“The only way for the poor to turn the tables is to go abroad, too. Otherwise, they will be viewed as foolish, lazy, or incompetent. It’s a vicious cycle. So more and more people leave.”

“Did Feng leave for the same reason?”

“That must have been one of his reasons.”

They came to Wen’s house. An old one, probably built as early as the turn of century, though not small, with a front yard, a backyard, and a pigsty. It looked extremely shabby compared to the improved standard of the village housing. The door was locked from the outside with a brass padlock. Zhao opened it by inserting a small knife into the lock. In the deserted front yard, Yu saw two baskets of empty wine bottles in a corner.

“Feng drank a lot,” Zhao said. “Wen collected the bottles to sell.”

They examined the yard walls, the tops of which were covered in dust, but found no traces of anyone having climbed over.

“Have you found anything suspicious among the things she left behind?” Yu asked as they moved inside.

“Well, there’s not much left behind.”

Not much in the way of furniture anyway, Yu observed, taking out his notebook. The living room appeared inconsolably bare. A ramshackle table with two wooden benches were all he could see. There was, however, a basket of cans and plastic packages under the table. One of the packages bore a danger-inflammable notice. Whatever it was, it did not appear to be something people would normally keep in the living room.

“What’s that?”

“The material Wen used for her work,” Zhao explained.

“What sort of work did she do at home?”

“What she did at the commune factory was simple. She worked with a sort of chemical abrasive. She dipped her fingers in it and rubbed the precision parts until they were smooth, like a human grinder. Folks here earn according to the number of products completed, piecework. To earn a few more Yuan in the evenings, she brought the chemicals and parts home.”

They went into the bedroom. The bed was huge and old with a carved design on the headboard. There was also a chest displaying the same craftsmanship. Most of the drawers contained rags, old clothes, and other useless stuff. One drawer was packed with a child’s clothes and shoes, probably her dead son’s. In another, Yu found a photo album with some pictures of Wen taken in high school.

One showed Wen at the Shanghai railway station, leaning out of the train window, waving her hand at the people on the platform who were undoubtedly singing and shouting revolutionary slogans. This was a familiar scene to Yu, who had seen Peiqin reaching out, waving to her family on the same platform. He put several pictures in his notebook. “Did Wen have any recent photos?”

“The only recent one is her passport picture.”

“Not even a wedding picture?”

“No.”

That was strange, Yu thought. In Yunnan, though they had not applied for their marriage certificate for fear of jeopardizing their chances of being allowed to return to Shanghai, Peiqin had made a point of having their picture taken in a standard bride-and-bridegroom pose. Now, years later, Peiqin would still refer to it as their wedding picture.

The bottom drawer of the chest contained a few children’s books, a dictionary, a piece of old newspaper dated several months earlier, a copy of The Dream of the Red Chamber reprinted before the Cultural Revolution, an anthology of the best poems of 1988-

“A 1988 poetry collection,” Yu said, turning toward Zhao. “Isn’t this out of place here?”

“Oh, I thought so too,” Zhao took it. “But do you see the paper embroidery designs kept between the pages? Village folks use books for that purpose.”

“Yes, my mother used to do that too. So the designs would not get crumpled.” Yu leafed through the volume. No signature. Nor was Wen’s name mentioned in the table of contents.

“Do you want to send it to your poetic chief inspector?”

“No, I don’t think he has time for poetry right now.” Nevertheless, Yu made a note of it. “Oh, you mentioned her work in a commune factory. The commune system was abolished several years ago.”

“That’s true. People are just used to calling it the commune factory.”

“Can we go there today?”

“The manager is away in Guangzhou. I will arrange a meeting for you as soon as he comes back.”

After they finished examining Wen’s house, they went to the village committee office. The village head was not in. An old woman in her eighties recognized Zhao and made tea for them. Yu telephoned the Shanghai Police Bureau but Chief Inspector Chen was not in either.

It was about lunchtime. Zhao did not refer to his reception plan again. They walked over to a noodles booth-a coal stove and several pots in front of a shabby house. While waiting for their fish ball noodles, Yu turned around to look at the rice paddy behind them.

Most of the farmers in the rice paddy were young or middle-aged women, working with their hair bundled up in white towels and their trouser bottoms rolled up high.

“This is another sign,” Zhao said, as if reading Yu’s thoughts. “This village is typical of the area. About two-thirds of the families have their men abroad. If not, it is like a stigma for that family. So there are practically no young or middle-aged men, and only their wives are left to work in the fields.”

“But how long will those wives be left behind?”

“At least seven or eight years, until their husbands get legal status abroad.”

After lunch, Zhao suggested a few families to start interviewing. Three hours later, however, Yu realized they would probably not get anything new or useful. Whenever they touched on the topics of human smuggling or gang activities, inevitably their questions were met with silence.

As for Wen, her neighbors shared an unexplained antipathy. According to them, Wen had kept to herself all those years. They still referred to her as the city woman or the educated youth, though she worked harder than most of the local wives. Normally Wen went to the commune factory in the morning, took care of the family plot in the late afternoon, and then finger-polished those parts she’d brought home at night. Always on the run, her head lowered, Wen had little time or desire to talk to others. As interpreted by Lou, her next-door neighbor, Wen must have been ashamed of Feng, the evil embodiment of the Cultural Revolution. Due to her lack of contacts with others, no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual about her on April fifth.

“That’s my impression, too,” Zhao said. “She seems to have remained an outsider here all these years.”

Wen might have shut herself up right after her marriage, Yu thought, but twenty years was a long time. The fourth interviewee on their list was a woman surnamed Dong in the house opposite Wen’s.

“Her only son left with Feng on the same ship, The Golden Hope, but he has not contacted home since,” Zhao said before knocking at the door.

The person who opened the door for them was a small, white-haired woman with a weatherbeaten, deeply lined face. She stood in the doorway without inviting them in.

“Comrade Dong, we are conducting an investigation into Wen’s disappearance,” Yu said. “Do you have any information about her, specifically with respect to the night of April fifth?”

“Information about that woman? Let me tell you something. He’s a white-eyed wolf, and she’s a jade-faced bitch. Now they’re both in trouble, aren’t they? It serves them right.” Dong drew her lips into a thin, angry line and shut the door in their faces.

Yu turned to Zhao in puzzlement.

“Let’s move on,” Zhao said. “Dong believes Feng influenced her son to leave home. He’s only eighteen. That’s why she calls him a white-eyed wolf-the most cruel one.”

“Why should Dong call Wen a jade-faced bitch?”

“Feng divorced his first wife to marry Wen. She was a knockout when she first arrived. Locals tell all kinds of stories about the marriage.”