Yin Zheng came out and stood next to me. We stared out at the field. Beijing is lovely in summer, he said with feeling, though I always feel like I can’t wait to leave this city, I can’t stand it here. Why? I asked. It’s too big, he said, and too noisy. More than a decade ago, I thought of transferring to a university here, but in the end I didn’t. He looked at his watch. Jiaqi, shall we go? If you’re not in a hurry to get home, shall we find somewhere to sit? He suggested the open-air bar at his hotel, which was nearby. We walked through the empty streets of the embassy quarter. Tall parasol trees stood on either side of the road, and the light from the streetlamps was soft as it mingled with the moonlight. Are you still writing poems? he asked. No, I said. Oh, me neither, he said. Because you’re writing a memoir? I asked. He looked at me, startled. How did you know? Oh right, I mentioned it at the event. I’m getting old, writing even a little exhausts me. I’d hoped to finish it this year, but it looks like next is more likely. I asked, What are you writing about? He said, My childhood, the Cultural Revolution, college days, everything up to now, very long-winded, maybe no one will want to read it, but it’s important to me. He looked at me meaningfully. I’ll send you a copy, he said. We reached a crossing and waited for the lights to change. He turned to look at me and said, I remember the night I first met you; we sat outside your school. It had just rained, and the air was so cold—it must have been fall. It had actually been spring, but I didn’t correct him. Perhaps he’d imagined an autumn night, and that had solidified in his memory.

The bar was packed—we grabbed the only free table. Yin Zheng looked at his watch and said, I need to make a phone call. He stood at the counter, holding the receiver, smiling. I downed a few mouthfuls of white wine and sent Tang Hui a text: Ran into a friend, home late, don’t wait up. After a few minutes, he replied: Ok. Yin Zheng returned and we clinked glasses. He said, That was my daughter on the phone, she needs to hear my voice before she’ll go to bed. I must have looked startled. He said, A few years ago, Meng Jing changed her mind and decided she wanted a kid, after all. It took a few rounds of IVF, but we did it. A girl? I said. Yes, he said. She’s five now. That’s good, I said, Meng Jing can teach her to dance. He nodded. She’s a good mother, he said, I hadn’t expected that.