Hour of the Rat (9 page)

“Thanks for asking,” I say, folding the page and putting it back in my canvas bag.

As I turn to go, she puts her hand on my arm for a moment.
“I hope you find him!” she says. “It’s terrible for his family to worry.”

I wonder where she’s from. Where her family is. What they know about her situation. What her situation even is.

If she’s lucky, she’s from the area. Has a home to go to. A bed of her own. Or works for an employer who provides a dorm room somewhere close by.

Or she sleeps here, in the coffeehouse, after it closes. Wraps herself in a blanket and sleeps on a straw mat, on the floor, beneath the tables.

“Thanks,” I say. “I hope I find him, too.”

I stop at every open business along Xi Jie. Show people the photo. Watch them shake their heads. If Jason had been here, he was just another foreigner. One who didn’t do anything particularly memorable.

I limp down the street. By now I’ve got a throbbing headache and my leg feels like it’s on fire. Percocet, I think. I’m going to sit down and have a beer and a Percocet.

Not on Xi Jie, though. Some quiet side street. At least there’s plenty of those here in Yangshuo.

I’ll try one last club and call it a night.

Up ahead is a place called the Last Emperor. Lots of red and gold. The same pounding music as everyplace else, Lady Gaga at the moment. Outside, there’s a guy dressed in a costume doing his come-ons, a slouched, shuffling sort of dance combined with waving people in. He’s wearing a Qing-dynasty-style beanie, a fake pigtail, and a long embroidered robe over counterfeit Levi’s and Nikes.

“Come inside! Ladies’ night!” he says to me, in English. He’s young, with a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, an attempt at a goatee.

“Maybe. But first can I ask you, this man, have you seen him?”

He stops his shuffle. Takes a look at Jason’s photo. “Why you want to know?”

“His family misses him.”

He lifts the other corner of his mouth in half a grin. “Really?” He hands me back the sheet. “You can ask over there.” He points with his cigarette down the side street that empties into Xi Jie across from us. “Place called Gecko. Lots of foreigners like it.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

He takes a puff from his cigarette. Grins from both sides. “Then maybe come back here later. For a drink.”

“Maybe,” I say, and smile back, because he helped me and he’s sort of cute, in a slouchy, borderline-delinquent kind of way.

I’m sure not coming back for a drink, though.

I find Gecko easily enough. It’s a narrow place sandwiched between a coffeehouse and a pizza restaurant, advertising imported beer, free Wi-Fi, and rock-climbing expeditions. Well, okay. The front is dark wood, with a hanging sign depicting a bright yellow lizard, which I guess is a gecko.

Inside are wooden tables, potted and hanging plants. Photos of mountains and rock climbers. One wall has a rack of equipment—packs, shoes, clothing, metal spikes, a bunch of coiled ropes. The music is groovy Brazilian jazz. And yeah, a lot of foreigners, most with that rangy, “We like fresh air, nuts, and leafy greens!” look.

The waitstaff is Chinese, though. Typical. You don’t have to pay them as much.

I sit at an empty table and order an overpriced Sierra Nevada. They don’t even offer Liquan here.

The waitress who brings me my beer is young, short-haired, wearing a long-sleeved Gecko T-shirt and a fleece vest.

“Thanks,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”

She nods, smiling, expecting, I’d bet, that I want to know
about rock climbing, or river rafting, or some other healthy outdoor shit they go for around here.

“This man, have you seen him?” I hold out Jason’s photo.

She takes it, curious. Crouches down a little so she can scrutinize it under the table lamp. And something in her expression shifts. I’m sure of it. Her eyes dart sideways, like she’s looking over her shoulder.

“
Deng yixia
,” she says, springing up. Wait a moment. She leaves the photo on the table.

I have a big swallow of Sierra Nevada, feeling this slow burn of excitement. It’s something I’m not used to: the sense that I might actually be getting somewhere.

Maybe I’ll find out where he is, I think. Or at least that he’s okay. Something I can tell Dog, something to make him feel a little better.

The guy who comes over to my table is tall. Blond. Older than me by a decade at least, but built like a basketball player, tall and muscular. Like the waitress, he’s wearing a fleece vest, but his is Patagonia, and his T-shirt doesn’t have a logo.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks.

His English is flawless, but there’s a hint of an accent there. Maybe German, or Dutch, or Scandinavian.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m looking for this guy.”

I flip my hand at the paper on the table, the image cracked where I’d folded it. But you can still see Jason, with his dreamy brown eyes.

The guy makes a show of studying it. “I don’t think I know him,” he finally says.

“You sure about that?”

“Well, no.” He smiles at me. He’s got a thin face with prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged, long nose, like one of those knight statues you see laid out on top of
a medieval tomb. “We have a lot of foreigners who come through here.”

“Yeah, so I heard.”

“So why are you looking for this one?” he asks, in a deliberately casual way.

“I’m friends with his family. His brother, Dog … uh, Doug. They don’t know where he is, and they’re worried about him.”

“I see.” He pretends to study the photograph a moment longer. Then pushes it toward me with his long, knotted fingers. Wrapped with scars, from all those ropes they use for rock climbing, maybe.

“Sorry. Don’t think I recognize him.”

He’s lying, I’m sure of it.

