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.