A Loyal Character Dancer

directions.”
     
    “I’ll try.” Wen spoke to him for the first time. “Sorry for this trouble.”
     
    Catherine tried to comfort her from the backseat. “This is not your fault.”
     
    Consulting Wen and the map, Chen was able to find the right road. “Now the map is serving a purpose Detective Yu did not expect.”
     
    “I’ve only spoken to Detective Yu on the phone.” Catherine said. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
     
    “He must be on his way back to Shanghai already. You will meet him there. Both Yu and his wife Peiqin are wonderful people. She is also a marvelous cook.”
     
    “She must be some cook to earn a compliment from a gourmet like you.”
     
    “We may go to his home for a genuine Chinese meal,” he said. “My place is too messy.”
     
    “I will look forward to it.”
     
    They chose not to talk about work with Wen sitting in the car, clasping her hands over her belly.
     
    It was a long drive. He stopped only once at a village market, where he bought a bag of lichee.
     
    “Good nutrition. Now you have this fruit in big cities, too. It’s shipped by air,” he said, “but still it’s not as good as in the countryside.”
     
    “It tastes wonderful,” Catherine said, nibbling at a transparent white lichee.
     
    “Freshness makes all the difference,” he said, peeling one for himself.
     
    Before they finished half of the lichee in the paper bag, Changle Village came into view. For the first time he noticed a change in Wen. She rubbed her eyes, as if dust had blown into them.
     
    Inside the village, the road became a lane, wide enough only for a light tractor. “Do you have a lot to pack, Wen?”
     
    “No, not a lot.”
     
    “Then let’s park here.”
     
    So they got out of the car. Wen led the way.
     
    It was nearly one o’clock. Most of the villagers were at home having lunch. Several white geese sauntered about near a rain water puddle, stretching out their necks at the strangers. A woman carrying a basket of deep green shepherd’s purse recognized Wen, but she scurried away at the sight of the strangers walking behind her.
     
    Wen’s house was located in a cul de sac, next to a dilapidated, abandoned barn. Chen’s first impression was that the house was a good size. There was a front yard as well as a back one on a steep slope over a creek overgrown with nameless bushes. But its cracked walls, unpainted door, and boarded-up windows made it an eyesore.
     
    They entered the front room. What impressed Chen there was a large, discolored portrait of Chairman Mao hung on the wall above a decrepit wooden table. Flanking the portrait were two strips of dog-eared red paper slogans declaring, despite the change of times: “Listen to Chairman Mao!” “Follow the Communist Party.”
     
    There was a spider resting contentedly, like another mole, on Mao’s chin.
     
    The expression flashing across Wen’s face was unreadable. Instead of beginning to pack, she stood staring at the portrait of Mao, her lips trembling, as if murmuring a pledge to him— like a loyal Red Guard.
     
    Several packages with Chinese or English labels were stored in a bucket under the table. Wen picked up a tiny package and put it in her purse.
     
    “Are those for the precision parts, Wen?” he asked.
     
    “It’s the abrasive. I want to take one with me as a reminder of my life here. As a souvenir.”
     
    “A souvenir,” Chen echoed. The emerald snail climbing up the wall in Liu’s poem. He, too, picked up a package whose label bore a heavy cross over a schematic drawing of fire. There was something odd in the way Wen offered her explanation. What was there here she would like to be reminded of? But he decided not to touch on the topic of her life in the village. He did not want to reopen her wounds.
     
    The living room led into a dining room, from which Wen headed into another through a bamboo-bead curtain hung in the doorway. Catherine followed her. Chen saw Wen taking out some child’s clothes. There was nothing he could do to help there. So he crossed to a walled back courtyard. Originally, the back door must have opened out onto the slope, but it had been boarded up.
     
    He walked around to the front courtyard. The rattan chair by the door was broken, dust-covered. It seemed to be telling a tale of its owner’s indifference. He also saw empty bottles in bamboo baskets, mostly beer bottles, providing a footnote to the general desolation.
     
    Outside, an old