Hour of the Rat (27 page)

One day the girl fell ill, and she knew her time was short. She thought of her luxurious life and wondered, I now have four boyfriends with me, but when I die, I’ll be all alone
.

Thus, she asked the 4th boyfriend, “I loved you the most, endowed
you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?”

“No way!” replied the fourth boyfriend, and he walked away without another word
.

His answer cut like a sharp knife right into her heart. The sad girl then asked the third boyfriend, “I loved you all my life. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?”

“No!” replied the third boyfriend. “Life is too good! When you die, I’m going to marry someone else!” Her heart sank and turned cold. She then asked the second boyfriend, “I have always turned to you for help and you’ve always been there for me. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you out this time!” replied the second boyfriend. “At the very most, I can only walk with you to your grave.”

His answer struck her like a bolt of lightning, and the girl was devastated. Then a voice called out, “I’ll go with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.”

The girl looked up, and there was her first boyfriend. He was very skinny, as he suffered from malnutrition and neglect. Greatly grieved, the girl said, “I should have taken much better care of you when I had the chance!”

In truth, you have four boyfriends in your lives:

Your fourth boyfriend is your body. No matter how much time and effort you lavish on making it look good, it will leave you when you die. Your third boyfriend is your possessions, status and wealth. When you die, it will all go to others. Your second boyfriend is your family and friends. No matter how much they have been there for you, the furthest they can stay by you is up to the grave. And your first boyfriend is your soul. Often neglected in pursuit of wealth, power and pleasures of the world. However, your soul is the only thing that will follow you where ever you go. Cultivate, strengthen and cherish it now, for it is the only part of you that will follow you to the throne of God and continue with you throughout Eternity
.

Thought for the day: Remember, when the world pushes you to your knees, you’re in the perfect position to pray
.

Below this my mom has added, “
Andy says he knows some guys who can take care of the toilet!! XOXOX, Mom.
”

I order another beer and call Lucy Wu.

“O
H
,
IT
’
S NOTHING SO
serious.”

I hear glasses clinking, conversation, jazz playing underneath. I’m guessing Lucy Wu is at some nice bar or fancy party.

“Just … wait a moment.” She moves somewhere quieter. “The authorities came to the gallery, that’s all.”

“That’s all?”

A pause. “They asked me some questions about Lao Zhang. If I knew where he was. If I had any contact with him.” In the background someone laughs. “I don’t, of course, and I told them that. Then they asked if I could provide them with sales records for the last year. I told them I could.”

“And …?”

“They left. For now.”

I can picture her elegant shrug. Lucy Wu is one of these perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed, delicate, sexy Chinese women who make me feel like a big hot mess.

In spite of that, I kind of like her.

“Who were they?”

“Shanghai police.” Another pause. “That’s who they said they were anyway.”

The implication being: who the fuck knows who they really were?

“I get it.”

“It’s all so disagreeable. I’m just trying to run a business. Support art.” I hear footsteps, the sharp click of heels, like she’s pacing. “The government talks about promoting China’s culture in the Five-Year Plan, and
this
is the sort of thing they do. I’m a gallery owner, that’s all. An art dealer. Not some kind of dissident.”

She sounds pretty pissed off.

“Yeah,” I say. “So what are you going to do?”

Lucy sighs. “Well, I have some business in Hong Kong. I think I’ll go ahead and attend to that. Then maybe I’ll visit my cousin in Vancouver for a while.” She laughs shortly. “That is, if they let me leave the country.”

W
E TALK A LITTLE
longer, and Lucy confesses that she’s had a Canadian bank account for years, “just in case.”

“You know, you can’t always depend on things here,” she says, sounding a little defensive.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“Of course, you have an American passport. You can always go home if you want.”

“Yeah. Right.”

I
T
’
S DARK NOW
. S
TILL
early, just after seven, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. I settle up and hobble out onto the street. Take a walk. Test out my leg. It feels better, I tell myself, but the pain’s still pretty bad. I’m running low on Percocets, too. The majority of my stash is back in Beijing.

Yeah, I could go home. Back to the States. But what would I do there? I’ve been following the news. The recession. The
unemployment. What kind of work could I possibly get? What would I do with myself?

I have a life here. I have work. Friends. An apartment. Where my mom is currently living. And if I go home, what’s
she
gonna do?

Fuck it. I need a drink.

I
WALK FOR A
while, the farthest I’ve walked since that asshole in Guiyu took a whack at me. It’s cool out, but not freezing or anything, and I’m fine in my jacket and a knit hat that I bought off a blanket from some guy near the Beijing Forestry University. I need my Yangshuo walking stick for support, but I’m feeling pretty good. The walking helps get me out of my own head, a little anyway.

This is a pretty town. Not a lot of traffic. I find myself heading east, toward the lake. The street looks familiar, like maybe I saw it from the taxi this morning. Where the hipster couple from the train got dropped off. A few bars and coffee places stuck in between local businesses and houses. Quieter than the main tourist drag near where I’m staying.

Except this place. I can hear the music thumping faintly as I approach. An old building, decrepit façade painted black.

There’s a signboard with a cartoon monkey grinning over his shoulder, red ass cheeks thrust out like an invitation.

The Cheeky Monkey.

That’s where the hipster couple said they’d be tonight, I remember.

I hesitate outside the door. I still don’t do well with a lot of noise. It makes me nervous. And the hipster couple, I mean, they were nice enough, but it’s not like I’m dying to see them again.

On the other hand, I could go in there and have a couple
of beers. It’s something to do. And tomorrow I’ll question the manager at the Dali Perfect Inn, see if she can tell me anything about video director Langhai, maybe even go to the new city and check out the Modern Scientific Seed Company. Or not.

