, as dramatically

as azure seas into mulberry fields,

or that all these years vanish-in a flick of your cigar.

Here she is, changed

and unchanged, her fingers

lathered in the greenish abrasive,

new bamboo shoots long immersed

in icy water, peeling, but

perfecting. She raises her hand, only

once, to wipe the sweat

from her forehead, leaving

a phosphorescent trail. She

does not know me-not even

with the Wenhui Daily’s reporter

name label on my bosom

‘No story,’

the manager says.

‘One of the millions

of educated youths, she has become

“a poor-lower-middle class peasant” herself,

her fingers-tough as a grinder,

but a revolutionary one, polishing up

the spirit of our society, speaking

volumes for our socialism’s superiority.’

So came a central metaphor

for my report.

An emerald snail

crawls along the white wall.

“A sad poem,” she murmured.

“A good poem, but the translation fails to do justice to the original.”

“The language is clear, and the story is poignant. I don’t see anything wrong with the English. It’s very touching indeed.”

“ ‘Touching’ is the very word. I had a hard time finding English equivalents. It is Liu Qing’s poem.”

“Who? Liu Qing?”

“That classmate of Wen’s-her brother Lihua mentioned him-the upstart who sponsored the reunion?”

“Yes. ‘The wheel of fortune turns so quickly.’ Zhu also mentioned him, saying he was a nobody in high school. Why is his poem suddenly so important to us?”

“Well, a poetry anthology was found in Wen’s house. I think I mentioned it to you.”

“It is mentioned in the file. Hold on, the revolutionary grinder, the commune factory, the workers polishing the parts with their fingers, and Lili-”

“Now you see. That’s why I want to discuss the poem with you tonight,” he said. “After parting with you, I called Yu. Liu Qing’s poem is in that anthology, and Yu faxed me a copy of it. The poem was first published five years ago in a magazine called Stars. Liu worked as a reporter for Wenhui Daily then. Like the speaker in the poem, he wrote about a model commune factory in Changle County, Fujian Province. Here is a copy of the newspaper report.” He produced a newspaper out of his briefcase. “Propaganda stuff. I had no time to translate it.

“Few bookstores-except in large cities-sell poetry now. It’s unimaginable that a poor peasant woman would go all the way from her village to buy a poetry collection.”

“Do you believe the poem tells a true story?”

“It’s difficult to say how much is true. The visit to Wen’s factory, as described in the poem, was coincidental. But Liu used the same metaphor in his newspaper story-a revolutionary grinder polishing up the spirit of the socialist society. It could have been part of the reason he quit his job.”

“Why? Liu did nothing wrong.”

“He should not have written such political baloney, but he did not have the guts to refuse. In addition, he must have felt guilty for having done nothing to help her.”

“I think I see your point now.” She perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. “If the story in the poem is a true one, Liu did not reveal his identity to her at the time, let alone offer help to her. That’s the meaning of the image of the emerald snail crawling at the end. It’s Liu’s guilt, a symbol of Liu’s regret.”

“Yes, a snail carries a burden forever. So the moment I finished translating the poem I hurried over.”

“What do you intend to do now?” she said.

“We must interview Liu. He may not have spoken to Wen then, but later he must have sent her a copy of the anthology, which she kept. And possibly there were other contacts between them, too.”

“Yes, possibly.”

“I’ve talked to people at the Wenhui Daily,” Chen said. “When Liu quit his job about five years ago and started a construction material company in Shanghai, he got several contracts from the Singapore government for the Suzhou New Industry Zone. Now he has two construction material factories and a timber yard in Suzhou, in addition to his company in Shanghai. I called Liu’s home this afternoon. His wife said that he was in Beijing negotiating a deal and would return to Suzhou tomorrow.”

“Are we going to Suzhou?”

“Yes. It’s a long shot. Party Secretary Li will have the train tickets delivered to the hotel tomorrow morning.”

“Party Secretary Li can be so efficient,” she said. “How early do we leave?”

“The train leaves at eight. We arrive in Suzhou about nine thirty. Li suggests that we spend a day or two there.”

He proposed vacationing as camouflage for their investigation. Li had readily approved of the plan.

“So we will be tourists,” she said. “Now, how did it occur to you to connect the poem with our investigation? I’ll make you a cup of coffee if you’ll tell me. Special coffee beans, from Brazil. A treat.”

“You’re learning the Chinese way fast. To exchange favors. The very essence of guanxi. But it’s late. We are leaving early tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. We can nap on the train.” She took a coffee grinder with a small bag of coffee beans from the closet, and looked for an outlet. “I know you like strong coffee.”