To the east of Hongkou Park stood the rifle range, gunfire echoing from within the walls—the concession’s civic militia was conducting live-fire drills early that morning. Between the two enclosing walls ran a cinder path that led toward the Japanese residential quarter of Chuai Li, so the road had come to be called Chuai Road. Chuai Li had the Uchiyama Bookstore, a place Chen Qianyuan often visited—a Japanese-run shop that stocked many books banned elsewhere. But today he had come too early; the store hadn’t opened yet. The houses along the road were three-story buildings, with courtyards in front enclosed by latticed brick walls only waist-high. The courtyards were planted with cherry trees—”Chuai Li” itself derived from the English pronunciation of “cherry.”
The moment Dong Huiwen arrived, the two of them headed north along the cinder path together; they had agreed to go to the park.
This was their favorite path for walking, but Chen Qianyuan had to ask first:
“Did you lose your tail?”
“Not paying them any mind today,” Dong Huiwen answered. She meant to spend the whole day like an ordinary couple would.
By the lakeside in the park, they found a bench to sit on; the chestnuts they’d just bought were still warm.
“He was busy in the kitchen again yesterday afternoon, still at it near midnight. I finally forced him downstairs to sleep,” Dong Huiwen said.
“Should I just call him Uncle Dong? If I call him Father, won’t he immediately ask when we’re getting married?”
“Even if you don’t call him Father, he’ll still ask,” Dong Huiwen said, gazing at the withered duckweed on the water. A while back Dong Huiwen had been taken into the Longhua detention center; her father had been badly frightened. By the time she got out, he seemed to have aged several years all at once; it wasn’t until after the New Year that his spirits improved.
Chestnut shells fell into the water, ripples spreading outward in circles; a few fish rose up from the bottom.
Chen Qianyuan suddenly made up his mind: “When I see my brother, I’ll tell him—and that way I’ll also be reporting it up to my superiors.”
The first time the two of them had met was at a secret underground party office—a building beside a theater, sharing a staircase with the theater’s balcony seating. When she’d gone there, the theater was in the middle of a matinee performance of a newly written play. The play was already half over, and the ticket-checker was nowhere to be found; the door to the balcony stood wide open. On stage, Ma Zhenhua was in the depths of anguish, her grief-stricken voice carrying to every corner of the corridor—she was about to finish writing that letter and throw herself into the river.
There was a door beside the stairwell landing; she knocked on it, knocked hard, worried that Ma Zhenhua’s voice on stage was too loud for anyone to hear otherwise. The young man who opened the door had bright eyes and still looked rather like a student; he was glaring at her, clearly annoyed.
The room was small, windowless, holding a mop, a bucket, and a stack of wooden crates. On top of the crates lay an open book; beside them sat a stool. She froze—was this really the office? It was only later she learned that the actual office was one floor up, past the long corridor before the entrance to the theater’s balcony seating.
They exchanged the recognition code, and she handed over the documents, but he, still not quite over his irritation, scolded her in a low voice:
“Why did you knock like that?
“Are you afraid people won’t notice you?
“This is a Party office. Do you think it’s your girlfriend’s dormitory?”
She went there three times, each time to deliver documents. Every time she received an assignment, her spirits lifted—like a carrier pigeon soaring over streets and lanes. She had already fallen in love with him, though at the time she herself didn’t realize it. Then, suddenly, the deliveries stopped. For five straight months, Lao Fang never once had her carry documents to that office. She couldn’t ask Lao Fang why, didn’t dare ask. Perhaps the delivery assignments would never be given to her again. Had she done something wrong? Had he complained to the organization that she knocked too loudly? But he wasn’t angry with her anymore, was he? On the two visits that followed, he’d been so gentle. He’d poured her water, talked with her.
Once, in summer, he’d even brought half a watermelon down from upstairs and had her sit beside the wooden crates to eat it. That time they’d talked a great deal—he told her the author of a certain Russian book was named Nekrasov, and that he was translating his poems; his brother and his brother’s girlfriend both loved Nekrasov, and later he had come to love him too. Was it because they’d talked so long that time that she’d lingered too long at the liaison point? She thought she would never go back to that tiny secret room again, thought she would never see him again.
