Free Everything Under the Sky by Matilde Asensi

black silk tunic with a shiny black damask vest over top, done up to the neck with small dark green jade buttons. A white goatee, round tortoiseshell glasses, and a skullcap rounded off the image, with a curved gold nail on each pinkie as the final decorative touch. His gaze was like that of an eagle, all-seeing without appearing to move, and the smile that danced on his lips made his prominent cheekbones even more pronounced. This, then, was Mr. Jiang, the antiquarian, whose bearing radiated strength and distinction, though I couldn't have said whether he was attractive or not, I was so unfamiliar with Celestials’ facial features, in terms of both beauty and age. His cane and white beard were obvious signs that he was older, but how much so was impossible to say.
    “Ni hao , 5 Mme De Poulain. Delighted to meet you,” he murmured in excellent French, bowing his head in greeting. He didn't have the slightest accent, speaking the language better than Tichborne, who mumbled, swallowing most of the vowels.
    “Likewise,” I replied, lifting my right hand so he could take it, then pausing when I realized how absurd the gesture was: Chinese men never touch women, not even for a polite Western greeting. I quickly lowered my arm and remained quiet, feeling slightly awkward.
    “This must be your niece,” he said, looking at her but not bowing his head.
    “Yes, Fernanda, my sister's daughter.”
    “My name is Fernandina,” she rushed to clarify, before realizing that Mr. Jiang had already looked away and was ignoring her. He didn't look at her again the whole time we were there, and in the weeks to come, my niece simply didn't exist as far as he was concerned. Women are of little importance to Chinese men, and girls even less; Fernanda had to swallow her outrage and accept the fact that Mr. Jiang probably wouldn't even see or hear her if she were drowning and screaming for help.
    As we sat in easy chairs crowded around a coffee table, the antiquarian told me that his family name was Jiang, his given name Longyan, and his courtesy name Da Teh, that his friends called him Lao Jiang, and that Westerners knew him as Mr. Jiang. Naturally, I thought it was some sort of a joke that I didn't quite understand, so I laughed out loud. But this was another serious blunder: Tichborne raised his eyebrows at me to stop. Then, in a superior tone, he explained that it was polite for Chinese people to introduce themselves by giving their full name—reversing the order and putting family name first, since one's given name is extremely personal and reserved solely for family—then their courtesy name, which only men of higher learning and a certain social class were allowed to use, and then the name given to them by friends in informal situations, which was formed by placing the word Lao, “Old,” or Xiao, “Young,” before the family name. There were many other names, Tichborne said—baby name, school name, generation name, even a posthumous name—but as a general rule only the three that Mr. Jiang had mentioned were used during introductions. The antiquarian remained silent but animated, listening to our conversation. Then, as if doing us a great honor, the Irishman told Fernanda and me that Jiang meant “Jade Case” and Da Teh meant “Great Virtue.”
    “And don't forget my given name,” the antiquarian added humorously. “Longyan means ‘Dragon Eyes.’ My father thought it suited the son of a merchant, who must always pay attention to the value of things.”
    At that point, it would seem, it was all right for us to laugh.
    “Well then, Mme De Poulain,” Mr. Jiang went on—and I must say the name “Dragon Eyes” fit him like a glove—“has everything gone well since you arrived in Shanghai? Has anything untoward happened to you since you spoke with Paddy last night at the consulate?”
    “With whom?” I asked, surprised.
    “With me,” Tichborne clarified. “Paddy is the diminutive of Patrick.”
    Fernanda shot me a