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was the young lieutenant she had let into the door. “We must move toward the future,” her father had said. “In the modern world, a man’s political connections matter more than his money or his family.” Outside her window the low sun had cast a frail light into the room; she had gazed at this light and thought of the lieutenant.
    Now Yinan asked, “Jiejie, is Lieutenant Li Ang a good person?”
    “Of course he is, Meimei. Baba wouldn’t marry me to a bad person. The lieutenant is working to make China strong.”
    Yinan was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Jiejie, where do you think Mama has gone?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I know where her ashes are. But where do you think the Mama part of her has gone?”
    “She will be reborn. Do you remember the chant from the memorial services? The Mama part of her has left this world to go to a new life, and her body has been returned back to the physical world.”
    “I wish we’d had her longer.”
    “We had her for a certain amount of time, and now she is returned to the world.”
    “I wish we’d had her longer,” Yinan repeated. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling with bright eyes.
    Junan herself had searched for Chanyi’s ghost, eagerly, shamefully. On the second night after her mother’s death, she had thought that she might see her. She’d woken in the middle of the night to the smell of frost-cold air. Was it the sound of her own voice that had woken her? Could there have been a visitor? But there was nothing, not a sound. Now she remembered the Buddhist chant from the memorial service:
    Se bu i kong
    kong bu i se
    Life does not differ from nothingness; nothingness does not differ from life.
    Junan closed the shades against the violent sun, which burned against her eyes.
    “If I were a boy,” Yinan said suddenly.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I know.” Yinan turned her head toward the wall. “But if I were a boy she might not have killed herself.”
    Junan closed her eyes. Against the backdrop of her lids the image of the sun made a fierce blue spot. “Mama didn’t kill herself.”
    “I heard Gu Taitai tell Weiwei that she did.”
    “Stop it!” Her voice, breaking shamefully, rang into the room.
    After a long moment, Yinan said, “I’m sorry, Jiejie. Duibuqi.”
    “Don’t ever speak of this again.”
    “Duibuqi!” Yinan’s voice shook.
    Junan pulled her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. She closed her eyes again and held herself stiffly against the back of her chair. Her own name, Junan, meant “like a son.” Yinan’s name meant “will bring forth sons.”
    After several moments, Yinan spoke, and she was sobbing. “Jiejie, are you angry at me?”
    Junan couldn’t speak.
    “Please talk to me. Please don’t leave me. Promise. Now that you’ll be married.”
    Junan looked away. “No,” she said into the room. “I won’t ever leave you, Meimei.”
    Satisfied, Yinan closed her eyes. “And I won’t ever leave you.”
    Some time later, the maid called Junan to Mma’s room. After Junan had kowtowed properly, the old woman held out a drink that Junan didn’t recognize: syrupy, sloe-purple, redolent of dates or prunes. Mma leaned close to watch her raise the glass. Over its rim Junan glimpsed the old woman’s cloudy eyes, inquisitive and vengeful, and she suspected what the liquid was. She knew she might have gotten sympathy by clinging to her grandmother, confessing fear, or begging for advice, but she was no more able to reveal such weakness than she was able to refuse Mma’s implicit challenge. She raised the fertility potion to her lips and drank.

    SEVERAL HOURS LATER, LI ANG SAT WITH HIS BRIDE AT THE FRONT table of their wedding banquet.
    Junan had turned modestly away from him, revealing the long line of her neck, her high-bridged nose, the angle of her cheek. Her glittering white cap set off her large eyes and slanted brows. Earlier that day, in the traditional ceremony, she had worn a red