22So here he is again. Same time, same date, same spot. Weng sighs. What does he get out of it? The same question each year, and each year he can never come up with a satisfactory answer. Each year, he’s here at the riverfront to play his flute. A personal commemorative event, he explains. The small groups of old men seated here and there on the stone benches, and those boys and girls holding hands… ah well, they’re here to pak-tor, out on a date. Not to listen to him, he assures the police officer. He’s not disturbing the peace, but nevertheless, the officer gives him a warning.
He’d started coming here soon after his return from the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. Since then, he had not missed a single anniversary of the river squatters’ protest. On this day, each year, he comes to the
