As they were approaching a crossroads, the light turned red, but their car didn't stop. The chauffeur signaled and drove left, ignoring the honking of other vehicles. A green motorcycle puttered up behind them, and a policeman in the side car shouted through a bullhorn, "Pull over to the side!"
"Fucking cops!" cursed the driver without moving his head. He clicked on the blinker, slowing down, and brought the car to a stop.
" Are they going to give you a ticket?" Nan asked him.
"Oh well, I've never paid a fine."
Nan turned around and saw the two policemen hop off the motorcycle and stride up to their car. But as they were approaching, one of them pointed at the rear of the Audi, then they both veered off to a newsstand as if to deal with a more urgent incident over there first. Nan was bewildered.
The chauffeur said in an undertone, "Bastards, they're not that stupid." He pulled away smoothly.
" Why did they change their minds?" Nan asked.
"This is an army vehicle," explained Danning. "They just saw the plate on the back." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the rear window.
"So army vehicles don't have to follow the traffic rules?" asked Nan.
The chauffeur said, "They can give me as many tickets as they like, but there's no way they can collect the fines."
Danning winked at Nan, then spoke in English so that the driver couldn't understand. "You see, power comes out of the barrel of a gun."
Nan said, "Zis is crazy, still like two decades ago." "Yes, things are basically the same."
They pulled into the yard of a medium-size hotel, and the chauffeur told them that he would come around nine-thirty to pick them up. Through a moon gate Danning and Nan entered the yard behind the building, where a two-story manor was half shaded by tall, dusty cypresses. In front of that house was a tiny pond, with a few mossy rocks erected in its middle and inhabited by orange carp and goldfish, whose tails and fins spread in the water like floating tulle. Dan-ning and Nan went into the house and then turned in to the restaurant on the first floor, in which sat only a few people. The dimly lighted room felt damp, four long-fluked ceiling fans revolving with a rasping sound.
"Welcome!" a roly-poly man cried at them. Obviously the host, he was wearing a herringbone suit and shiny oxfords. He showed them to a table in a corner where five men were already seated. At the sight of Danning, they all got up and stretched out their hands, which Danning shook one by one.
With pride he introduced Nan to them as his American friend.
They were all pleased to see Nan. On the table were two saucers containing condensed milk and a bamboo basket holding tiny steamed buns, both serving as an appetizer. They went on gossiping about some recent events in Beijing's literary circles: the nominations for this year's major prizes and what offices were involved; which one of the pretty young women writers had outsold the others; the two poets who had just been offered a trip to Paris the next spring; an editor who had been fired last week for publishing a book offensive to the authorities, which had changed the policy, punishing editors in place of authors; how there was going to be a conference on a first novel by a young man whose father was a high-ranking official in the State Council. Nan knew nothing about their world and just listened.
Mengfei, the loudest among them, was a lieutenant colonel in the air force and a well-known fiction writer. It was this fleshy-faced man with a bull's neck and shoulders who had sent the Audi to fetch Danning. Sometimes he taught literary theory and modern fiction at the Arts Institute of the People's Liberation Army. He had just published a novella in Flower City, a top-notch magazine, so he had gathered his writer friends here to celebrate. Among them there was another officer, a captain who was a poet, and the rest were all civilians. Nan vaguely remembered seeing in a newspaper the photograph of the bald man sitting across from him. The man had introduced himself as Fanlong, an editor in the Writers' Publishing House. Seated next to the colonel was a spare man who was a journalist specializing in reportage literature, but he didn't speak much because he'd stutter whenever he opened his mouth. Unlike them, Nan didn't touch the Luzhou whiskey, which was too strong for him; instead, he sipped Five Star beer from a tall glass.
A waitress came and handed them the menu. Nan was puzzled by the names of the dishes. There were so many unfamiliar items that he wasn't sure what to order. He asked Danning, "What is this- 'Parents and Children'?"
His friend grinned. "It's just pickled soybeans and soy sprouts."
"Then I won't eat the whole family." Nan chuckled but didn't ask about the other fancy names. The rest of the men didn't bother to open the menu and instead let Fanlong order for them. The man, well known for his ability to plan parties and dinners, mentioned a dozen dishes to the waitress and also asked for more liquor and beer for everyone.
"Nan, what are the hot novels published in the United States recently?" asked Mengfei, who seemed quite knowledgeable about contemporary American fiction. As a matter of fact, he had been to the States as a visiting scholar at Stanford, and in their conversation he often trotted out the phrase "when I was in America," which Dan-ning told him not to use just for this occasion, at which there was no need for him to impress others.
"A novel called Cold Mountain is very popular at the moment," Nan told Mengfei.
"Who wrote it?"
"A new writer named Charles Frazier, but I haven't read the book yet." Nan paused, then added, "I brought back a copy of American Pastoral for Danning."
The spare man with slanting eyebrows seated next to Mengfei spoke in a shrill voice. "Th-that's Philip Roth's ne-new novel!"
" Yes," Nan said.
Fanlong butted in, "I like Roth a lot, especially his Ghost Writer."
" I think Saul Bellow is better," mumbled the bespectacled man sitting next to Danning.
" Ah, Bellow is smart and funny," Mengfei said, and smacked his lips as if tasting his own words.
In addition to parading their knowledge of American literature, they also talked about Calvino, Kundera, and Duras, none of whom was familiar to Nan, though at present they were popular here. So when Mengfei asked his opinion, Nan said, "I don't read fiction very often. I read more poetry."
" Wonderful," the bright-eyed captain put in.
Fanlong added, "We just bought Derek Walcott's new book."
Nan was startled and realized that these men might be bureaucrats in the Chinese literary world. Now he should be more careful about what he was going to say. Probably they did indeed know a lot about American authors through translations.
The dishes came, loaded on a serving cart. Two young waitresses in pea green aprons began placing the courses on the table. "This is 'Trotting on a Country Path,'" declared one of them. Nan batted his eyes to look at the dish closely. Heavens, it was just braised pig trotters garnished with a few sprigs of parsley! Despite his bewilderment, he said nothing. Then together the waitresses lifted a large platter containing a fried flounder. There were also several cold cuts and sauteed vegetables. Finally the taller woman put the last plate on the table with both hands and said, "Here's your 'Whispers.'" Nan tried hard to stifle his laughter on looking at the dish, which was nothing but smoked beef tongues lying in aspic.
The waitresses had scarcely pulled the cart away when Nan burst out laughing, a bubbling sound in his nose. He said to the others, "Let's whisper, let's whisper." They got the joke and all cracked up.
"Lucky we still have our tongues," said Mengfei with a straight face.
They laughed more. As they were eating and chatting, more people appeared in the restaurant and most of the seats were taken. There were several gatherings in the room, but each group of diners paid little attention to the other tables. Nan liked the fish and ate several pieces of it. Everything else, though, tasted mediocre, but he tried to show his appreciation. By now he realized this place must be a kind of club for officials, businesspeople, and the cultural elite.