The movie showing at the Grand Theatre was already more than half over; the audience for the next showing hadn’t yet arrived, and outside the Grand only two or three lines of passersby hurried along in the cold wind. Half of the movie poster overhead had been blown loose by the wind and flapped and rattled in midair; the setting sun shone on Marlene Dietrich’s somewhat distorted face, and that famous blonde hair, having weathered the winter’s wind, rain, and dust, had gone dull and lusterless. Chen Qianli circled around the ticket booth and walked out through another door. He continued east a while, then turned left onto Park Road.

He thought it over carefully—there shouldn’t be anything unusual. Yesterday, he had put up a green slip of paper on a telephone pole outside a calligraphy and painting shop. The note was one Lao Fang had given him before he died. As soon as the shop owner opened up, he’d see the “person wanted” notice written on the slip, and at the appointed time go to the Carlton Theatre to make contact with whoever came. The shop had opened for business, and at night the light on the second floor was on too. Chen Qianli had watched the area for a long while—no one loitering idly at a street corner smoking, no cobbler with unpracticed hand gestures.

These past few days, the Italian opera troupe led by a man named Scarlatti (Shan Kaluo) had been performing Turandot at the Carlton. Beside the theater entrance, a huge Expressionist-style poster carried text in both Chinese and Italian: in Turandot’s homeland, the executioner is forever busy. That was a line from the opening chorus; he wondered what intent lay behind whoever had chosen to single out that particular line.

The owner of that calligraphy and painting shop was none other than Yi Junnian. Chen Qianli had watched him outside his shop carefully for two days, spotting Yi Junnian in his gray satin lined gown among the crowd at a glance.

Chen Qianli followed a small cluster of people forward, slowly closing in on Yi Junnian. He turned to one side, looking across the street at the Continental Bank building under construction, the winter dusk sun shining on the towering scaffolding: “An old-and-antiquities dealer, come to see Italian opera too?”

“It’s a Chinese story it’s telling, though.” Yi Junnian tilted his chin toward the poster—on it was a Chinese woman with a pointed chin, faintly Chinese-style palaces in the background. “You are—”

“Surname’s Chen.” Chen Qianli turned to look at him.

Yi Junnian slowly took out a cigarette case from his coat pocket, sizing up the newcomer under the pretext of offering a cigarette. When the man had come along with the flow of the crowd, he’d barely been noticeable, but now that he stood right in front of him, he looked like a figure who’d stepped straight out of a film. Chen Qianli waved his hand, and Yi Junnian took out a Craven “A” cigarette for himself and lit it. “Mr. Chen, you’re not a local, are you?”

“From Xinjing. Someone’s entrusted me to find some good pieces. I hear that a lot of things from Beiping have made their way to Shanghai lately—does Mr. Yi have any connections?”

Chen Qianli’s overcoat—bought secondhand from a shop in Vladivostok, lambskin lining, fox fur collar—announced at a glance that he’d come from somewhere bitterly cold. Ever since he’d disembarked, he had, through his words, been suggesting he was an antiques dealer with some mysterious connections to Japanese merchants adventuring on the mainland.

“Even the government is planning to move the cultural relics from Beiping down to Nanjing—never mind private citizens.” Yi Junnian picked up on Chen Qianli’s topic. Because the Japanese army was stirring along the Great Wall line, it was said the National Government was preparing to select a batch of items from the Forbidden City’s collection in Beiping and send them to Nanjing. The newspapers had been buzzing about this for days.

The wind blew in from the direction of the open racecourse, scattering fallen plane-tree leaves everywhere. Yi Junnian tossed away his half-smoked cigarette and rubbed his hands together. The two men, one after the other, seemingly by pure coincidence, walked together toward the racecourse.

At the railing on the outer edge of the racecourse, pedestrians grew sparse, and they stopped. Horse races mostly took place in spring and autumn, when the track railings would be crowded with gamblers and tabloid reporters, everyone scrambling to hear and spread all kinds of true and false news. On ordinary days, jockeys and grooms would sometimes lead horses around the track a few laps to show them off in front of everyone, making them appear either full of spirit or listless, in order to manipulate the odds. But right now, under the gathering dusk over the racecourse, only a few foreign children were fighting over a ball.

“What is Mr. Chen interested in? I only understand a bit of calligraphy and painting.”

“Then I’ve found the right person.”

The ball kicked into the air and landed back on the gravel track, startling a few sparrows. Chen Qianli said quietly: “My only worry is buying a fake.”

“Buying fakes—that happens all the time. In Shanghai, even a great collector like Mr. Jin isn’t immune to being fooled.”

A racehorse suddenly appeared alone by the railing, a striped blanket over its back, the groom trailing far behind, occasionally calling out. One horse and one man circled the track alone, forlornly.

“I’d love to hear the details—” In the bleak cold wind of a winter dusk, listening to a somewhat comical story seemed to genuinely interest Chen Qianli.

