He shrugged. “You don’t mind if I do?”

Bob looked tense. Margaret smiled. “Your funeral.”

“I am sorry?”

“I’ve seen first hand what it does to the lungs.”

He looked slightly puzzled, but lit up anyway. Professor Jiang spoke and Veronica translated. “Professor Jiang say we should sit.”

The professor stood at his place and indicated the seat on his right to Margaret. She sat, he sat, and then the rest sat. So far it was all going to plan. A waitress arrived with small porcelain cups filled with a clear, evil-smelling liquor and placed one by each person. “Mao tai,” Bob told her from the other side of the table. “Made from sorghum. It’s one hundred twenty proof, so take it easy.”

Professor Jiang raised his cup and proposed a lengthy toast which the laconic Veronica translated as, “Welcome to Beijing, welcome to the People’s University of Public Security.” They all raised their cups and muttered, “Gan bei,” and sipped at the liquor which was as evil-tasting as it smelled. Margaret had difficulty forcing it over, and felt it burning all the way down. Then she remembered that it was her turn, and told them that she was honoured to be there and would like to drink a toast to the generosity of their host, Professor Jiang. Veronica translated, Professor Jiang nodded, clearly satisfied, and they raised their cups again. “Gan bei.” This time, she saw, the men drained their cups in a single draught, while the women barely wet their lips. Hell, she thought, it was easier to get it over in a oner than to sip and taste the damn stuff. She tipped her head back and poured it over, banging her cup back down on the table. She thought she was going to faint. Then she thought she was going to die of asphyxiation. Her lungs refused to draw breath. All eyes were on her, her face, she was certain, bright puce, before finally she managed to suck in a breath and smile as if everything were normal. The temptation to give expression to the pain that burned all the way down to her stomach was almost, but not quite, irresistible. Dr. Mu’s husband grinned wickedly and clapped his hands. “Bravo,” he said. “Your funeral.” Which made her laugh. And everyone else round the table laughed, too. Except for Bob, whose glare she assiduously avoided.

Now that the pain had subsided, the effects of the mao tai, on top of the vodka, on top of the twenty-four hours without sleep, were inducing a positive sense of euphoria. When the drinks order came, she asked for beer, and then the food started to arrive, culminating in the carving of three ducks, pieces of which they dipped in hoi sin before wrapping them in very thin pancakes with strips of spring onion, cucumber and minced raw garlic. It was delicious.