Gang turned further around, clearing his throat and banging on the table dramatically. “Sages and scholars are solitary for thousands of years. Only a drunkard leaves his name behind.”

That sounded like a quote from Li Bai, a Tang-dynasty poet well-known for his passion for the cup.

“Do you know who I am?” Gang went on. “The commander in chief of the Third Red Guard Headquarters in Shanghai. A loyal soldier for Mao, leading millions of Red Guards to fight for him. In the end, he threw us to a pack of wolves.”

The waitress put the cold dishes and Qingdao beer on Chen’s table. “The noodles and the chef’s special will come shortly.”

The moment she walked away, Gang rose and shambled over, grinning from ear to ear and carrying a tiny bottle of liquor called a “small firecracker” among the drunkards.

“So you are a newcomer here, young man. I would like to give you a word or two of advice. Life is short, sixty or seventy years, no point worrying away your days till your hair turns white. Heartbroken for a woman? Come on. A woman is just like that smoked fish head. Not much meat but too many bones, staring at you with ghastly eyes on a white platter. If you’re not careful, you get a bone stuck in your throat. Think about Mao. Such a man, and yet he, too, was ruined by his woman – or women. He fucked his brains out in the end!”

Gang talked like a drunkard, hardly coherent with so many conversational leaps, but it was intriguing, even stunning, to Chen.

“So you had your day during the Cultural Revolution,” Chen said, gesturing for Gang to share the table with him.

“Revolution’s like a bitch. She seduces you, and she dumps you like a mop smeared with the shit and dirt from her ass.” Gang took his seat opposite Chen, picking up a piece of dried tofu with his fingers, sucking at his empty liquor bottle. “And a bitch is like revolution too, muddling your head and heart.”

“That’s how you ended up here – because of both women and revolution?”