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especially like the GIs, many of whom kept local girlfriends.

Henry and I emailed each other every day, but I didn’t call him very often. On average we spoke once a week. When he wrote, he sounded at ease and cheerful. He was a large man, six foot one, and weighed more than 210 pounds. I often reminded him not to overeat and to watch his weight. Also, he mustn’t forget to take lisinopril in the morning for his blood pressure. In all likelihood he enjoyed being alone, reliving his bachelor days for a spell. He was fond of reading books, particularly war histories, and must have had more time for them now. In his messages he called himself “a grass widower.” I missed him, his carefree laugh, his small talk, the touch of his hands. I hadn’t slept alone for years, and at night my body was still unused to the discomfort of solitude.
    My father’s home village had been on my mind ever since my meeting with Bingwen Chu. I was my parents’ only child, half Chinese and half Irish; that made me American. I couldn’t stop wondering what my half siblings were like. Already in their early sixties, they must have grandchildren. Even if they were no longer in Shandong, there must be relatives on my father’s side down in the country. That’s where I would start to look for them. I scrapped the thought of telephoning the village, which I wanted to see with my own eyes to have a concrete sense of the place and the people. Moreover, there would probably be many Shangs in the countryside, and I might find family connections. I’d go first to Maijia Village in Linmin County, Shandong.
    I bought a SinoMap from Spring Rain Bookstore and perused it. Linmin is approximately two hundred miles south of Beijing, just beyond the border of Hebei province. It’s near the expressway that runs from the capital to Shanghai. Perhaps I could make a quiet trip on a weekend I thought, but I didn’t have a Chinesedriver’s license and couldn’t rent a car. Should I borrow one from a friend or colleague? Or ask somebody to rent one for me? No, I mustn’t drive with my Maryland license. If caught, I’d get others and myself in trouble. Should I take a bus then? That might be too much hassle. I was sure there was no direct bus service from Beijing to Linmin. If I took a bus, I’d have to go to a city first, say, Dezhou or Jinan, then switch buses. That would be a long detour. If a train had run through Linmin, I’d have taken it and made a secret trip on my own, but the town had no railroad. In fact, I enjoyed traveling alone in China, where people tended to view me as a Chinese as long as I didn’t open my mouth to speak at length. Somehow since my early forties, my Irish features—sharp cheekbones, grayish eyes, chestnut hair—had begun to fade, and I looked more Asian each year, as if my Chineseness had been pushing out from within and manifesting itself on my face.
    In my graduate seminar I had a student named Minmin, who always wore stone-washed jeans and teardrop earrings. She happened to have a car, a China-made Volkswagen Santana, a popular model among low-level officials and white-collar professionals. I’d seen her drive the green sedan. After class one afternoon I called her into my office and asked whether, as a favor, she’d make a trip with me in her car. Without hesitation Minmin, slender and with dark round eyes, agreed to accompany me to Shandong.
    “I’ll pay you two thousand yuan for three days, plus gas and all the other expenses,” I told her.
    “No need for that, Professor Shang.”
    “Uh-uh, call me Lilian.”
    “Okay, Lilian, I’d be happy to go and see the countryside with you. You don’t need to pay me.”
    “You’ll work for me for a few days, so I’ve got to pay you. Make sure the car is in best running condition, will you?”
    “It’s my older brother’s car. He has four of them and keeps them all serviced regularly.”
    “That’s good. Don’t let anyone know of the trip. I just want to see