A week later, I got an email reminding me to RSVP for Princeton Reunions, which were coming up at the end of the month.
I’d never actually attended, at least not as an alumnus. But I remember the ritual well from my days as a student. Princeton Reunions were a big deal. People like to say it’s the single largest alcohol-consumption event that happens in the United States every year, but that’s technically not true—it’s the single largest private beer order in the country (350 kegs). It’s also, in my cynical and perhaps unfair view, the single largest dick-measuring and ass-kissing event in the United States. The alums who return are desperate to convince their former classmates that the course of their lives have fulfilled the promise of Princeton. Nothing, of course, is as impressive in WASP world as generosity, which creates opportunities for current students. One friend who stayed after classes ended to work as a driver for the septuagenarian classes told me he made $1,400 in tips over the course of four days and landed a last-minute internship for the summer.
Funnily enough, the email came from my ex-girlfriend Jessica, who had been elected class marshal or class president, whatever it’s called, the fall after we all graduated. She was an obvious choice—upbeat, supremely organized, cool but didn’t make you feel uncool. For months I’d been ignoring her mass messages soliciting donations, feedback on class events, the design of the five-year “beer jacket,” etc. This time, though, there was a personalized reply to the mass email list, addressed just to me.
Hi Michael,
Have you been getting these messages? I don’t see your name on the RSVP list, but I’m still holding out hope that you’ll finally join us this year! People really miss you, probably more than you think!
Anyway—Lawrence is organizing a Princeton in Asia panel at Jones Hall on the Saturday of reunions at 10:00 a.m. He said he hasn’t been able to get in touch with you and wanted me to reach out and ask if you’d maybe be interested in being one of the panelists? Apparently a few people in our class and the class above have been asking about you since you started that new job at Naveon.
Also—you just moved to China without even saying goodbye? Obviously I’m happy for you… but come on! Find a way to make it up to me!
Your friend,
Jessica
The notion that others had been not just talking but inquiring about me filled me with exquisite delight, because it suggested they cared enough to potentially feel jealous. How refreshing it felt to be the object, rather than the subject, of jealousy at Princeton for once! I was convinced instantly. I replied to Jessica, saying I had to check my travel calendar and would let her know. Then I set off to see Ferris.
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea for you to go back to Princeton Reunions,” Ferris said. “It’ll build credibility with Bo, by showing that you’re proactive and highly networked in the university community. He’d also most likely take a harder look at the leads coming out of your trip because they will seem more proprietary.”
We were at a shitty American restaurant in Sanlitun District called Blue Frog. We’d met here because I wanted a burger, probably a symptom of early onset nostalgia for America in anticipation of reunions.
“I think I can definitely pitch it to him. Do you think Agent Lim and Agent Reddy will bite?”
Ferris nodded. “I think so. Should be pretty straightforward for them to set up shadow meetings for you with researchers at Princeton and Rutgers. They may even want to identify some high-value ‘targets’ for you to preview with Bo to build interest.”
The burgers arrived, oversized and pinkish gray. To my disappointment, there were not enough fries. Suddenly I wanted a milkshake, but a vision of the suit I wanted to wear at Reunions prevented me from ordering one. Ferris had a milkshake.
At our next meeting, Ferris briefed me on a new batch of profiles that had just come in from the FBI. The clear standout was Yang Xujun, a forty-six-year-old Princeton faculty member who was a leader in the field of microchip design and fabrication. I knew instantly that Yang was the perfect bait. He held a dual appointment with National Taiwan University and had worked as an independent contractor for the national champion Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Company, which meant it was virtually certain he had inside knowledge on secretive semifab techniques that Bo’s stakeholders were trying to replicate. In Bo’s office, I explained how the circuit timing/control and thermal management techniques Yang developed could improve the power density of modern microchips by an order of magnitude and showed him evidence from interviews in trade publications about Yang’s work at TSMSC. Bo pressed his fingertips together and interrupted with lots of questions, which I’ve learned shows that he’s excited.
“I agree, Michael, it sounds quite promising. Will you have an opportunity to meet with Dr. Yang?”
“Yes, I’ll be meeting him during Princeton Reunions. We’re scheduled to have dinner together on the Friday evening of that weekend.”
“A man like Dr. Yang must receive many solicitations from headhunters and answer almost none of them. How did you get him to agree to have dinner?”
“My freshman year floormate is a PhD candidate in his lab,” I lied. “I found out from her that outside of his academic work, Dr. Yang chairs a nonprofit dedicated to poverty alleviation in the Chinese countryside. Apparently, fundraising’s been difficult. I asked her for an introduction positioning Naveon as a potential sponsor of his organization.”
