Hongmei deduced that this meant he was at least forty-five. Men these days became fathers around the age of thirty. She asked why his daughter had returned his birthday presents, and he said, She kept the gifts; it was just the cards she sent back. The presents were repackaged and passed off as being from someone else. A gift is still a gift. His tone was dispassionate, not overblown, but she could sense how hurt he was. For a moment, he lost a great deal of his anonymity. There was nothing vague about being hurt—these wounds could cause two people to identify with each other, no matter how different they were. Being in contact with this thoroughly unreliable man, his injury suddenly made him seem dependable.

She asked if his daughter looked like him. He said her hair was like her mother’s, but otherwise she was exactly like him. She said she must be little and delicate, perhaps she was mixed-race.

He saw the trap and said he hated mixed-race girls.

Hongmei felt surprised by the vehemence in his words, at odds with his all-knowing aloofness. She had finally struck a chord.

No point trying to guess my ethnicity or learn anything about me, he said. We’re fated never to meet.

Fated?

Fated.

2

It was late at night. She could hear music playing in Glen’s room. He needed accompaniment when reading or writing. At this moment it was Charlotte Church singing. A voice like peppermint. In this explosive world, thank God for being able to dip into the peppermint of Charlotte Church’s voice.

She and the man studied each other silently, one in this patch of night, one somewhere else.

He said he’d sent his daughter off on an airplane that afternoon and missed her right away. He didn’t know why this would be. Maybe his daughter’s inapproachability was also only on the surface, and her heart was docile beneath the surface.

She asked him, Do you think I’m one way on the surface and another way inside?

He said anyone with her demure exterior, her quiet smile, would be the same. In the restaurant, he’d seen her accept a menu, then order without glancing at it. He’d watched as her husband ordered her both white and red wine, and she’d nodded and smiled, placidly accepting. And her feet? Those nearly bare feet had been tapping out a beat, to a secret melody. She had been secretly amusing herself.

She asked if he was an expert in psychology or perhaps behavioral studies.

He said, You don’t need to worry about me being idle, and don’t waste your time trying to guess whether I have a proper profession. I don’t do anything, yet I do everything. You’ll find out about it. We’re meeting soon, aren’t we?