Because a part of me thinks I’d better punch out. Deal with my own shit. Of which there is much. Turn over the leads I have to Dog, or to Natalie anyway, and let them decide what to do.

But in the meantime I could have a beer, I guess.

I grab the door handle, feel the rough carved wood against my palm and fingers, open it, and go inside.

The smoke hits me more than the music does; the air is blue with it. The walls of the bar are painted black, with Day-Glo graffiti on them, lit up by black lights. The place is pretty small, like a
hutong
bar, with a combination of small sprung couches and old wooden chairs. The music’s not bad. Modern trance stuff, British, I think.

I push my way up to the bar. Not too many customers this time of night. A couple Western hippie/backpacker types, a young Chinese woman wearing a sixties-style polka-dot dress, her girlfriend in rolled-up Levi’s and slicked-back hair. The waitress is Chinese, the bartender some burnout European guy dressed in black, with big gold earrings. “What can I get you, love?” he says.

I look at the beer list. “Erdinger, I guess.” Thirty kuai, which is nuts, but at least it’s a big bottle.

He pours, I pay, and I hobble off to a solitary armchair in the back of the bar. I sip my beer and let the music wash over me. I seriously don’t know why I’m here.

After a few minutes, Polka-Dot Dress and Levi’s drift over. “Hello!” Polka-Dot Dress says. “Where are you from?”

“Beijing.
Ni ne?
”

She giggles. “Oh, you speak Chinese! So many foreigners speak Chinese now! We are from Shanghai.”

The two of them settle down in chairs next to me and strike up a conversation. Levi’s is an “independent filmmaker working on story of two lesbians in relationship and one marries gay man to satisfy family demands.” Polka-Dot is a fashion designer. “We come here because Dali very artistic place. You can meet all kinds of people.”

They seem nice. It’s nice talking to them. One of the backpackers comes over, a guy from Germany. The bar starts to fill up, not that it takes much in a place this size. Porkpie Hat Guy and Lei Feng T-Shirt, the couple from the train, arrive. “Hey,
ni hao!
You came!” The backpacker buys a round of the local Dali beer for the table. I’m thinking, you know, this is … nice. I can meet people, and hang out, and enjoy myself. I’m feeling like a member of the human race for a change.

And that’s when Russell from Yangshuo walks in the door.

I spot him right away. Weaselly dude with greasy hair, his cheekbones and Adam’s apple overwhelming his chin. And he’s limping. A lot. Worse than me. He has an actual cane. His head swivels around, like he’s looking for someone.

Me, apparently.

He limps over. Stretches the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile.

“Hey. Ellie. Glad I found you.”

“Russell, right?”

“That’s right.”

He sits in the chair next to me that the backpacker guy just vacated. He has to juggle the cane to pull out the chair, because his free wrist is wrapped in an elastic bandage.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“Dali’s a small place.” The smile again. “American, good-looking girl, I asked around.”

Oh, brother. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to this bar. I didn’t even
know
I was coming to this bar.”

“Like I said, small town. And a little luck.”

I try to think it through.

If I could figure out that Jason had a connection to the Dali Perfect Inn, no reason someone who actually knew him wouldn’t be able to as well. Russell could have started there, I guess. Tracked me to the Indian place. And from there …

“This bar is in all the guidebooks,” he’s saying. “You know, your Lonely Planets.” His lip curls a bit as he says this.

But how would he know I was in Dali?

I shrug. “Okay, whatever. What do you want?”

He leans toward me. Ducks his head. Lowers his voice. “You want to find David, right?”

I lean back. I don’t like this guy in my face. I nod. “Yeah.”

“What if I could take you to him?”

“I
T
’
S A FARMHOUSE
,”
HE
says. “Outside town a bit. I’ll take you there.”

“A farmhouse. You pulled a knife on me, and you want me to go with you to a ‘farmhouse.’ ” I make the finger quotes. “I may not be Einstein, but I’m not fucking stupid.”

“You fucking drove me into a ditch,” he half snarls. “And you—” He thinks better of it and shuts up.

“Stomped on your foot when you tried to mug me? Yeah. I’m real sorry about that.”

I watch him try to calm himself down.

“Look, we didn’t know who you were,” he says. “The … the people we’re up against, they have …” He looks around. Lowers his voice. “They have spies. Everywhere.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.”

And I thought
I
was paranoid.

“So who is it you’re up against?”

“
You
know.”

“Not offhand.”

He leans in close. “Eos.”

Eos. Naturally. “And New Century Seeds?”

Russell nods.

“Why are you coming to me now?” I ask.

“We checked you out,” he practically whispers. His mouth is next to my ear. I can still barely hear him over the music. “Your story, I mean. That you’re a friend of David’s family.”

“I checked out, huh? Interesting.”

Because there’s no way my story could have “checked out”—I never gave Russell, or Erik, or Alice, or
anyone
“David’s” real name or the names of his family.

The only person who could verify it is David/Jason himself.

So either Russell is a big liar or he really is in contact with Jason.

“I’m not just gonna go with you to some farmhouse,” I finally say. “I mean, why should I trust you?”

“I thought you wanted to talk to David.” He sounds surprised.

“I do.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the address. Write it down. Name a time. I’ll meet you there.”

H
E DOESN
’
T WANT TO
do it, but in the end he doesn’t have much choice. Because I’m totally willing to hit the eject button on this mission and head home. Russell, on the other hand, seems really hung up on my going to this farmhouse. Which all by itself is a reason I’m not so enthusiastic about going, because this guy is a weasel, and not in the cute little pet ferrety sense.