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inquire further into the absurdity.
    Licking his thumb, Mr. Cheung worked his way through a clipboard of orders, and only when he looked up did he realize that Bunt was still staring at him, wondering about the China trip.
    "I went to Shum Chun," Mr. Cheung said. "Then to Dongguan. You know Dongguan?"
    "I don't have the foggiest," Bunt said.
    "Beyond Shum Chun. They make toys. Combs. Everything. Very busy place."
    "How did you manage all that?"
    "Train. From here. Kowloon Tong," Mr. Cheung said. "It is on the main line, eh?"
    "If you say so. Nice trip?"
    "Bought a flat."
    "Also today?"
    Mr. Cheung was growing uncomfortable with the questions, but he nodded. Yes, he had bought the flat today.
    "You could have bought one in Hong Kong."
    "Here a flat is millions. In Dongguan a big flat is two hundred thousand."
    Bunt had not lost the habit, acquired from his parents, of translating large sums of Hong Kong dollars into pounds sterling. This was well under twenty thousand. For the price of a mediocre Japanese car, Mr. Cheung had bought a large place to live in across the border.
    "Fancy that," Bunt said, but this time with interest.
    As they went over the orders, Bunt continued to stare at the man who had woken up and taken the train to China and bought a flat and returned to Hong Kong just a few minutes
late for work. It seemed extraordinary and went on baffling Bunt even after Cheung returned to the factory floors. Bunt went back to the newspaper, to reread the story of the jealous husband.
You must leave, but your face belongs to me ... I will take your face away.
Another reason not to get married.
    "Line one," Miss Liu called from her cubicle.
    "Morning, squire"—Monty, his usual telephone greeting—"I need your signature."
    "Again?"
    "You'd better get used to it, squire," Monty said. "There's no end to these papers. It's transfers, see. Be glad it's gone so smoothly."
    "Those Chinese relatives had me rigid."
    "They're back in their box, squire. Not to worry."
    "Where's their box?"
    "Chuck's home village, Zhongshan, south of Canton. Sun Yat-sen came from there. Delightful place."
    "If it's so pleasant, why did we have to beat Chuck's relatives off with a shitty stick?"
    "The lychees you eat? Zhongshan is famous for them. That's where they're grown. And longans. All sorts of fruit."
    Bunt just laughed. His hatred for Chinese food extended to the plants, the fruit, the trees that were native to the country, and the country itself, the whole of it. He had no interest. He felt himself grow hostile when he sensed—as he did now, with Monty on the line—that he was being provoked.
    "If any of those relatives had inherited a share of Imperial Stitching, you wouldn't be laughing," Monty said. "It would be shambolic."
    "Quite right," Bunt said, and after they agreed to meet at the Cricket Club that evening after work, he hung up.
    Another of the management strategies Mr. Chuck had taught him was to walk the length of every floor each day at different times and make a show of scrutinizing the workers. The idea was to remind them you were in charge, to make them self-conscious, to keep them alert. You had to be unpredictable and silent, and you had to keep them insecure, forever guessing. It did not matter whether Bunt paid attention as long as, every day, he showed up in every department. "They must see you," Mr. Chuck had said. It also helped to examine a label or a garment and contrive an incomprehensible sound, a snort, a provisional snicking in the nose, and move on without making eye contact.
    Bunt was uttering noises at a table in the stitching room when Mei-ping approached him and said shyly, "I'm sorry."
    It took a moment for him to understand that she was referring to Mr. Chuck. He had not seen her since the funeral. He hesitated, he smiled, he thought how pretty Mei-ping was.

    His lunch pail in his hand, Bunt walked down the road to the Pussy Cat. He ordered a glass of beer, then sat in a booth eating the