When Red is Black

Hou will keep you informed of the latest news of the lane. Indeed, you learn to share a lot of things with your neighbors.”
     
    “That sounds very nice,” Chen said. “Here, people may have experiences unavailable in modern apartment complexes.”
     
    “People do a lot of things in the lane,” Old Liang went on with unabated enthusiasm. “Men practice tai chi, brew the first pot of tea of the day, sing snatches of Beijing opera, and talk about the real weather or the political weather. As for women, washing and cooking and talking take place simultaneously. People here don’t have a living room like in those fancy new apartments. So in the evening, most of them move outside, men playing chess or cards, telling stories, women chatting or knitting or mending.”
     
    Chen was familiar with similar scenes from his childhood, even though he’d lived in a different lane. Whatever differences there might be, or whatever other new information he might learn, it was the time for him to call a halt to Old Liang’s speech.
     
    “Oh, do you hear that?” Liang went on. “A cotton-candy peddler is hawking his wares. A variety of peddlers come down the lane. They offer a huge selection of goods, and services too, repairing shoes, mending coir rope bedframes or restuffing or sewing cotton quilts for the winter. It is so convenient—”
     
    “Thank you so much, Comrade Old Liang. As the proverb says, A talk of yours benefits me more than ten years of study,” Chen said with sincerity. “I would really like to spend some more time talking with you when I have finished my project.”
     
    Old Liang finally understood that Chen wanted to be left alone, excused himself, saluted Chen respectfully one more time, and went back to his own office.
     
    Chen watched him walking down the lane, taking abrupt detours to avoid the laundry hanging on bamboo poles overhead. The clothing festooned on the network of poles seemed to present a scene from an Impressionist painting. Apparently, Old Liang still believed the old superstition that walking under women’s underwear would bring bad luck.
     
    Turning back, Chen tried the solid black wooden front door of the shikumen house. There were two brass knockers on the outside, and a solid wooden latch on the inside. After so many years of wear and tear, the door creaked when he pushed it open.
     
    There were several people in the courtyard. They must have seen him talking with Old Liang, and they went on with their own activities, making no effort to speak to the chief inspector. As he crossed the courtyard, he saw a row of tall hall screen doors with exquisite designs of the eight immortals sailing over the ocean embossed on the panels. In an elaborate sequence, each door narrated a particular scene. The doors might be a valuable addition to the folk art museum in the New World, Chen thought.
     
    As far as he could remember, he had never seen the hallway of a shikumen used for its original purpose, not even in his childhood. Without exception, a hall became common space in one way or another, since all the rooms along the wings opened into it. He smelled something like fermented tofu being fried in a wok, a favorite dish for some families in spite of its smell. It appealed to a lot of Shanghainese because of its exceptional flavor and texture. Most restaurants did not serve this dish because it was so cheap. That was a pity. There was also a faint smell, rich with a nostalgic aroma, of old hen soup with plenty of ginger and green onion.
     
    Chen could not help wondering about the possibility of turning a shikumen into a restaurant. It would be unique. In a book of Chinese culinary studies he had read, it was argued that the best cooking might be done at home by a highly cultivated hostess who could spend days preparing a feast full of inspiration, to be served in an elegant ambience. Such a shikumen restaurant would have a pleasant family atmosphere too. The wings would be used as the dining areas, the small rooms here and there as private rooms; the intimacy of being at home, not to mention the contrast between the present and the past, would greatly enhance the proposed theme of the New World.
     
    The courtyard, too, could be quite romantic in the evening, over a cup of wine or tea.
     
    Some fragmented lines of an ancient poem unexpectedly came to him.
     
    The moon appears like a hook.
    The lone parasol tree locks the clear autumn
    in the deep courtyard.
    What cannot be