A Case of Two Cities

be in such high spirits, he would probably keep talking all the way.
     
    “Well, if that’s not too much trouble for you.”
     
    “No trouble. It’s not just for you, but for China too. I’ve got my citizenship here, but China is still my home country,” Tian said excitedly. “Let me tell you something. Last year, I watched the soccer game between the U.S. and China on TV. To the annoyance of my American neighbors, I cheered the Chinese team all the time.”
     
    “Yes, I understand.”
     
    “So that’s it. We’ll go to Roland Height, but a little later on: it’ll be better in the evening. Come to my home first.”
     
    So they arrived at Tian’s house, which was located in a new subdivision. A new red brick house with a back garden. Not large, but nice. According to Tian, it was worth more than a million in the area.
     
    Mimi, Tian’s new wife, wearing a pink T-shirt and white shorts, barefoot, soared out like a butterfly. She was about twenty years younger than Tian, handsome, tall, moving softly with a suggestion of voluptuousness. Tian had met her during one of his trips to China, and brought her here by having married her there, about ten days after their first meeting. The marriage was also seen as part of his success story.
     
    “Old Tian has told me so much about you, Chen,” she said sweetly. “You look so young.”
     
    In spite of Chen’s protest, the Tians started to prepare a barbeque reception in the backyard, which boasted a swimming pool, and a white pavilion in enjoyable relief against the green foliage. Soon, the ribs sizzled deliciously over the antique grill made of an old-fashioned tank. They sat close to a corner overgrown with weeds. Cicadas started chirping, distantly, different from those heard in Beijing. Against the rugged mountain lines, the afternoon sun on the back of a wild goose seemed to be still coloring a corner of the sky.
     
    They did not resume their talk about Xing immediately. Mimi kept coming to them with drinks and snacks in her hands, an amiable, competent hostess, walking light-footed over the green grass. She finished a Qingdao beer with them before she went back into the living room for her favorite TV program.
     
    “By the wine urn, the girl is like the moon, / her white wrists like frost, like snow,” Chen quoted a couplet in a moment of impulse. He immediately regretted it. It was out of place.
     
    “I first met her in a bar in a Qingdao hotel. She worked there—a Budweiser girl,” he said, brushing the sauce on the slightly burnt ribs. “So your guess is close. Except there’s no wine urn there, but a beer barrel.”
     
    “She’s so pretty. I could not help quoting.”
     
    “Except that we are no longer so young,” Tian said, in a reference to the ending of that celebrated poem too: Still young, I am not going back home, / or I’ll have a broken heart. Heaving a long sigh, Tian took off his toupee. His bald skull shone in the afternoon sunlight, like a boiled egg.
     
    “Tell me more about Roland Height,” Chen said, changing the subject again.
     
    “Well, it is an open secret. The area has embraced a recent influx of extraordinarily wealthy Chinese. A new breed of immigrants, small in number, but conspicuous as hell. They buy million-dollar houses and pay all in cash. So many Chinese officials in charge of government or state-owned business money have disappeared, only to resurface here with their families in tow, with the missing money channeled into their personal bank accounts.”
     
    “Yes, the capital flight amounted to several billions over the last two years, a large part of it embezzled by officials on the run.”
     
    “We’d better leave now,” Tian said, looking up. “It’s getting dark.”
     
    Chen called the hotel and spoke to Bao. “There’s no special activity for the rest of the day, so I think I’ll stay on with Tian. You’ll have to take care of the political study in the evening.”
     
    “I’ll take care of everything,” Bao said.
     
    Chen and Tian set out around five-thirty. Mimi accompanied them out to the car. “Come back, Mr. Chen. I’ll make you a seafood dinner, Qingdao style.”
     
    The traffic in L.A. was crazy, cars speeding recklessly like headless flies. Tian, too, drove fast, but he kept talking, as if still sitting at leisure in his own backyard. A sign for Roland Height soon came into sight.
     
    Tian must have been a regular visitor to the high-class subdivision. There