Stand in the fallow rice paddies, look across to the nearest village at the foot of the mountains, then close your eyes. Imagine a red and white seersucker picnic cloth spread beneath a large basket holding fresh loaves, red wine, cheese and chicken drumsticks. Insects hum in the distance. Then imagine yourself walking up a gentle hill. On either side there are grapevines, then a small vegetable plot. The day is warm, the sky clear and blue; it’s all so close to perfection. Then ruin everything by opening your eyes. This is not Burgundy but the Chinese countryside, and old Mr Xiao is walking this way. He has news.

‘They are here,’ he says. ‘They are here for you.’