“Mr. Jin loves the Four Masters of the Ming most of all—dreams of owning a ‘Qiu Ying’ even in his sleep. Everyone in the calligraphy and painting trade knows this.”

Yi Junnian lit another cigarette, staring at the group of small boys now climbing back over the railing, heading home. “So one day, a ‘Qiu Ying’ came knocking at his door on its own. The visitor said he had a small painting by Qiu Ying in hand. Mr. Jin was overjoyed, set a date for him to bring it over to look at, and even specially invited a connoisseur from Shanghai’s calligraphy and painting circles to come appraise it together that day.

“When the day came, this man did indeed bring a ‘Qiu Ying’ to the door. The connoisseur they’d invited examined it carefully for quite a while, then said, this painting is a fake—”

Yi Junnian paused, took a drag of his cigarette.

“Since it was fake, naturally someone of Mr. Jin’s status wouldn’t take it. Mr. Jin didn’t say much more, exchanged some pleasantries, and saw the man politely to the door. The connoisseur also declined the evening banquet and left at the same time.

“Mr. Jin found it a little odd, and on a hunch had a servant follow them out—and sure enough, saw this connoisseur outside on the street, blocking the visitor’s way, insisting on buying the painting no matter what. The servant came back and reported to Mr. Jin, and Mr. Jin flew into a rage—this was practically daylight robbery. The next day, Mr. Jin had someone pass word to that connoisseur: either sell it to Mr. Jin, and he’d pay double, or keep that ‘Qiu Ying’ for himself and never think of setting foot in Shanghai again.”

“That painting was fake.” Chen Qianli said.

“Exactly.” Yi Junnian tossed away his cigarette butt. “The connoisseur had painted it himself.”

Chen Qianli suddenly burst out laughing: “It’s a good story, but it sounds like it was lifted straight out of A Treasury of Laughs.”

He took out a Guangyi Book Company edition of A Treasury of Laughs from inside his coat and handed it to Yi Junnian. Yi Junnian took it and opened it—tucked inside was half of a Grand Champagne racetrack lottery ticket.

“This round of the Grand Champagne is offering a first prize of two hundred thousand.” Yi Junnian said, reaching into his own coat as he spoke. “More and more people are betting on the horses—the more depressed the market gets, the livelier the racecourse becomes.” He pulled out half a racing ticket, printed with the words “One dollar of national currency donated to charity.” He put the two halves together, making a complete ticket.

Yi Junnian no longer needed to feign indifference; he reached, somewhat excitedly, to grasp Chen Qianli’s hand. He had just gone through arrest and interrogation, and after his release had heard that Lao Fang had died—he’d been worried the whole time that he’d lost contact with the organization for good.

Chen Qianli did not take the hand extended toward him, only smiled at the man.

“My name is Chen Qianli,” he said.

Hearing this name, Yi Junnian froze for a moment.

“Comrade Chen Qianli,” he said, restraining his emotions, though his tone still carried some grief and indignation, “Lao Fang is dead.”

The sky had darkened, and the streetlamps were coming on one by one. Chen Qianli watched Yi Junnian closely: “Where did you hear this?”

“We have inside intelligence within the constabulary. They found Lao Fang at his son’s barbershop. Lao Fang’s son was arrested too—the enemy tortured him severely, wanting to know who Lao Fang had gone there to meet. Was it you?”

“Lao Fang made contact with me near the wharf. There was nothing wrong when he left.” Chen Qianli didn’t have any clear judgment yet, but he’d decided some things needed to be observed for a while before drawing conclusions.

“By rights, you two shouldn’t be rushing to contact you so soon after you were just released,” Chen Qianli said quite bluntly, “but I need to find ‘Lao Kai.'”

Yi Junnian lit another cigarette, his face alternating between light and shadow. Chen Qianli felt he couldn’t quite make out the man’s expression.

Yi Junnian sighed softly, knowing Chen Qianli’s words were correct, though he badly wanted to earn the man’s trust right away—he wanted to start working again immediately.

“‘Lao Kai’—that’s the comrade sent by the higher-ups to convey the mission?”

“Where is he now?”

“He never had a chance to reveal his identity before the enemy burst in. We went into the rooms one after another, each of us placing a gaming tile on the table. If all twelve of us had arrived, the person presiding over the meeting was supposed to produce a pair of dice, to prove he was the comrade sent by the higher-ups to assign the task. But right then, we heard gunfire, then someone jumped from a window, everyone scattered in an emergency, but both exits were blocked, so we could only go back to the rooms. In the chaos I saw that pair of dice had already been placed on the table, which meant he had arrived. I realized we were about to be arrested—he was the only one who knew the meeting’s secret, and he couldn’t be allowed to be discovered by the enemy. The situation was too urgent—I didn’t think it through, I just quietly slipped the dice into my own pocket.”

