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countryside.
     
    The movement was discontinued, if not denounced, toward the end of the seventies, and they had come back to the city. Peiqin was assigned a job in Sihai Restaurant by the Office of Educated Youths. His father, Old Hunter, arranged to retire early so Yu could take his place as a cop in the Shanghai Police bureau. They got married. One year after the birth of their son Qinqin, their lives had slipped into a smooth yet ordinary routine—quite different from what they had dreamed of in Yunnan. A restaurant accountant, working in an oven of a tingzhijian cubicle over the kitchen, Peiqin’s only indulgence was to read The Dream of the Red Chamber, which she did over and over during her half-hour lunch break. A low-level cop, Yu came to the realization that he would probably remain one. Still, he thought there was not much for him to complain about—Peiqin was a marvelous wife, and Qinqin was growing up to be a wonderful son.
     
    He wondered why Wen had not returned to Shanghai like so many others. Many educated youths who had married got divorced so they could return home. In those years of absurdities, one had to do even more absurd things to survive. It would be difficult for people to comprehend nowadays, even for Chief Inspector Chen who, though only a few years younger, had not been to the countryside.
     
    “Attention, it is the time for the night meal. Passengers who want to have a night snack please go to compartment six.” A husky-voiced woman started reading an announcement over the train loudspeaker. “For tonight, there are fried rice cakes with pork, dumplings with Qicai stuffing, and noodles with mushrooms. We also serve beer and wine.”
     
    He took out a package of instant noodles, poured water from the train thermos bottle into an enamel cup, and soaked the noodles in it. The water was not hot enough. It took several minutes for the noodles to soften. He also had a smoked carp head in a plastic bag. which Peiqin had prepared for him. But Detective Yu’s mood did not improve. This assignment was practically a joke. It was as if the Shanghai police were going to try to cook in the kitchen of the Fujian police bureau. How could a Shanghai cop, single-handed, make a difference when the Fujian police had failed? Their having been given command of the Wen investigation did not make sense unless it was simply a show for the Americans. He poked the staring eye out of the smoked carp head.
     
    Around three in the morning, Yu dozed off, sitting up stiff and tight like a bamboo stick, his head bumping against the hard seat back.
     
    When the sun glaring in his face woke him, the aisle was full of people waiting for their turn to wash up in the restroom. According to the announcement from the train loudspeaker, Fujian was close.
     
    As a result of sitting up all night, his neck felt sore, his shoulders strained, and his legs numb. He shook his head at his reflection in the train window. A middle-aged man, his chin unshaven, his face etched with travel fatigue. No longer a tireless educated youth, sitting with Peiqin in the train to Yunnan.
     
    Another result of traveling “hard seat” was that it took him five minutes at the Fujian railway station to locate a man holding a cardboard sign with his name on it. Sergeant Zhao Youli, of the Fujian Police, must have been looking for his Shanghai counterpart among the travelers stepping out of the soft sleeper compartments. Zhao had a chubby face, beady eyes, well-moussed hair, and wore an expensive white suit, a red silk tie, and well-shined dress shoes. His eyes narrowed into smiling slits at the sight of Yu.
     
    “Welcome, Detective Yu. I’m assigned to work with you on the case.”
     
    “Thank you, Sergeant Zhao.”
     
    “I was looking for you over there,” Zhao said.
     
    “The sleeper tickets were sold out,” Yu fibbed, growing self-conscious about his appearance. In his old Renli jacket, his pants all wrinkled after a night’s travel,