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mother. She had believed him, she had wanted to believe him, but he had deceived her, cheated on her, and betrayed her. He had gone behind her back and lied to her. She said all this without self-pity. That was the risk that human beings took when they trusted other people; that was the price they paid. Later, her relations had whispered among themselves that she had brought this on herself; she had been so naïve, so trusting. She had had no contact with her family for months because of their opinions. She would not have done any differently today. Believing and hoping. Over and over again.
    As if trusting was only for fools. As if we had a choice.
    Darkness had started to fall by the time Christine’s torrent of words slowed to a trickle. In the twilight she could make out Paul’s shadowy outline; he sat opposite her, motionless. The flickering of the candle, which he had lighted, fell on his face. He looked exhausted, as if he was the one who had been talking the whole time. They sat in silence for a long time; it was not an ominous silence, though, but one that lifted their spirits.
    A gesture, a mere hint, and . . .
    â€”——
    He walked her down to the ferry terminal. It had stopped rainingand the light from the streetlamps was reflected in the puddles. The restaurants in Yung Shue Wan were brightly lit and full of big families who didn’t mind the cold wind; their laughter and chatter sounded through the village and over the hills around it. A couple of fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the harbor.
    The ferry arrived on time.
    They stood facing each other, silent, unsure of how to part. But even though they did not arrange to meet again, parting with a noncommittal “Maybe we’ll see each other again,” her feeling of intimacy, of being comforted and safe, remained undiminished.

V

    Sleep was out of the question. He lay on the futon, stared up at the ceiling, and listened to the whirring fan and the furious whine of the mosquitoes trying in vain to find a hole in the mosquito net. The rain drummed heavily against the windowpanes once again. He had spoken more today and listened to more than he had in all the previous months in total. Of course he had had to offer the freezing and shivering woman a hot shower and some hot soup; he had not given it a second thought. But why hadn’t she left after that? As far as he could remember, he had not prompted her to do so. Neither directly nor indirectly. Why not? Why had he let this intruder in his world not only do as she pleased but even told her where he was born, how long he had lived in Hong Kong, and that he was divorced? He could not explain his sudden talkativeness. Nor his attentiveness when she had talked. Listening and asking questions. Over and over again. What for? Had he really wanted to know all that? In retrospect, this sudden intimacy with a stranger was beyond unpleasant, as if he had stepped over an invisible boundary and given away something precious about himself, betrayed someone or something, though he could not say who or what.
    As if trusting was only for fools. As if we had a choice. These words stuck in his mind. We always have a choice, he had wanted to reply to her, but he had kept silent instead. She was a beautiful woman; he had to give her that. He pictured her sitting in front of him inthe twilight, her pageboy haircut, her skin unusually tanned for a Hong Kong woman, her slim but toned arms and hands, her long, tapering fingers. He heard her voice: a soft, agreeable voice that removed much of the aggressiveness and crudeness from the sound of Cantonese, and which made her English unusually gentle and melodic. It still sounded clearly in his ears. Paul remembered far too many details about the day and it disturbed him.
    He felt revulsion rise in him. A disgust for himself. His chattiness. His questions. His interest in her.
    â€”——
    The following Sunday, he went into the village