Master Cheng Baolin lived in the eastern quarter of the capital, in a house that was neither large nor modest but exactly the right size for a man who had spent fifteen years at the center of everything and had decided, in retirement, that the periphery suited him better.
I learned this about the house before I learned much else about the man. The house told me things. It was positioned on a street that had enough foot traffic to be unremarkable but not so much that unusual visitors would go unnoticed by neighbors. The garden was visible from the street — a deliberate choice in a city where wealthy households concealed their gardens behind walls. The gate was simple, maintained, unornamented. Everything about the property said: I have nothing to hide, and I have nothing to prove.
