Wind rustled the bamboo that was growing against the nearby wall. He said, Jiaqi, do you still blame me? I looked at him. Huh? He said, Never mind. I poured more wine. Slow down, he said. When he realized I wasn’t going to listen, he started drinking quickly too. I didn’t mean to hurt you, he said, you know I worry too much. I nodded and kept drinking. He ordered another bottle. The waiter topped up our glasses. Watching him leave, I muttered, I don’t know that, do you worry with other girls too? He looked at me and a strange smile slowly appeared on his face. Finally, I had attacked him, and asked the question that had been stuck in my throat. Its power was undiminished, and as I spoke the words, they hurt me again. My self-esteem was shattered. I waited for him to say anything, to save me. But he was silent, watching the bamboo, drinking.

After a long time, just as I’d thought the evening would end in silence, Yin Zheng sat up very straight and said, Jiaqi, there’s something I should have told you: I was never your father’s friend—we were more like rivals. When we put the poetry society together, we were both in line to be its leader. We were young and competitive, and neither of us would give way. He had his supporters and I had mine. Finally, I got tired of fighting, and stepped aside. Your father had his own ideas that he insisted everyone should abide by. For him, poetry had become something like power, a sort of religion.

Yin Zheng took a deep breath and said, I shouldn’t say these things about your father, I know you respect him a lot. I did too, that’s why I was so disappointed. I was sad when he stopped writing poetry, not just because I’d lost a worthy opponent, but also because I could imagine how painful that must have been for someone as ambitious as him. No one knows what happened. But, after all, talent is given by the gods, and can be taken back at any moment. Not that your dad would ever have admitted this. He claimed he’d stopped writing because he found it meaningless. He put his energy into teaching and scholarship, and I have to admit he was talented in these areas too. Then he published a scholarly book that didn’t get the attention he thought it deserved, and lost an opportunity to be a visiting scholar in America. In despair, he started helping the department head with admin, in the hopes of being appointed his deputy. He had some radical ideas, and got into a fight with the head over those, which killed his chances of being promoted. Soon after that, he quit. Just like that, this outstanding personality vanished from sight. We later heard he’d struck it big doing business in Beijing—I wasn’t surprised at all, I truly believed he’d succeed in anything he turned his hand to. Then the car accident … For a long time, I couldn’t believe this had happened. When he left Jinan, I’d thought our conflict wasn’t over, and that we’d meet some day to resume it. Then I ran into you and thought, ah, this is how it’s going to be. I didn’t mean to deceive you, I just didn’t want to show you something so ugly.