Later she saw him again—the following May, at a street rally. He was giving a passionate speech, but a few minutes later the gathered crowd scattered as constables charged in, batons swinging; one struck him on the head. She rushed forward to help him up, and they ducked into a lane, then onto another street. She got him to a safe location—only then did she discover that his superior and hers were one and the same: Lao Fang.
The Scott Cup was a major sporting event in the concession. On the park lawn, the second match of the West-Union Group A had already reached the second half. Chen Qianyuan enjoyed watching football, but today the two of them had come here for a date at Dong Huiwen’s suggestion. His brother had been gone from Shanghai for many days now with no word, and Chen Qianyuan was starting to feel anxious. Tickets were sold for the match; on either side of the pitch stood three temporary wooden stands, knee-high platforms holding five rows of long benches, each stand seating two or three hundred people. Ropes cordoned off the area around the stands; those unwilling to buy tickets could still stand outside the rope and watch.
Dong Huiwen stood pressed close to Chen Qianyuan, among the crowd watching from outside the rope. The Lusitanos club’s tall, burly Englishmen played in a bold, expansive style, their running thudding heavily against the grass. After a scramble between the two teams, with the ball about to go out over the goal line, a lanky player from the Chi Nan team slid in to save it, kicking up a spray of dirt and grass.
The crowd outside the rope cheered and applauded, nodding to each other in approval. Amid the crowd, a woman’s voice rang out sharp and clear; Dong Huiwen found it oddly familiar and turned toward the sound—there was Miss Tao, decked out gaily, squeezed into the crowd, and the lanky player who’d just been cheered was blowing kisses in her direction again and again.
Dong Huiwen tugged at Chen Qianyuan’s sleeve, about to leave, when she saw Miss Tao waving at her. She said quietly to Chen Qianyuan: “That’s Miss Tao.”
Before she’d even finished speaking, Miss Tao was already pushing through the crowd toward them.
“Miss Dong! Miss Dong!” Miss Tao called, her face flushed, sweat beading on her brow, fanning herself with a handkerchief as she looked Chen Qianyuan up and down. “You two came to watch the match too?”
Dong Huiwen answered politely: “We were just passing by.”
Miss Tao could tell Dong Huiwen was being a little evasive: “Oh, oh, such lovely weather, a stroll in the park is just the thing. But the football really is worth watching—look at those foreigners, legs like elephants, stamping the lawn until it sounds like a wooden floor. Whoever lives downstairs from that sort really is unlucky.”
Seeing that Dong Huiwen had no intention of introducing her companion, Miss Tao didn’t seem to mind. “How is Mrs. Ling doing? I ran into her once at the bank last time, but we were both in such a rush we barely got to talk.”
Ling Wen had gone off to Guangzhou some days ago now, with no word since. Miss Tao’s mention of her stirred up Dong Huiwen’s unease again. “Mrs. Ling is doing quite well. She’s mentioned running into you.”
“I really do feel bad about it.” As for that matter of the letter from Longhua, Miss Tao had finally found a chance to try to explain herself, but she wasn’t sure what to say.
Seeing her looking a little awkward, Dong Huiwen quickly said: “Miss Tao, go enjoy the match. We have somewhere to be—we’ll head off now.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t really understand the game anyway—I’m here to see people.” Miss Tao said, winking at Dong Huiwen, as if she’d already forgotten whatever she’d meant to say before.
On the pitch, the Chi Nan University team was leading the Lusitanos one to nil. Chi Nan’s left winger charged forward with the ball, driving it back toward the goal line.
The crowd around them watched raptly, but Chen Qianyuan noticed two figures in the passage between the two stands, looking their way. Everyone watching the match was standing or sitting, all facing the pitch, but these two stood turned sideways, gesturing and pointing.
The attacking player turned and took a long shot; the Lusitanos goalkeeper caught it and was about to throw it out to a defender, but the ball slipped from his hands—right in front of the goal, a Chi Nan forward, seizing the moment, kicked it home into the back of the net. The crowd erupted in wild cheering. Chen Qianyuan tugged at Dong Huiwen, and the two of them slipped quietly away amid the commotion.
