The black Audi sedan picked us up from the golf club and made a course northwest through winding mountain roads. I recognized Xiaowen, the driver who had first picked me up in Beijing, but he didn’t acknowledge the connection. As we ascended the mountain, a thick fog rolled in from the forest and clouded the car windows. Xiaowen turned on the low beams and slowed us down to a crawl.
By the time we arrived at the gate, it was raining. Xiaowen rolled down the window to have his face scanned by the security camera; there was a blueish flash, then the gate clicked open and we started climbing up the steep driveway to Bo’s home. As we rounded the bend, the granite facade of the massive villa loomed into view. Xiaowen dropped us in front of the oaken front doors and disappeared to park the vehicle.
We descended a graceful set of steps from the foyer into Bo’s minimalist living room. The room was awash in the blue-gray light of early evening, which seeped in from the garden through a window wall. Bo’s garden was bounded by impressive laurel privacy hedges ten feet high, the type commonly seen in wealthy suburbs on the US East and West Coast. I could make out a koi pond, a limestone scholars’ rock, and a Blackstone grill.
Bo excused himself and left me alone in the living room. I checked my phone and saw I had no signal. We’d driven at least an hour from the course and must be far outside of the city. Something about the rain and the fog this high up in the mountains was disquieting; it felt like a place I could easily disappear. Some orchestral music started to play on the surround sound system. Then, Bo reappeared with his wife, Michelle. They opened a bottle of red wine and sat down together on the couch across from me.
“This is a beautiful home,” I said.
“My wife will only be too happy to hear that,” Bo said, beaming. “Michelle is an architect, you remember. She designed the entire place herself. We used to live in the city when our son was in grade school, but I bought this plot of land in the mountains a decade ago as an anniversary gift for her; I told her it was a canvas.”
Hearing that kind of sentimentality from Bo caught me off guard. “What a lovely story,” I said. “And it’s so quiet up here. Do you have neighbors?”
“None. And that’s of the utmost importance for us. Privacy is the highest luxury in Beijing, where there are CCTVs everywhere on every street corner. Because of my work, I have many guests here from foreign countries—often people in highly sensitive positions. They love to stay here because it is so quiet, and they feel they can speak freely. I hope you feel similarly.”
I searched Bo’s face for signs of suspicion. Was I imagining the malicious subtext in his last sentence?
“You must stay with us tonight too,” Michelle said. “When Bo told me you were coming, I set up the guest bedroom in the south wing for you. You’ll be comfortable there, and Xiaowen will drive you back to the city tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, I’d love to. That’s very kind of you. But I have a meeting tomorrow morning, so I really have to get back to the city.”
Michelle pulled up the weather app on her phone. “You see, Michael, there’s going to be a thunderstorm tonight. The mountain roads are very muddy when it rains, so it’s not safe for you to return tonight.”
I realized there was no possibility I would be returning to my apartment that night. “I see. In that case, thank you for letting me stay.”
Michelle smiled at me. “You’re very welcome. By the way, how are your Chinese lessons going?”
I froze and scanned her expression, which was perfectly neutral—no emotions at all behind her watchful eyes.
“Last time we had dinner together, you mentioned you were taking Chinese lessons. How are they going? Have you found a good teacher?”
“Oh, yes. I think I’m making progress. Though I haven’t been as committed to it lately as I should be, with all that’s been going on.”
“I see. One of the young men who works with Bo—I believe you met him at the AV Conference—said he spotted you with someone near Tsinghua University last week. He thought it might’ve been a lesson, so he didn’t come say hi.”
How would Bo’s associate have known I was taking Chinese lessons? And if he did see me—how long had he stood there, and what had he heard? A woman emerged from the kitchen to let us know dinner was ready. We sat down at the marble dining table and she brought out a hot pot with slices of lamb and beef, fish balls, green vegetables, tofu, lotus root, and glass noodles. Bo decanted another bottle of red wine. My chair faced the window, and I looked out at the mountain ranges and the swollen dark clouds creeping closer. I wondered if my father’s lab was somewhere in that view, obscured by rain, dusk, and canopy; whether he had even sat in my place at this very table.
Just then, a teenage boy joined us from upstairs. Michelle introduced him as their son Kevin, a rising senior at Beijing No. 4 High School. Kevin greeted me with a polite nod. Unlike his father, he had more of a sensitive look, with his pale, oval-shaped face, high nose bridge, and long haircut with the bangs covering his forehead. Bo started the conversation by telling Michelle and Kevin about my upcoming trip back to Princeton.
