Then she did something totally unexpected to him. She shifted to the side and put her feet into the water.

He did not know why she suddenly chose to dabble her bare feet there, her white ankles flashing above the darksome smelling water. He leaned over, her long black hair straying across his cheek. Watching, he wondered whether he should do the same, bending over to undo his shoelaces. But she was already pulling out of the water, her feet covered with a layer of green grime, as if painted, still wet, slimy, sticky …

‘Do you want to call that poetic?’

‘You don’t have to do that, Shanshan.’

But he failed to juxtapose these remembered images by the lake, no matter how hard he tried, with the one falling out of the folder from Zhao – a mature yet strikingly beautiful activist fighting for her idealistic cause.

How Shanshan had turned into Yuan Jing was a metamorphosis beyond imagination, though anything was possible in ‘the socialism with China’s characteristics’.

He wanted to take the picture out of the folder again, but he checked himself. There was a job waiting for him. ‘An important job’, not just for Zhao, but also for himself, for Shanshan.

And for those dreams he had cherished when writing that poem beside her.

He had to turn himself into a detached, determined cop. There were things he had to do, though he was not sure how helpful they could be.

So he headed to the subway station.

As he was coming into view of the station, he slowed down to a stop again.

This time he took out his white cellphone and dialed the number of Peiqin, Detective Yu’s wife.

‘I’ve been such a long admiring customer of your noodles, Peiqin. Shanghai’s Number One Noodles, as I’ve always said,’ he said in a hurry, without mentioning his own name. ‘Now I would like to order ten Zongzi – the palm-leaf-wrapped sticky rice with pork stuffing; another must from your restaurant that people have told me is wonderful. You know my place, and please deliver it today. Here is my new phone number. Your delivery people will need it.’

‘Shanghai’s Number One Noodles’ was an exaggeration for Peiqin’s restaurant. As far as he knew, nobody else had raved about her culinary skills like that. So it was a joking comment known only to the two of them. He believed she would get the message behind the message.

‘Oh yes, the delivery people shall need it,’ Peiqin too said in a hurry without bringing up his name, as expected. ‘Please go ahead and give the number to me.’

‘It’s the number I’m calling you with today. A new one I’ve just acquired.’

‘Thanks, our loyal customer. A basket of Zongzi shall be on the way to your apartment soon. Don’t worry about it. Your satisfaction is guaranteed.’

‘Thanks!’

It was around three that Detective Yu walked Peiqin out of the Shanghai Police Bureau.

Her visit with a small bamboo basket of Zongzi had been a total surprise, though perhaps not so with some of his colleagues. She had brought him delicacies there before. With the Dragon Festival drawing nearer, Zongzi was seasonally fashionable.