Dong Huiwen lived in Juyuan Fang, by the Zheng Family Wooden Bridge. Her father was a renowned Huaiyang cuisine chef, who had built his entire fortune with his own two hands, wielding wok and cleaver. Chef Dong, in his day, had made his name overnight with an unassuming dish—braised whole pig’s head—at the annual Yangzhou South Gate Restaurant Trade Guild banquet. At the time, several hundred restaurant owners and chefs from within the city of Yangzhou had gathered for the occasion; even Huaiyang-style restaurants in Beiping and Shanghai had sent representatives to witness it.
That very night, gifts and formal invitations arrived, inviting him to come take charge of a kitchen. Several bankers in Shanghai, imitating the ways of the foreign merchants in the concession, had set up their own private bankers’ social club. Besides cards and conversation, a fine kitchen was an absolute necessity.
Chef Dong hadn’t married and had his daughter until he was forty; unfortunately his wife contracted puerperal fever and died two days after giving birth. Chef Dong raised his daughter alone. By the time Dong Huiwen had graduated and become a teacher, he himself, past sixty, retired from work. Though retired, he’d trained a couple of apprentices in the kitchen, but there were still a few elder statesmen in political and business circles who remembered his cooking—come holidays, or whenever some occasion called for a banquet, they would still invite him out to take charge. Tomorrow was the Lantern Festival; the Cheng family on Hart Road had sent word last month to fix the date. Though the Cheng family had failed in a recent speculative venture and gone under, they still meant to keep up appearances, and planned to invite friends from every direction on the fifteenth of the first month. Chef Dong hadn’t the heart to refuse.
So he’d had Dong Huiwen invite Chen Qianyuan to the house for dinner, arranged for the fourteenth—tonight.
On the wall hung a photograph of Dong Huiwen’s late mother; a round table stood in the middle of the room, with three chairs set for guest and hosts alike. On the table sat several small dishes—fried shrimp, bamboo shoot tips, duck gizzard, ham, drunken fish, plus a plate of mixed pickled vegetables. The stir-fried pickles held shredded mushroom, wood ear, bamboo shoot, dried tofu, celery, and bean sprouts—a dozen ingredients or more, all cut into fine strips and dressed with sesame oil. In the middle of the table sat a pot of warmed Shaoxing wine, though Chef Dong himself was still back in the kitchen.
Chen Qianyuan and Dong Huiwen had gone out the day before to buy a fur hat and a scarf, boxed them up, meaning to present them to Chef Dong today. Dong Huiwen carried the box to the back, went into the kitchen, and came back out to announce the menu: “Today Chef Dong is treating you to the Three Heads Banquet.”
No sooner had she finished speaking than Chef Dong himself made his grand entrance. Having been working in the kitchen, he wore only a black satin short jacket, matching dark trousers tucked in at the ankle, and, since it was cold, a sheepskin vest over the top; on his head sat a brand-new sable fur hat, tilted at an angle, and around his shoulders hung a camel-wool scarf, half draped in front and half hanging behind—longer in front, shorter behind, threatening to slip off entirely, but Chef Dong had no hand free to fix it. In both hands he carried a large platter, on which sat a jujube-red pig’s head, its face lifelike and full of character. The head had been deboned and plucked clean, scalded three times, then slow-braised for hours over a low flame in a large iron pot lined with bamboo strips, topped with scallion and ginger, seasoned with rock sugar and soy sauce. Though plated whole, the dish yielded five distinct textures: soft eyeballs, crisp ears, tender tongue, moist cheek meat, and chewy snout.
The next course was pulled and braised silver carp head. Before New Year, Chef Dong’s apprentice had made a trip back to Yangzhou and brought back several silver carp from the mouth of the Sanjiang River; Chef Dong had kept them alive in a vat, waiting for just this occasion to entertain guests. The fish head, deboned, was placed in a woven mesh net and braised with ham and bamboo shoot slices into a rich, thick soup, served in a bowl with the two gill flaps opened out like blossoming petals.
Last came a clay pot holding four fist-sized lion’s head meatballs. Since not even a single hairy crab could be found this time of year, Chef Dong had substituted catfish, mincing the flesh together with pork belly, shaping it loosely by hand into balls, placing each one into the clay pot, and simmering it slowly over a low flame.
