“You know it?” I asked as casually as I could.

“But your surname is not Chen.”

She evidently only knew the company after you and your mother had taken over using your father’s name.

“That would be my mother’s sister,” I explained carefully. “And my cousin.” I pulled down my sleeve. Few people knew of our Reforging. Still, I suddenly did not want her to see my wrist.

She drew her tiles. Her playing was messy after that—she matched on tiles that had already been played earlier, tossed rare ones that resulted in losses for her.

“You seem unsettled.” I decided to confront the matter.

She slammed her tiles down when one of the other players called mahjong.

“My father loved your pencils.” I focused on the tiles, dreading what she would say next. “Your aunt set up the largest surveillance system in Shanghai. We left soon after my father was killed. I’m sorry, but you are no longer welcome at the restaurant.”

“I left Shanghai before any of that,” I said. We were both playing sloppily now. “My father was with the Nationalists. We went to Taiwan. I haven’t talked to my aunt since we left. Please. Give me a chance. I was only a child when I knew her.”

Of course, I did not tell her about the small surveillance system I had established in California before coming to Boston. I was more than happy to denounce your mother if it meant I would have a job and a place to stay. I knew in a way you had denounced her, too, when you set the company ablaze.

In the end, it was not my charm that won her over. It was her own soft heart. We would be lifelong friends, though we never spoke about Shanghai again.

The restaurant Linda ran was well known, having once been featured in the Boston Globe as serving tastier food than any that could be found in China, where the Communists did not know how to cook anymore.

“Do you get MIT students here?” I asked during my first week.

“Oh yes.” Linda grinned. “Looking for a husband?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

After that, she made an effort to have me wait on all of the young men reading thick books.

“You’re not interested yourself?” I asked. She had gotten over our initial confrontation. I think she was lonely and had the idea, like we all did, that those from Shanghai were above others from our country, and she was waiting for someone of a similar background, someone who was more suitable.

She shook her head with a wink. It would be another few months before I met her lover, a rich white woman who financed much of the restaurant’s initial costs. Their story would have perhaps been more interesting to tell you than mine.