“Qingming festival?”

“The Qingming festival comes on April fifth, a day traditionally reserved for worshipping at ancestral graves,” he explained. “There are a couple of gardens near here. The well-known Yi Garden is within walking distance. You could visit it this morning. I’ll return before noon. Then we can have a Suzhou-style lunch at the Xuanmiao Temple Bazaar. I’ll be at your service for the whole afternoon.”

“You should go there. Don’t worry about me.” She then added, “Why is your father’s grave in Suzhou-I’m just curious.”

“Shanghai’s overcrowded. So cemeteries were developed in Suzhou. Some old people believe in Feng Shui-they want a gravesite with a view of mountains and rivers. My father chose the site himself. Then we moved his casket here. I’ve visited it only two or three times.”

“We’ll go to the temple in the afternoon, but I don’t want to walk by myself in the morning. Such a beautiful city,” she said with an impish glint in her blue eyes. “To whom shall I speak / of this ever enchanting landscape?”

“Oh, you still remember Liu Yong’s lines!” Chen refrained from explaining that the Song dynasty poet had composed those lines to his lover.

“So, can I go with you?”

“You mean to the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“No, I cannot ask you to do that. It is too much of a favor to ask of you.”

“Is it against the Chinese custom for me to go there?”

“No, not necessarily,” Chen said, deciding not to tell her that one took only his wife or fiancée to a parent’s grave.

“Then let’s go there. I’ll just be a moment.” She went to wash and change.

While waiting, he dialed Yu, but got only Yu’s voice mail. He left a message and his cell phone number.

She emerged, wearing a white shirt, light gray blazer, and a slim matching skirt. Her hair was pinned back.

He suggested they take a taxi to the cemetery. She wanted to take the bus. “I would like to spend a day like an ordinary Chinese person.”

He did not think she could really succeed. Nor did he like the idea of having her bumped about in an overcrowded bus. Luckily, a few blocks from the hotel, they saw a bus with a sign saying cemetery express. The fare was twice as much, but they got on without any trouble. The bus was not so much packed with passengers, as with what they carried-wicker baskets of cooked dishes, plastic bags of instant food, bamboo briefcases probably laden with paper “ghost” money, and half-broken cardboard boxes bound around with strings and ropes to keep their contents from spilling out. They squeezed into the seat just behind the driver, which afforded them the small space underneath the driver’s seat in which to stretch their legs. She handed the driver a pack of cigarettes-a souvenir of her status as a “distinguished guest” at the Peace Hotel. The driver grinned back at them.

Despite the open windows, the air in the bus was stuffy, and the seat’s imitation leather covering felt hot. There was a mixed smell of sweating human bodies, salted fish, meat soaked in wine, and every other offering imaginable. Nevertheless, Catherine appeared to be in high spirits, chatting with a middle-aged woman across the aisle, examining other passengers’ offerings with great interest. Above the cacophony of voices, a song was broadcast via invisible speakers. The singer, popular in Hong Kong, warbled in a high-pitched voice. Chen recognized the lyrics: a ci poem written by Su Dongpo. It was an elegy for Su’s wife, but it could be read in a more general way. Why had the cemetery bus driver chosen that particular ci for the trip? The market economy worked everywhere. Poetry, too, had become a product.

Chief Inspector Chen did not believe in an afterlife but, under the influence of the music, he wished there were one. Would his father recognize him, he wondered. So many years-

Soon they were in sight of the cemetery. Several old women were coming toward them from the foot of the hill. Wearing white towel hoods, they were clothed in dark homespun, even darker somehow than the ravens in the distance. This was a scene he had witnessed during his last visit.

He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go quickly.”

But it was difficult for her to do so. His father’s grave was somewhere halfway up the hill. The path was overgrown with weeds. The paint on the direction signs had faded. Several steps were in bad repair. He had to slow down, pushing his way through the overhanging pines and rambling briars. She nearly stumbled.

“Why are some characters on the tombstones red, and some black?” she asked, as she picked her way carefully among the stones.

“The names in black indicate those already dead, and the names in red indicate those still alive.”

“Isn’t this bad luck for the living?”

“In China, husband and wife are supposed to be buried together under the same tombstone. So after one’s death, the other will have the tombstone erected with the couple’s names both engraved on it-one in black, and one in red. When both of them pass away, their children will put their coffins-or cinerary urns-together and repaint all the characters in black.”

“This must be a time-honored custom.”

“Also a disappearing one. The family structure is no longer so stable here. People get divorced or remarried. Only a handful of old people still follow this tradition.”

Their talk was interrupted as the black-attired old women reached them. They must have been in their seventies or even older, though they shuffled their bound feet steadily forward. He was amazed-such old people, moving with such difficulty, on such a hazardous mountain path. They were carrying candles, incense, paper ghost money, flowers, as well as cleaning implements.

One of them wobbled over on her bound feet, pushing a paper model of a “ghost” house at him. “May your ancestors protect you!”

“Oh, what a beautiful American wife!” another exclaimed. “Your ancestors underground are grinning from ear to ear.”

“Your ancestors bless you!” the third prayed. “You two have a wonderful future together!”

“You’ll make tons of money abroad!” the fourth predicted.

“No.” He kept shaking his head at the chorus in Suzhou dialect, which Catherine did not understand, fortunately.

“What are they saying?” she asked.

“Well, lucky words to please us, so we will buy their offerings or give them money.” He bought a bouquet of flowers from an old woman. The flowers did not look so fresh. Possibly they had been taken from somebody else’s grave. He did not say anything. Catherine bought a bunch of incense.

As he finally located his father’s grave, the old women carrying brooms and mops rushed over to clean the tombstone. One of them produced a brush pen and two small cans of paint, and started repainting the characters with red and black paint. This was done as a service, for which he had to pay. It was partially because of Catherine, he thought. Those old women must have assumed he was immensely rich, with an American wife.

He brushed away the remaining dust from the tombstone. She took several pictures. It was thoughtful of her. He would show those pictures to his mother. After sticking the incense in the ground and lighting it, she came to stand beside him, imitating his gesture, with her palms pressed in front of her heart.

What would be the late Neo-Confucian professor’s reaction to this sight-his son, a Chinese cop, with an American woman cop?

Closing his eyes, he tried to have a moment of silent communion with the dead. He had let the old man down terribly, at least in one aspect. The continuation of the family tree had been one of his father’s highest concerns. Standing by the grave, still a bachelor, the only defense Chief Inspector Chen could make for himself was that in Confucianism, one’s responsibility to the country was considered more important than anything else.