“Sorry,” she said. Her voice trembled for a moment, then she pulled away and straightened her clothes. “I came in the back door but heard you speaking with someone so I just lay down in a cell. I fell asleep and was still groggy. Sorry,” she repeated.

He hesitated, thinking of the pile of paperwork that waited for him at his desk. “I was going to eat,” he lied. “Come with me.”

Meng bit her lip and gave a small, shy smile that for a moment made her seem more like a young self-conscious woman than a stern Public Security officer. He realized that she had changed into blue jeans and a silk blouse and sweater and asked her to wait a moment as he went into the washroom, taking off his tunic and uniform shirt and replacing it with a simple white one.

She gave him another shy smile as he appeared. They were just another couple going out for dinner. Mrs. Lu, walking her terrier, stared in mute surprise as they stepped outside.

Marpa took one look at them at the kitchen door and held up a restraining hand. “No, no. Front door.”

By the time they had gone around the building he was spreading a cloth on the table at the center window then excused himself after seating them, darting into the kitchen then returning with the stub of a candle which he forced into a soda bottle and lit before disappearing once more. This time he returned with a dusty bottle of cheap rice wine. Shan had never before seen any kind of alcohol in Marpa’s establishment and knew that Marpa himself never drank any. The café owner filled two small tumblers halfway with the wine. “I had some wineglasses,” he apologized, “but I forget where they are.”

“It’s not like—” Shan began, meaning to say it was not the romantic event Marpa had inferred, but then he saw the anticipation in Meng’s eyes. “Not like we are connoisseurs,” he said instead.

They spoke of little things, of the occasional shifting of the wind that washed the town with the scent of wildflowers, of the vast high meadows above them where deer and wild goats grazed, of Meng’s journey from the Gobi, during which they had stopped at a camel market, and of the horse festival the local herders were planning for late summer. Shan let Marpa decide their menu, and the Tibetan brought out small spiced dumplings, then a rich fragrant stew. Meng seemed not to have much appetite and when she stopped eating altogether, Shan followed her gaze toward the square.

Meng’s traveling companion was shouting up a tree, dodging twigs being thrown down by the young girl, who had climbed to a remarkable height.

“I should go help,” Shan said. “Your niece could fall.”