“I see. Good work. Make sure you leave a good impression. I think this man can make a significant impact for us; opportunities of this size don’t appear very often. Don’t talk to him too much about money, but make it clear we can make this very much worth his time. If your meeting with him goes well and he’s willing to work with us, I’ll want to meet with him face-to-face as well.”
“Understood. Thank you.” I couldn’t believe it—this was the first time Bo expressed any degree of interest in an in-person meeting. Sensing an opening, I continued. “By the way, Bo, there was one more thing.”
“Tell me.”
“What you mentioned last time. Finding a time to see my dad. When can we do that?”
“Soon, Michael. I spoke to him right after our dinner. He knows you’re here and wants to see you as soon as possible. But as I mentioned last time, certain state security policies restrict his visits to the city. He and his staff are in lockdown until the final delivery of the multiyear project they are very close to completing—what your father came to Beijing to do. The exact timeline, whether that is weeks or months, is unclear. But perhaps I could use some of my connections to get a security clearance for you to visit the facility. Give me some time. Maybe after you return from your trip to the United States.”
I looked hard into his black, depthless eyes. Was he bullshitting me? If the work my father was doing was so top secret he couldn’t even visit Beijing, how could the authorities consider granting a security clearance to a random American? There was also something disingenuous and contingent about the way he’d proposed the timing of the visit, as if he was holding my father hostage until I gave him what he wanted. I felt an adrenaline-streaked tingling around my eyes and temples that threatened to explode. I had to remind myself how dangerous this man was in order to calm down. There was something dark about Bo, the way he invisibly shaped events.
“By the way, do you have everything you need for the Reunions weekend?” he said. “Christine gave you the company card, right? Please spare no expense in making this visit a success. Anything you need, you have my direct approval.”
“Yes. I appreciate that, Bo,” I said.
The following day, I finally returned Christine’s call. She picked up on the first ring, but there was a touch of annoyance in her voice.
“Well, Michael? I assume this call means you made it back to China in one piece. I worried about you, in case that wasn’t obvious.”
There were six missed calls from her in my call history starting from when I got back, which was five days ago. “I’m really sorry it took so long to return your call. Things have been very strange lately.”
“You don’t have to apologize. But the next time you need to talk to someone, I hope you just call me.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I suppose a small part of me was touched.
“I’m free for a bit this afternoon,” I said. “Would you like to get a coffee?”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t drink coffee,” she said. “But sure.”
I met Christine at Bracket Coffee in Sanlitun and bought her a latte, which she drank with both hands cupped under the mug. I could tell she was trying to be cold and standoffish but in reality was happy to see me. I told her about my plan to attend Princeton Reunions and find a way to introduce Bo to Yang Xujun. I also mentioned that I would be co-hosting a panel for Princeton in Asia. She laughed.
“So you are… a guest of honor?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Not bad, dage! They definitely wouldn’t let just anybody do that. You must be such a big shot.”
She gave me two thumbs-up, which made me feel slightly irritated. I told her I needed to do some shopping for Reunions and she agreed to help me, so we went to Taikoo Li, the outdoor mall. We looked at the Reunions itinerary on my phone together and Christine picked out three outfits for me. She really knew what she was doing, and by the end of the afternoon I was surprised to find myself looking somewhat presentable. It was almost dinnertime, so to thank her for helping me I took her to a Spanish tapas restaurant and ordered ham croquettes, seafood paella, and a pitcher of white sangria.
The shopping and the sangria had put me in an excited and chatty mood. I started to feel warmly toward Christine, even thought that my dad could have used a woman like her in his life, someone to polish the rough edges. Christine only picked at the food, often cupping her right cheek in her palm. When we reached the last quarter of the paella, I started to wonder if all my excitement about Reunions was coming across as lame. Plus, we still hadn’t talked about what happened in San Francisco.
“So it’s a five-year reunion—that means most of your classmates still won’t have had kids right? But probably a few that are married or engaged?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said absentmindedly. Princeton Reunions were notoriously a great place to meet someone new or reconnect with an old flame. But this was far from my mind.
“Are you allowed to bring a plus-one?”
“Some do, but most don’t,” I said. An image of Vivian’s arm pressed against mine in the garden at Tsinghua University came vaunting back from memory, which instantly soured my mood. I took another gulp of sangria. Vivian would have been, of course, the ultimate finishing touch for my triumphant return to Princeton. Stewing over this, I retreated into myself for a few moments, and when I looked up again, I noticed a slightly downcast expression on Christine’s face.
“I see,” she said.
I didn’t realize until we got the check that I hadn’t asked her a single question about herself.