A Case of Two Cities

restaurant, but we’ll have our privacy, and my chef will do his best.”
     
    “That sounds like a plan.’’
     
    Hong’s restaurant turned out to be a small one located close to the old Chinatown area. In spite of the red paper lanterns and golden plastic lions at the entrance, the restaurant did not have something like a private room. Instead, Hong treated his “distinguished guest” in a low-ceilinged office above the landing of the narrow staircase. The chef was none other than Hong’s brother-in-law, who served on the desk four cold dishes, cucumber in sesame sauce, sliced pig ears, smoked carp head, and pickled napo cabbage with plenty of red pepper. Hong also took out a bottle of Beijing Erguotou.
     
    “My wife brought it over years ago. The old wine of our Beijing. I have saved it for an occasion like tonight. To your health, Master!”
     
    “Thank you, Hong. It’s just like the old days,” Bao said, raising the cup.
     
    “Just homely dishes, far from enough to show my respect to you. The restaurant is not prepared for your honorable presence tonight,” Hong went on with a touch of bookishness, “which brightens the whole humble place.”
     
    “You don’t have to say that. These dishes are great. In Beijing, I have not had pickled cabbage for a long time. Why? It’s too cheap for restaurants to make profit.”
     
    “They should serve the working-class people.”
     
    “Chinese newspapers don’t talk about the working-class people anymore. The best customers are big bucks. Banquets of fifty or sixty courses. We don’t have to imitate those bourgeois apes.”
     
    “You are right. I have read about the so-called middle or bourgeois class in China. The world is turned upside down! Let’s talk about something else. To the success of your visit.”
     
    “Thank you. To your success too.”
     
    “By the way, who is Chen Cao? Never heard of him. What does he write?”
     
    “A modernist poet.”
     
    “Oh, one of the Misty poets no one can understand?”
     
    “Well, his poems are said to be not that misty,” Bao said, taking a sip at the wine, “but to be honest, I can hardly understand one single short poem out of his whole book.”
     
    “He looks quite young in his picture.”
     
    “In his mid-thirties.”
     
    “How can he serve as the head of the delegation?”
     
    “Yang fell sick, so Chen replaced him at the last minute. A decision made by some people high up there. Chen has published only one poetry collection.”
     
    “He must have connections at the top.”
     
    “That I don’t know,” Bao said gingerly. “He’s from Shanghai. I don’t think too many are familiar with his work.”
     
    “As Chairman Mao said, literature and art should serve the broad masses of workers, peasants, and soldiers. Only a handful of intellectuals would enjoy those obscure poems,” Hong went on, draining his wine in one gulp. “I came to know your work, ‘The Working-Class Are Strong-Backboned,’ I still remember, through a song in the radio. We the working-class are strong-backboned. / Following Chairman, we march forward, / With the country and the world in our heart, / We do not stop on the road of the revolution. / Holding the red flags high, we move on courageously. / We’re the locomotive of the new era. ‘ So clear, and so powerful. I memorized it, indeed—”
     
    “Let’s talk no more about it,” Bao said. “You know an old Chinese saying: An aged hero does not want to talk about his glorious past.”
     
    “Think about it. Chen must have studied your famous poems as a middle-school student.”
     
    “Well, because of the new cadre policy, people of his age with a higher education have been rocketing up.”
     
    “Does he work in the Writers’ Association?”
     
    “No, he’s a cop in Shanghai, but he’s a member of the association.”
     
    “Now that’s something. A cop. He could have some secret mission for this trip.”
     
    “Not that I know of,” Bao said vaguely, “but anything is possible with him.”
     
    The chef served on the table an earthen pot of fish soup. The soup was steaming hot, red with dried peppers and indescribable herb. Bao helped himself to a spoonful, which was so spicy that he felt as if there were thousands of ants crawling on his tongue. He had to take a gulp of cold water.
     
    “This is a world changed beyond our comprehension.” Hong smacked his lips, launching into another topic. “Don’t think life is easy