Chen Qianli considered this, then asked: “Do you think the enemy knows that ‘Lao Kai’ was among these people?”

“I’d guess the enemy probably doesn’t know this code name—no one ever mentioned it. Lao Fang didn’t say it when he notified everyone either.”

“Can you recall the interrogation process?”

Had they been standing here too long? Chen Qianli turned, leaning his back against the railing. The sky had gone almost fully dark; in the distance, under the streetlamps, one or two pedestrians occasionally appeared. The main road had recently had neon lights installed, outlining the silhouettes of one or two buildings against the night. If someone saw them standing here talking this long, would it seem strange? He wondered.

“The second day after we were sent to Longhua, the interrogations started early in the morning. Mine was later—not until the afternoon. Someone heard that the women’s cell was also brought in for questioning in the morning. Later I heard from Comrade Ling Wen that they questioned little Dong first—that’s Dong Huiwen—”

“Was there a channel of communication among you in prison?”

“No, not really—the women’s cell was too far away. It was after we got out—after release, I met with Ling Wen.”

What is he dodging? Chen Qianli thought—in the darkness he sensed the other man smile with a hint of awkwardness, then continue: “She was released in the morning. Knowing that we’d all be released that day, she hired two rickshaws—had one wait empty outside the gate of the Garrison Command where prisoners were released for me, while she sat in the other one, watching from a distance. We all made contact—the six of us had agreed, upon release, to stay in touch with each other, and whoever found the organization first would notify the rest. Ling Wen and I had worked together from the start—she’s my downline. Our group handles intelligence specifically; she’s internal staff and liaison, loyal and reliable. Her husband was killed some years back. I trust her.

“Sometimes they’d bring one out, then bring another out a while later; occasionally two or three would be brought out together. The one taken out first wouldn’t necessarily be the one to come back first. The interrogations weren’t all held in the same place. Each time we returned to the cell, we’d try our best to recall everything, so we could warn the other comrades of anything to be wary of.

“I myself was brought out for questioning twice. The head of the military tribunal’s detective squad, You Tianxiao, came both times—just for a short while each time, not long, must have been running back and forth between several interrogation rooms. You Tianxiao didn’t believe a word of the excuse we’d prepared beforehand—he was quite certain we weren’t gambling. How could a group of people who didn’t even know each other end up gathered together—he kept pressing on that point. I think he guessed we had some special mission, figured there must be someone assigned to convey it. The second time I was interrogated, he brought up the dice—asked who had produced the dice.”

“You’re saying that at the second interrogation, he already knew about the dice? So—did someone leak this secret during interrogation?”

Yi Junnian thought about it carefully. “I don’t think so. When You Tianxiao led his men bursting into the meeting site, he himself produced a pair of dice and put them on the table, putting on an act as if he already knew everything.”

“If that’s the case—” Chen Qianli seemed to be thinking hard, choosing his words carefully, “you suspect the organization has been infiltrated from within?”

“I believe—” Yi Junnian said, seeming to voice a thought he’d been mulling over for a long while, with difficulty, “the organization very likely has an insider.”

Chen Qianli shook his head, as if deciding to set this thought aside for now. “I need to make contact with Comrade ‘Lao Kai.'”

“The higher-ups didn’t even tell you what the mission actually is?”

Chen Qianli didn’t answer, but instead turned the question around on Yi Junnian: “After you were released, what method did you all agree on for contacting each other?”

Yi Junnian told him everyone’s contact methods. He noticed that this comrade had a particularly good memory—each address and contact method, he only mentioned once, and the man never asked again.

As the two parted, Chen Qianli turned back once more and asked Yi Junnian: “That Wei Dafu—is he the comrade specifically responsible for arranging safe housing?”

“The organization arranged for him to work at a housing rental agency. Whenever a secret contact point or safe house needs setting up, he can arrange it quickly—even on short notice, it’s no problem for him. He also has some very reliable guarantors on hand.”

Yi Junnian rolled up A Treasury of Laughs and clutched it in his hand, hesitating a moment before adding: “But ever since the market meeting was destroyed by the enemy, and some of our comrades were arrested and imprisoned, his morale has been rather low.”

“Then I’ll take this chance to observe him a while.” Chen Qianli took off his hat and scratched his hair. Yi Junnian glanced at him: “Right, the New Year is coming—I should get a haircut too.”

Chen Qianli’s silhouette quickly vanished into the dark night. Yi Junnian pulled his hat down, tightened his coat, and walked with his hands behind his back toward the intersection of Racecourse Road. Crossing the street, he casually tossed A Treasury of Laughs into a passing garbage cart; the mule pulling it plodded along, head lowered, oblivious.

Yi Junnian stopped in front of the Marsh Building and lit another cigarette. In the cold wind, pedestrians walked slowly, as if in no hurry to get home. Only after he’d finished the cigarette and ground out the butt under his shoe did he turn along the dark red brick wall and head into the alley.