A Case of Two Cities

you.”
     
    “Don’t expect everybody to be so knowledgeable about Eliot,” Catherine said. “Let me tell you something, Chen. Last year, I saw a movie called Tom and Viv. A choice made under your influence. As it turned out, I was the only one in the audience.”
     
    “Really! I’ve read about the movie. Too much of a feminist emphasis. Vivian might have been a poet in her own right, but praise of her shouldn’t come at his expense.”
     
    “I’m not going to argue with you about feminism this evening,” she said with a wistful smile. “That evening, I wished that you were sitting there with me. I didn’t understand some references in the movie, but I could figure out Vivian’s crush on him. So let us go—to the bookstore. Eliot always comes first for you.”
     
    “No, you know it’s not true,” he said, meeting her eyes, but she looked away. In the dusk, he was not so sure about the color of her eyes.
     
    The bookstore in question proved to be nice, one of the few independent bookstores that survived in the city, she explained. The manager was young but knowledgeable. “Oh, it’s not too far away. Eliot’s old home is a brownstone,” he said amiably, accompanying them to the door. “Go straight from here. Westminster Place. You won’t miss it.”
     
    Walking out of the store, Chen saw a café to its left, with white plastic tables and chairs set outside under colorful umbrellas. There were several people sitting there, talking at leisure, stirring memories or desires in their cups. It was like a scene he had read. Then it was juxtaposed with another he had seen. A picture she had given him at the end of their joint investigation in Shanghai. He turned to her.
     
    “Oh, remember the picture you gave me? The one of you sitting at a sidewalk café.”
     
    “That café is on Delmar,” she said. “My apartment is close.”
     
    “I would love to go there,” he said sincerely.
     
    The visit to Eliot’s home turned out to be a disappointment. It was one of the ordinary-looking old houses in a quiet, private neighborhood. The umber-colored front with the symmetrical black shutters gave the impression of an apartment building rather than a family house. Still, he climbed up the stone steps to the door, and she took a picture of him standing there, with a small historical-site sign behind him bearing the name of Henry Ware Eliot. He wondered whether it would be appropriate for him to knock at the door.
     
    She solved the problem by taking his hand in hers and leading him into a lane to the back garden. There was an ancient board saying, “I’m in the garden” on the garden door. She stood on tiptoes on a ridge, peeking over the tall fence. He followed her example, looking over her bare shoulder. He saw nothing there except a tree draped with green vines.
     
    A neighbor came out, saying the house was now owned by a well-to-do high-tech entrepreneur who was on vacation somewhere else.
     
    “The swallows, visitors / to the mansions of those noble families / in the bygone days, are flying / into the houses of ordinary people.”
     
    “You’re in a poetry-quoting mood again?” Catherine said.
     
    “I wonder whether this is Eliot’s house.”
     
    “I’m sure it is, but even if people welcomed you in, you wouldn’t see much inside after so many years.”
     
    “You are right.”
     
    They started heading back. They weren’t in a hurry to return to the hotel. The visit to Eliot’s home was an excuse, like all other excuses. They had things to discuss.
     
    “Let’s go to a café. We can sit and talk,” he said.
     
    So they walked to a café, which was larger than the one next to the bookstore. A performance might have been going on inside. The café window presented dancing music notes in neon lights. There were also chairs and tables outside, where an old man sat drowsing over an empty paper cup.
     
    She said, “Let’s sit outside.”
     
    He had an espresso, she had a glass of white wine.
     
    He knew they had to talk about their work. This was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. Still, he didn’t start immediately.
     
    But she said, “Tell me more about your investigation in China.” It was a simple, direct question. She had been thinking along the same line.
     
    She had to know what he’d been doing, he knew, and it was a risk he was going to take. After all, he had thrown in his lot with her—in another city, in another investigation. And here,