of intense interest, but if anything I was saying was familiar, I couldn’t see any sign.
“Why? And who?”
“I was hoping you’d know.”
“I certainly don’t! But this is astonishing! Who could he have been?”
“Your brother? Or your cousin?”
“But why? I was under the impression they had no idea who the maker was.”
“I don’t know. It’s very strange. But if it wasn’t you—”
“I assure you it wasn’t.”
“Then it must have been one of them. I think”—I looked at Bill—“we should go ask them.”
26
The first call I made when we hit Canal Street was to Mr. Chen.
“I’m sorry, he’s still not here,” Irene Ng said.
“Is that true, or he just told you to say that?”
“Oh, no.” She sounded hurt. “It’s really true.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just getting really frustrated here, not being able to find either him or his cousin.”
“Why don’t you try Mr. Zhang again? I just spoke to him. He’s back at his office.”
By “try,” Irene Ng probably meant “call.” I didn’t call. Bill and I were on Mulberry Street before you could say, “He’s back at his office.”
On the ground floor of Number 43 was a funeral-goods store, its window full of paper clothes, furniture, and money to burn for the dead. The second-floor buzzer read FAST RIVER IMPORTS. I buzzed it, and Fay’s tinny voice asked who I was. When I told her, there was a short silence. Then she came back and said Mr. Zhang wasn’t in.
“Oh, yes, he is,” I said, mouth close to speaker. “And if we can’t talk to Mr. Zhang, we’re going over to Mr. Chen’s shop and not leaving until we talk to him.”
More silence. Finally, a buzz. I yanked the door open and took the stairs two at a time, Bill right behind me.
A thin young woman sat behind a desk in a wonder of file folders, paper stacks, and sunshine. We didn’t have to ask again for the boss: Zhang Li was waiting in his inner-office doorway. He smiled and bowed. “Ms. Chin. I apologize if I seemed reluctant to speak with you.”
“Seemed? Mr. Zhang, you’ve definitely been avoiding me.” I bowed back, annoyed with myself to feel my irritation fading fast. I introduced Bill, who shook his hand. It occurred to me I might want to teach Bill to bow.
“Yes.” Mr. Zhang spoke contritely. “I suppose I have been. Please, come with me. Fay, please bring tea.”
The clutter in Mr. Zhang’s office was as impressive as in the outer room and went way beyond paper. Delicate porcelains peeked out of shipping crates. Soldiers from the terra-cotta army stood to attention on the floor and windowsill, reproduced in eight sizes from half-real-life to thimble. Jade bracelets, bronze coins on red ribbons, cricket cages, and embroidered shoes spangled every surface, as though a wave of Chinese culture had crashed over this room and beached them all.
“Samples of my wares.” Mr. Zhang sounded both rueful and proud, like an indulgent uncle apologizing for rambunctious nephews. “Please, sit.”
Stools and a low table occupied a clearing, as in Mr. Chen’s office. These were glazed ceramic, the kind you’d find in a garden. Before we’d settled, Fay entered and set down a lacquer tea tray.
“You and your cousin are both lovers of tea,” I said as Mr. Zhang poured.
“I think you are also, Ms. Chin?”
“Yes, I am.” I took the lidded, saucerless cup.
“And you, Mr. Smith?”
“I’m learning.”
Pushing an old Chinese man might be the wrong way to get anywhere, but over the millennia people who’ve wanted to know things from old Chinese men have concocted other tactics. I said, “This tea smells lovely. Delicate and tropical. Did you and Mr. Chen develop your taste for fine teas in Shanghai?”
Zhang Li smiled. He knew what I was doing. “Hardly. Our boyhood years were war years, our adolescence the early days of the People’s Republic. Most often, tea then was a cloudy, bitter drink, something to keep you warm when you had no heat, or make you forget you had no food.”
All right. Going that far was a signal he was ready to talk. So I did the polite thing. I backed off, sipped, and said, “Your tea is refreshing and sweet.”
“I’m glad you find it so. Dragonwell, a favorite of mine. Mr. Smith? Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s subtle. I’m probably missing the nuances. But yes, it’s very good.”
We all sipped again. Zhang Li carefully replaced the lid on his cup and said, “Now, Ms. Chin. You have questions about the Shanghai Moon.”