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dress and a long red veil to kneel to the ancestors. Now she was stunning in white. She was both stylishly modern and pure in her face—she held a virginal quality, perfect as the images of saints he recalled from his one visit to a cathedral. Everyone had stared when she walked into the room. Li Ang took pride in this; it compensated, somewhat, for the fact that almost none of the guests were his. Of the two hundred people at the banquet, Li Ang knew only eight. Aside from Charlie Kong, the bald Colonel Jiang, and the wealthy Mr. Chen, none of the paigao players had been invited. Li Ang’s guests were only three: his mentor Sun Li-jen, his uncle, and his brother. Li Ang suspected that the meager Li connections had been remarked upon by everyone. He heard his mentor explaining that the groom and his brother had been orphaned in the influenza epidemic.
    “I’m afraid I don’t have many guests to add,” Li Ang apologized to Wang Daming.
    “It is fine with me,” Daming replied. “They say it’s bad luck to have too lavish a wedding.”
    At this, Li Bing raised his eyebrows. Li Ang could imagine his brother’s disdain for the stylish celebration that had been deemed appropriate by his new in-laws. The banquet was being held at a remodeled mansion. The festivities were in the modern section, lit up with electric lights. The guests had come from as far away as Nanjing: distant relations, fellow merchants, and a variety of officials representing each of the thirteen separate guilds and offices to which Wang gave yearly bribes. They did not appear to be what Li Bing would call progressive thinkers. Li Bing was seated next to the young Chen Da-Huan, who wore a long mandarin robe. Chen was talking about restoring China’s glorious cultural past.
    “Western literature has corrupted us, this movement toward so-called ‘progressive language’ has destroyed the dignity and music of the written word . . .”
    Li Bing fidgeted, rolling in his long fingers an imaginary cigarette. Li Ang knew his brother was currently engrossed in a “progressive” translation of H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine . He knew Li Bing would rather be reading at that moment. But his brother would restrain his impatience, for his sake.
    Li Ang stole glances at Junan as he ate, smiling at her now and then. She handled herself perfectly, always gracious and demure, although the day had been a long one. Li Ang had to admire her; he grew tired of sitting. One course followed another. His favorite was a local specialty, crispy fish from the lake itself. For a moment he assumed it had been chosen for him, but then he realized that no one knew the first thing about him. Other seafood had been brought by motorboat that morning: enormous shrimp with graceful whiskers, scallops, abalone. A course of chicken wrapped in lotus leaves, another local specialty, had been included for the guests from out of town. In honor of Li Ang’s mentor, who was now a colonel, they ate pork intestines prepared by a cook from Anhui. Also there was the bride’s favorite, quail eggs. But the tiny eggs were brought out too late for Junan to enjoy them. By then, she had already left the room to change out of her gown, remove her elaborate headpiece, and prepare for the wedding night. In the spirit of modernism, she said, she had refused the customary games around the bridal bed. Later, Li Ang would go alone to meet her in their room.
    Li Ang found the egg course difficult. Since his promotion he had, on some occasions, eaten with ivory chopsticks rather than his usual bamboo, but the small, slender silver banquet chopsticks presented a new challenge. Earlier, he had dropped a slippery piece of abalone in his lap. Since that moment of shame, he had tried to ignore the irritation that arose whenever he brought a sliver of food to his mouth. He found the chopsticks impractical, trying, and pretentious. They were smaller than average, with pointed tips, making them more difficult to