The Mao Case

someone told me that she’s from a most well-known
     family, but she herself does not talk about it.”
    “A well-known family background indeed. Her grandmother was Shang, as you know, but Jiao may not know any more than that.”
    “That’s fascinating. How did she come to study painting with you?”
    “People are interested in my work because of the subject matter — the old mansions. Most of them have already disappeared except
     in the memory of a has-been like me, but they are suddenly fashionable again,” Xie said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Some
     students may come here to be trendy, but I believe Jiao is earnest.”
    “I’m no art critic, you know. Still, I think there’s something in her paintings, something she can call her own. Unique, though
     I don’t know how to define it,” Chen said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s still so young, and she has a long way to
     go. She’s almost a full-time student here, isn’t she? She must have a comfortable nest egg.”
    “I wonder about that too, but I’ve never asked her about it.”
    “Do you think her parents have left her a huge fortune?” Chen added. “I’m just curious.”
    “No, I don’t think so,” Xie said, looking up at him. “Considering the circumstances of her mother’s death, she couldn’t have
     left anything to
her. Besides, any valuables at her family’s home were taken away by the Red Guards.”
    “Such a tragedy for her family — her grandmother and mother.”
    “It’s depressing even to think about those years.”
    Xie was obviously not comfortable with the direction of their conversation. Chen switched topics. “People talk about the thirties
     and about the nineties, as if the history between the two periods had been wiped out like a coffee stain.”
    “You’re absolutely right,” Xie said, glancing at his watch. “Oh, it’s the time for the class to end. I have to move back in.”
    “Go ahead, Mr. Xie. I’ll stay in the garden for a while.”
    From where he was sitting, Chen shifted slightly, looking toward the living room window. Soon he saw the silhouette of Xie
     moving from one student to another, talking, pointing, gesturing. He could not hear anything across the lawn.
    He pulled out his phone and dialed Old Hunter. The call didn’t go through. But he noticed there was a missed call — from Yong
     in Beijing. He decided not to call her back. He knew it was about Ling.
    You said you would come — only in a dream, and gone without a trace, the moon slanting against the window at the fifth-night
     watch.
    Again, he found himself thinking of lines from Li Shangyin, his favorite Tang-dynasty poet. After translating a collection
     of classical Chinese love poetry, Chen was contemplating a selection from Li Shangyin, having already translated more than
     twenty of his poems. Chen imagined that someday he might be able to collect them. He had made a special study of Li’s poems
     in relation to Li’s love for and marriage with the daughter of the Tang prime minister. It was not an impersonal way of reading
     poetry, not the poetics that T. S. Eliot would have approved of.
    Then Chen saw a few students in the living room gathering their things. They were beginning to leave.
    Jiao seemed to be staying on, however, still adding touches to her work. There might also have been another student there,
     of whom Chen caught only a fleeting glimpse.

    Shortly afterward, Xie also left the room.
    Chen remained sitting, like a writer lost in reveries, when Jiao came out into the garden. She was still in her overalls,
     high-stepping barefoot among the tall grass, her legs long and elegant, moving like a dancer. Her face bore a radiant smile.
    “Hi. You are enjoying yourself in the garden, Mr. Chen?” she asked. “Xie has a headache. Let me keep you company.”
    “Oh, I wanted to absorb the atmosphere — for my book project, you know.”
    “Mr. Xie told me about your generous offer to help. We appreciate it,” she said, perching on the edge of the chair Xie had
     recently occupied.
    He wasn’t surprised that Xie had told her, but he was surprised that she had said “we.”
    “Oh, it’s nothing.”
    “Nothing to you, but everything to him.”
    Their talk was interrupted by the arrival of another girl, Yang.
    “Come with me tomorrow evening, Jiao. How can a young girl like you spend so much time in one ancient place? The world outside
     is young, exciting. They have a home theater, and a