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I thought you would throw away the card. After what you said.

I think I might have made a mistake, she said. Did I?

Of course you did.

Just so you know, she said, I don’t expect anything from you. And you shouldn’t either. We’re starting off equal.

What do you mean?

You’ll see, she said. See you there. And she hung up.

I’d only been to the Shangri-La in Hong Kong once, for an awards ceremony, but as I remembered it the one in Shenzhen was an exact copy: chandeliers, marble, lots of mirrors, and thick carpet that swallowed the sound of your footsteps. Fancy hotels make me nervous; I always avoid them if I can. Being in one of those places makes me feel like someone has handed me something fragile—a glass bowl, an antique vase—and won’t let me put it down.

She was waiting for me at a low table in the lobby, drinking coffee. I’d wondered if I would recognize her again, without the clothes, but even through the outside windows I picked her out immediately. Her hair was piled into a tight bun, and she was wearing a dark green jacket; even without the makeup her skin was as white as chalk. Nothing she did suggested she was waiting for someone. Her eyes rested on the floor; she brought the cup to her lips slowly, as if she had hours to finish it. I’d never met anyone so beautiful in that way, so severe and composed and self-contained.

When I walked up to her she barely smiled.

I’m sorry about the phone call, she said. It was a bad line. I couldn’t talk long.

It’s all right. As soon as I sat down, a waiter appeared. Coffee, I said. What she’s having.

Did it take you long to get here?

No. My apartment is only half an hour from the border. In Tai Wo.

She nodded politely. She has no idea where that is, I thought. Don’t be rude. I feel awkward about this, I said. I don’t even know your name.

Bai Ming is my name, she said. But everyone calls me Lin.

Like Lin in the book, right?

She gave me a puzzled look and shook her head.

Lin Dai-yu, I said. From the Dream of the Red Chamber?

Lin was my elder sister, she whispered. She died when I was twelve.

I took a sip of coffee and looked around the lobby; in various mirrors, from a distance, I could see ten different reflections of our two heads together. As if we were man and wife, or brother and sister, or a boss and his secretary; as if there were one good reason for us to be sitting at the same table.

I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I said. Maybe we should speak plainly. I’m not sure I understand why you asked me to come here. Did you want to find out about a job?

I wanted to talk, she said. I’ve never met anyone from Hong Kong before—just an ordinary person, I mean. I thought maybe that’s what you were.

What do you mean by ordinary?

A person who doesn’t want something.

I don’t think I qualify for that, I said. Everybody wants something. It just happens that I don’t come to China looking for it.

She stared at me for so long I shifted in my chair.

What is it that you want?

I shrugged. The same as everybody, I guess. Good fortune. More money. An apartment on the beach. A car. Good health. A family of my own.

You aren’t married?

Does that surprise you? Do I seem married?

No, she said. I didn’t think so. But where I come from you would have to be married.

I smiled. My parents are dead, I said. So no one’s banging on my door asking for grandsons.

She looked down at her hands. Close up her skin seemed thin and almost transparent, like rice paper; there were faint bluish shadows underneath her cheekbones. Does she not eat? I wondered. Or not go out in the sun?

So now we know one another’s secrets, I said, and laughed, or tried to; it sounded more like coughing. That’s a good way to begin, isn’t it? We can’t make any worse fools of ourselves.

You can leave, she said quickly. If you want to. Don’t feel obligated to stay.

Not at all, I said. But I have a question for you. Why did you want to meet here? Isn’t there someplace less formal?

I come here all the time, she said. It’s quiet. It’s clean. And there