“I’m very envious of your upcoming trip, Michael. I spent a year as a young man studying in New York City. This was the year 1988—Reagan’s last year in office when the movie Die Hard came out. You’ve seen it, right? The trip was too short and I promised myself I would return. Now thirty years have gone by.”
I realized that Bo’s account of his time in New York matched the timeline Scully gave me during our first conversation—he was telling the truth. “Why don’t you join me on this trip? We could add you as a panelist for the Princeton in Asia panel. I’m sure the students would love to hear from you. Then we could spend some time in New York together before or after.”
Bo put down his chopsticks. “But I’m not connected to the university in any way. You don’t think that would appear a bit suspicious?”
“Not at all,” I said, “we bring in outside speakers all the time. Selfishly, given your stature, it would make me look really good. And I’ll admit I am eager to impress my former classmates.”
He chuckled. “Now that I understand. I was very much the same when I was your age. Sadly, now is a difficult time for men in my position to visit the United States. Our friend Wengui made too much noise and ruined the party for everyone. I will have to live vicariously through you. And, if all goes well, Kevin, who we hope will study in the US next year.”
Kevin stared down at his plate and shifted in his seat. I noticed he was barely eating.
“Yes, he’s in the middle of it all now. College applications are due in just a few months. We’ve hired a consultant to help guide him through the process. But to be honest, I don’t trust him. Despite his exorbitant fees, he promises nothing and insists no one else in the business can either. In fact, he tells us admissions officers will view Kevin skeptically because he’s coming from China, since Chinese students have a reputation for faking transcripts and test scores. Essentially scamming their way to get in. But this is hypocritical bullshit. Michael, tell them what you told me about the thirteenth graders.”
I told Michelle and Kevin about the thirteenth graders, and Michelle shook her head in disapproval. Then I offered to help edit Kevin’s essays, which pleased Bo immensely. Now the conversation settled into a more natural rhythm. Predictably, the topics revolved around Kevin: we talked about his extracurricular activities, what he hoped to study in college, what it’s like to attend an American university. Then Bo told several stories about his career as a venture capitalist, taking care to draw parallels between me and his younger self, which were so incredibly specific I had to remind myself he was making them up. It amazed me that neither Kevin nor Michelle seemed to register any reaction to Bo’s made-up stories; was it possible they didn’t know what he really did for work?
Kevin excused himself, saying he had to study for his SATs. As the sky outside darkened, I started to feel increasingly trapped. Now that Kevin was upstairs, Bo transitioned to work talk, praising my extraordinary early results and promise. I got the sickening feeling that he was manipulating me once again. Who was Bo to make me feel as if he saw only the best in me, only to lie to my face and use me? What about the promises that had been made and hastily forgotten? Did he think I wouldn’t notice, when he swapped Christine for Vivian, or did he just think I would be too cowardly to say anything?
“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you, Bo,” I said. “Where is Vivian? Candidly, I’ve been wondering what’s happened to her.”
Bo’s expression darkened in an instant. “Do you have reason to believe something has happened to her?”
“I just haven’t heard from her since I arrived in Beijing.”
Bo let the silence in the wake of my words hang in the air for a few seconds. “And you think I might have something to do with that?”
“No. I’m not saying anything happened. I just thought you might have a sense of where she is, given you’re her uncle.”
“I see. The two of you did seem close. However, I don’t control my niece. Unfortunately, she’s been known to disappear for months at a time.”
“It’s getting late,” Michelle interjected. “I think we’d better let Michael get some rest. I asked Xiaowen to pick him up at 7:00 A.M. tomorrow.”
“Yes. Come, Michael, let me show you to your room.” Bo took me to a guest bedroom on the second floor and bid me goodnight. He was almost all the way down the hall before he turned again and added, “By the way, Michael, if you feel sleepless, see if the library has what you’re looking for.”
I took a hot shower and started to worry that I had been too aggressive in asking about Vivian. I gently pushed open the bedroom door and listened for any voices—I heard nothing except for the sound of typing from Kevin’s bedroom, which ceased at one o’clock in the morning. After I was certain that the house was completely silent, I crept into the library next door and turned the light on. I saw it at once—the blackness of the camera lens peering into me from the canvas. I knew even before checking the artist’s signature: the same painting I had seen at the gallery in San Francisco on my last day in America, hanging on the wall in Bo’s library.