A Case of Two Cities

break. You have a Chinese department here, haven’t you? That’s a matter of cultural hegemony.”
     
    The conference atmosphere became tense. Bao might have been used to those political phrases, but the Americans were not. The discussion appeared to be going out of control. Chen had been aware of an anti-American undercurrent among his group but he wasn’t prepared for this sudden shift.
     
    Fortunately, the time for the cocktail party came. Their argument stopped as abruptly as it had started. Amidst the toasts, once again the writers were shaking hands and expressing their best wishes. Shasha plucked from her hair a fresh white jasmine petal and put it into a cup of tea, to the delighted surprise of Americans who surrounded her.
     
    * * * *
     

14
     
     
    T
    HE TROUBLES WERE NOT confined to the conference hall.
     
    Afterward, in the evening “political study” in his room, Chen listened patiently as his delegation vented their frustrations.
     
    “No thermos bottle in the hotel room,” Bao started the angry chorus on a small note. “I cannot even have a cup of hot tea.”
     
    “Nonsmoking area,” Zhong joined in. “Is this a free country? Nothing but hypocrisy. The Americans dump their cigarettes in China. They rip us off in a big way. Now we are not allowed to smoke the cigarettes bought with American dollars.”
     
    “It’s not just us. Everyone in the hotel has to obey the rule,” Chen said, though he felt constrained too.
     
    “It’s like the Opium War,” Zhong went on. “They knew opium was a drug, but they dumped it on China on the grounds of free trade.”
     
    “I talked to an American student today,” Little Huang said. “They believe that Hong Kong belongs to Britain, and that we do not even have the right to take it back. They know nothing about the Opium War. There is nothing in their textbooks.”
     
    “You know what?” Shasha said. She had changed her clothes again, and now in her pajamas, barefoot, she appeared at home. “Pearl told me that Pizza Hut is a cheap fast-food restaurant here. In Beijing, it is a high-end place. A pizza costs more than an ordinary Chinese worker’s daily income. That is capitalism.”
     
    In the end, the Chinese writers were aggravated by the Americans’ ignorance of their works. They had checked again in the late afternoon. Not a single translation of their works was available either in the bookstore or in the library.
     
    “We are guests here,” Chen said. “They have done a good job arranging this conference.”
     
    “We did a far better job in China,” Bao cut in again. He had attended an earlier conference held in Beijing, before 1989. He talked with an unquestionable air of authority. “The best hotel in Beijing. Their delegation head got the presidential suite.”
     
    Peng was the only one in the group that spoke little, sitting in a corner. Chen failed to recall what Peng had said in the meeting.
     
    Still, it was a lively political study, not so political as Chen had dreaded. Afterward, they talked about other things, without leaving his room immediately and not all at once. Shasha was the last one to stand up, just as Bao stepped out, but instead of leaving, she turned around again.
     
    “Oh, I need to discuss with you the issue I raised in the afternoon.”
     
    “Yes, you made a good point today.”
     
    He had no idea why she didn’t discuss it earlier, with others in the room. In fact, they had already touched on it, though not with serious concentration. It might not be a good idea for him to stay alone with her, so late in a hotel room. She was said to believe in her irresistible charm to men. But it wasn’t a good idea for him to show his misgivings, either. He’d better not make any of them feel uncomfortable in his presence.
     
    “Indeed, your writing is graceful as your dancing, Shasha,” he started on a casual note. “In my college years in Beijing, I saw your performance, in the Red Pagoda Theater.”
     
    “Really! You should have told me earlier.”
     
    “I was a poor student then, sitting at the end of the theater, worshipping the moonlike beauty rising on the stage.”
     
    “Come on, Chen. You don’t have to say that to me. No one can dance forever. Beauty fades quickly, like a flower. So I moved from stage to page.”
     
    It was clever of her. Now she had her words dancing in fairy tales. She was a best-seller whose books were being made into TV series.
     
    “But you have not come