It was many years later that I learned the white mansion only dates back to the 1950s. A famous educator was appointed the head of this Medical University, and the government built it for him to live in. He refused—it was too luxurious. Even so, during the Cultural Revolution, he got accused of receiving special treatment anyway, and ended up here for his struggle session. One night, after he’d been locked up for many days, he went to one of the second-story rooms—maybe even the one where we’d stood—and cut his wrists with a razor he’d smuggled in. He probably never imagined the place where he committed suicide would one day feature in many wedding photos, just as I never expected I’d end up living here. I could have a wedding every day if I wanted.

I almost got married last year, to a man named Tang Hui. He was above me at university, and though we’d known each other quite a while, we met too late—after the major events of my life had already happened. He knew that, but wanted to try anyway. He’s a good person. But it didn’t work and I left him. For a while, I was living with one friend after another, a shadowy existence. Then Peixuan came back this summer, and I moved in with her for a couple of months.

You remember my cousin Peixuan, don’t you? The pretty one, the flag raiser. She’s been in the States for some time—got her PhD last year, and now she’s teaching at Ohio State University. She was back for the summer and asked to see me. That’s how I found out Grandpa was living in the white mansion. It was too much of a tourist spot, she grumbled, and attracted too many visitors. Sometimes people knocked on the door and asked for a photograph with the former fellow.

“Grandpa’s like some rare animal in a cage,” said Peixuan furiously. She comes back every summer, and always gets a few new bits and pieces for the house. The oven and coffee machine are hers—she can’t live without these things. They go back into the cupboard when she leaves, though—Grandpa’s too used to living with just a kettle and a pot. They get on well, though, despite their different lifestyles.

I didn’t see Peixuan for a very long time after moving away, though we stayed in touch, mostly thanks to her efforts. She sent me a letter from the States with her address there, and wrote from time to time, letting me know if she’d moved. When I went to Beijing for college, she asked my mom for the phone number of my dorm, and called to get my email address. She kept me updated about what she was doing—moving to a different school for her masters, then continuing with her PhD. Every message ended with the same words: When you have time, I hope you’ll go home to visit Grandpa and Grandma. I never replied, except once after college, to inform her I’d be staying on in Beijing for work.