Don’t Cry, Tai Lake

“I’ll buy something for her on the way.”

THREE
    THEY WALKED ON WITHOUT immediately beginning to talk. A light breeze stirred the tops of the trees with a rustle like a sigh, which hung in the air before falling back into silence.
    Shanshan was surprised, but then not too surprised, by Chen’s offer to walk with her to the ferry. Was the man interested in a vacation fling? She was in no mood for it. Still, it would have been impolite for her to refuse, particularly after having spoiled his appetite for the fish.
    “Thank you in advance,” he said, “for a different, non-tourist introduction to Tai Lake.”
    “Well, you’ll see the lake for yourself. But you seem to have developed a passion for Uncle Wang’s place.”
    “The center is close by. I’ve got nothing to do there, so I wandered along a trail and ended up at his place this morning.” He added, “But I didn’t think about the possibility of seeing you there.”
    Smiling, she chose not to respond. It was unusual for someone staying at the center to visit the same grubby place a second time, just to sit and read for a couple of hours. She didn’t think he had really been waiting for her there, but a tourist could be lonely, no matter how fantastic the center might be. She’d never stepped into it, but she’d heard about the luxurious treatment there.
    “My parents took me to Wuxi when I was a child,” he went on, “but it was many years ago. I barely remember anything except the Wuxi soup buns my mother brought back home—standing all the way in an overcrowded train, carrying a small bamboo basket of them. I’m going to bring a basket back for her, if I can find the old restaurant where she bought them. Indeed, Who says that the splendor / of a grass blade can prove / to be enough to return / the generous warmth / of the ever-returning spring sunlight ?”
    “The city has changed a lot,” she said, unexpectedly touched by the way he talked about his mother. What about her own parents? They would be worried sick if they learned what happened at the company. “I hope you find the restaurant you’re looking for, but many restaurants and stores sell Wuxi soup buns. You might even find them at the railway station. But I’ve been here three or four years, so I am not sure. I came here after I was assigned to work at the plant after I graduated from Nanjing University.”
    “So you majored in environmental protection.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re lucky to get a job in the field you studied.”
    “What about you? You majored in English, I assume.”
    “Well, yes, but I wanted to write and translate.”
    There seemed to be a glitch in his voice, she noted, as they turned onto a quieter path that led to the lake.
    “But weren’t you writing something at the eatery?”
    “Oh that, just some random thoughts about the construction and deconstruction of one’s identity in others’ interpretations.”
    “That’s too abstract for me. Can you give a concrete example?”
    “For example, to Uncle Wang, I’m probably nothing but a gourmet customer, ready to indulge in a large platter of fried white fish. It is a convention in Chinese literature to depict a man of letters traveling to enjoy the local delicacies, as in the writings of Yuan Mu, Lu Xun, Yu Pingbo—”
    “But you are a man of letters, aren’t you?” she said. “So in your interpretation, we live only in others’ interpretations.”
    “Well done. You put it succinctly.”
    Normally, she would have been intrigued by his conversation, but she was disturbed by what had happened at the company. Still, she couldn’t help taking another look at him—possibly in his mid-thirties, tall, austerely good-looking, dressed in a beige jacket, white shirt, and khaki pants. Nothing conspicuous, yet with an air of prosperous distinction that fit well with his clothes. Slightly bookish, well read, poetry-quoting in his conversation, and well connected too, considering his stay at the center. But he wasn’t one of those upstarts, who wouldn’t have revisted Uncle Wang’s place.
    “By the way, have you received any more phone calls like the one yesterday?” he said abruptly, with genuine concern on his face.
    “No, not today,” she said. It was strange. She’d been getting the sinister messages for the past two weeks. Every day, around the same time. But not today. Could it have something to do with the death of Liu Deming, the general manager of the chemical company?
    The police