Ordinarily his daughter, with her utter lack of deference, kept Chef Dong thoroughly under her thumb, but tonight he put on his airs. Without ceremony, he ordered Chen Qianyuan to go kowtow to Dong Huiwen’s late mother. Before the photograph stood an offering table, laden with two bowls of dishes, a plate of eight-treasure rice pudding, and a plate of date cake. On the blue-brick floor, Chen Qianyuan knelt respectfully and completed three full kowtows; from that moment, Chef Dong treated him as one of his own family.
It was only after Dong Huiwen was taken into the Longhua detention center that Chef Dong realized his own household now had a Communist in it too—even seven or eight years ago, during the period of Nationalist-Communist cooperation, he’d only ever known of them from the papers. Though what filtered through to the kitchen from newspapers or from banquet gossip had left him with only a hazy impression of the Communists, the fact that his own daughter had joined them had given him a strange, quiet fondness for them nonetheless.
He had no intention of showing what he felt in his heart. During the days his daughter was held at Longhua, he’d even gone to find Mr. Chen at the bankers’ club, knowing Mr. Chen had many connections in Nanjing. But Mr. Chen had told him: Old Dong, there’s nothing I can do about this one. Chef Dong had hoped he might find some reasonable way to let the two young people know his own wishes—that he hoped they would marry soon, have children. But he couldn’t quite find the words for it; he only knew that if even Mr. Chen wouldn’t help, the odds couldn’t be good.
After a couple of cups of Shaoxing wine, Chef Dong asked, as if in passing: “During those days when Xiao Wen was at Longhua, were you with her?”
Chen Qianyuan answered yes, though the men’s and women’s cells hadn’t actually been together. This left Chef Dong unable to continue the thread, and the table fell silent for a moment.
Dong Huiwen looked up at her father. “They arrested the wrong person.”
Oh, Chef Dong nodded. He didn’t believe his daughter’s account—ordinary people couldn’t get anywhere near the Communists even if they wanted to; if they’d arrested Xiao Wen, she must have had some connection to them at least. But today was a good day, best to keep things cheerful. He asked Chen Qianyuan instead: “Are you two schoolmates?”
He asked Chen Qianyuan everything today, every question directed at him. He was doing it on purpose.
“Of course we’re not schoolmates. He’s three years older than me.”
“Then how did you two meet?” he asked Chen Qianyuan again.
“At the theater office.” Chen Qianyuan said, smiling as he glanced at Dong Huiwen.
“Some office, more like a cat’s den,” Dong Huiwen said, turning to her father. “He was reading a book on a wooden crate.”
“No wonder there was a cat outside, banging desperately at the door.”
“You’re the cat—a wild, foul-tempered little cat.”
Chef Dong, of course, knew perfectly well the two of them were deliberately teasing each other, trying to draw his attention elsewhere. He used his chopsticks to pick apart the pig’s ears, giving one piece to Qianyuan and one to Xiao Wen. He hoped that once they’d eaten the well-braised pig’s ears, soft down to the root, they might be more inclined to listen to some advice.
He raised his wine cup, meaning to drink a toast with Qianyuan—
Chen Qianyuan rose to his feet, cup in hand—he felt he really ought to toast the old man; perhaps there would never be another chance like this.
Just then, the door burst open. It sounded as though a great many people had entered the corridor by the kitchen; the three of them, cups and chopsticks still in hand, turned to look toward the door.
It was You Tianxiao, with four or five men from the detective squad in tow.
He swaggered in and stopped squarely in front of the parlor, his eyes sweeping over the people before him. “You two really can run. My men were about to move in at the football match, and in the blink of an eye you’d already made it here. Finished eating? Drink up that cup, and come take a little walk with us.”
Chef Dong started to rise, but two agents pressed down on his shoulders. You Tianxiao said to him: “Chef Dong, master chef. Our Section Chief Mu has eaten your cooking before too—couldn’t stop praising your pig’s head.”
He glanced at the table, reached out and grabbed a piece—the snout—and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he spoke: “No need to go looking everywhere else either. All the knives, big and small, on your cutting board have already been collected by us.”