In the meantime, I kept looking into his study window with my binoculars. One afternoon I found my father consulting the I Ching. It wasn’t something unknown to me. He and Mom had always had one in their studio and whenever someone suggested a new theater project they flipped the coins to find out what they could expect. However, as strange as it may seem and even though it was a Chinese book—perhaps the Chinese book par excellance—I’d always associated it more with my mother. She was the one who usually tossed the coins on the table. That afternoon Dad’s face in my binoculars was serious and yet serene. Though I tried, I couldn’t even imagine what he had asked. Nor was I able to focus on the book well enough to read its response. My father read in front of his computer the pages that corresponded to his hexagram. He then left the book open and stood up. He walked a few steps to where the terrarium was and sat down and watched his snake for a long time. My mother, who had been cooking right next to me this entire time without speaking, called out a few times that dinner was ready and after several minutes of silence we heard Dad’s slow footsteps coming down the stairs. In the little he spoke that night, he mentioned that Friday morning he’d be going to the Chinese embassy. Through a very close friend he’d managed to get a meeting with a senior official to discuss the whereabouts of his parents. Mom and I looked at each other in surprise. I remember—and it still pains me, how this went—that Dad tried to look me in the eyes and I had to look away.

“It should matter to you a little bit,” he said to me. “They are your relatives too.”

I was about to respond by saying that I knew perfectly well who my grandparents were and I didn’t need any more, but Mom, in her typical restraining way, rushed in.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, and I’m sure that Michel does too.”

I only smiled to show I supported her.