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kitchens.”
    “And on the floors between the third and the eighth?”
    “Offices? Rooms for visitors? I really don’t know.”
    As natural as Ava found her own mother’s relationship with her father, and her father’s relationship with her and Marian, the idea of all Marcus Lee’s wives and children living in harmony under one roof seemed impossible to her.
    “I wonder what they want from us,” Uncle murmured.
    Dusk was settling as they drew near the city. The overhead highway lights cast a refracted glow, and it looked as if tiny fireflies were dancing in it. Ava looked more closely and saw that the light was playing on dense smog. Not even in the countryside could you get away from the industrial invasion. “Is the air always this bad?” she asked.
    “It’s worse in the summer,” Tam said.
    The driver turned off the highway before they reached the city limits. He drove down a two-lane road flanked on either side by factories. Ava saw the workers’ residences and shuddered at their gloominess. Four identical twelve-storey buildings with grey concrete walls, no trace of colour, and rows of tiny windows designed for peering out rather than letting in light. All that was missing for them to look like a prison was a fence topped with razor wire. Outside, in the floodlit factory courtyards, life looked more pleasant. She saw people playing volleyball and badminton, groups of women chatting, makeshift barbershops, and of course ballroom dancing. Such dancing was the most pleasant and lasting image Ava had of Chinese cities. In the mornings, couples could be found dancing to a tune being coaxed out of an old phonograph in every park and factory courtyard.
    “Wong’s factories, most of them,” Tam said.
    They saw the lights of Wong’s property some distance down the road. As they got closer, Ava could see that the mansion was set about a hundred metres back from the entrance, which was guarded by a tall, spiked wrought-iron fence. The car paused in front of the solid metal gate while the security cameras identified them. When it swung open, Ava gasped. She found herself looking at a replica of the gate of Tiananmen Square, the Gate of Heavenly Peace.
    “It is an exact reproduction,” Tam said.
    “Let’s hope the house is not a reproduction of the Forbidden City,” Uncle said. “The plumbing there is not up to par.”
    Ava laughed. Tam looked as if he wasn’t sure whether Uncle was joking.
    As they passed under the gate, the Wong castle loomed in front of them. It was a traditional Chinese design, constructed with red brick and a sweeping green tiled roof. There were eight floors, each with eight large picture windows across the front façade, ten metres below those on the next floor. The scale and breadth of the magnificent structure conjured up images of the Louvre.
    The Mercedes stopped in front of a wide stone stairway. Ava and Uncle climbed out of the car and found themselves looking up twenty steps, towards a set of red double doors flanked by enormous stone lions. The staircase was almost as wide as it was high. They started to climb, Tam two steps behind carrying their luggage.
    The doors swung open. A man and a woman appeared and walked to the top of the staircase. Ava could feel their eyes following her and Uncle. When they reached the landing, the man took a step forward.
    “Welcome to my home, Uncle,” Wong Changxing said.

( 5 )
    Everything about Wong Changxing is nondescript , Ava thought. Medium height, medium build, clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, and clear, inquisitive eyes. Take away the Armani suit and the Gucci loafers and he could have been any small businessman.
    Wong May Ling was not quite so neutral. She was slightly taller than her husband, and striking in a pink and white wool Chanel suit. Her hair was pulled back tightly, exposing fine cheekbones and smooth, delicate skin. She had a small, pert nose and thin lips. Ava noticed that she was wearing hardly any makeup. She also