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.

I said, So you thought it was too cruel to make me choose between the two of you, that only one of you could be a good person? He shook his head. No, the cruel thing is neither of us were good—there are no good people in the world. He took my cigarettes and lit one for himself.