“Look,” I say, frustrated, “all we want is to know that Jason’s okay.”

“Jason?” For an instant the guy’s brow furrows. Then he composes himself. “Wish I could help.”

You fucking liar, I think.

“So what’s
your
name?” I ask.

“Erik,” he says. “And yours?”

“Ellie. This your place?”

“I’m one of the owners,” he says easily. “Will you be in Yangshuo for a while?”

“I’m not sure. Depends on what I find to do around here.”

“Well, if you’re interested in rock climbing, or white-water rafting, or hiking, just let me know.” He smiles. “I’d be happy to set you up.”

I
WALK OUT OF
the Gecko, and I’m so pissed off.

Erik recognized Jason. I’m sure of it. The way he reacted, I’m guessing he knows Jason by another name. But whatever it is, he’s not willing to share it with me.

Okay, I tell myself. Calm down. Maybe Erik’s a friend of Jason’s and he’s trying to protect him. Erik doesn’t know if I’m really Dog’s buddy. He doesn’t know anything about me.

I check my watch. It’s closing in on midnight. I think, Let’s find that quiet bar, have a beer, and then go back to the hotel.

I wander around until I come to a dark side street off the river and a bar called Happy River Crab, where a five-foot-tall plastic crab wearing horn-rimmed glasses and clutching a Chinese flag in one claw greets me by the door. I go inside and order a local Liquan beer. I haven’t eaten since lunch, so I order some spicy peanuts as well. Too bad the kitchen’s closed for beer fish. I have to admit, Andy had the right idea about the beer fish.

The first beer goes down fast, and I still have some peanuts, so I order a second Liquan and try to figure out what I should do.

Maybe there’s some way I can convince Erik that we’re on the same side. Get Dog and Natalie on Skype, maybe.

That is, if Erik really is on Jason’s side. I mean, how can I know for sure? Maybe something happened. Jason was balling Erik’s girlfriend or something. Or there was just some stupid accident and Erik’s trying to cover it up.

How can I know?

I take a big swig of beer, and I ask myself, what are my obligations here, really? I mean, I came to Yangshuo. I tried. Trudged up and down Xi Jie asking everybody I saw, ending up with my leg hurting like crazy and my head feeling not much better.

When I leave Happy River Crab, the surrounding streets are quiet, the businesses dark. There’s still some action around Xi Jie, I’m sure, but I’m done for the night.

I follow a street along one of the canals.

I’ll sleep on it, I tell myself. Maybe go back to the Gecko tomorrow, ask some more questions, see what I can shake loose.

And then I’m done. I’ve got enough problems in my own life to spend too much more time on somebody else’s.

Plus, I still want to go down a river on a real bamboo raft.

I’m thinking about all this and about how I really hope I’m not going to get back to the hotel and find my mom in bed with Andy, except they’d probably go to
his
room, right? And I’m trying to get my bearings, thinking, Okay, I just need to head toward Green Lotus Peak to find my hotel, when I hear the faint flapping of running footsteps behind me, and I start to turn, and someone grabs me around the waist, knocking the wind out of me, yanks me toward him, I feel something, a belt buckle, digging into the small of my back, and he clasps his other hand over my mouth. Tries to anyway. Because I struggle, and his hand shifts, and I bite down on the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, deep enough to taste his blood.

“Shit!” he yells, and then I stomp down as hard as I can on the top of his foot. Lucky me, he’s wearing sneakers. I’m wearing boots.

“Fuck!” he howls, and then something unintelligible after that, because his grip loosens and I drive the heel of my palm into his groin. He lets go, doubles over, wretching, and I run, as fast as I can, which isn’t that fast because of my leg, but fast enough to get away from this fucker.

I run across a bridge, to the other side of the canal, toward the Corn Juice place and the McDonald’s that overlooks the lake, stopping finally when I can’t catch my breath anymore. I stand there, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and I start to shake.

“Okay,” I tell myself out loud, “Okay.”

No one’s coming after me. I did it—I got away.

I hope I broke his foot. And that he needs to ice his balls for a week.

Asshole.

I limp toward the hotel, thinking another beer would be nice.

I’ve changed some since last year. Learned some things. Took a self-defense class, for one. I don’t kid myself that I could win against a real pro, but that guy was no pro. I tangled with professionals last year, and I know the difference now.

So what was he?

A foreigner. Maybe British. Young. Not a fighter. A mugger? A would-be rapist?

Maybe so. But what are the odds? I go looking for Jason, I have a weird interaction with that guy Erik, and then
this
happens.

“Way to go, McEnroe,” I mutter. “Way to go.”

Because, you know, other people, they try to do a simple favor for a friend and it turns out simple. Me, I end up in a fucking clusterfuck.

You think I’d learn.

Back at the hotel, I buy a couple bottles of beer from the cooler in the lobby and hobble up to my room.

My mom is crashed out on the single bed closer to the door, snoring softly. No Andy. Well, that’s something.

I tiptoe past her and make my way to the room’s tiny balcony.

We have a view of Green Lotus Peak, which is definitely green, but I can’t really see the lotus resemblance. It’s big anyway. I sit in one of the balcony’s cheap plastic chairs. It’s chilly and damp, and I turn up the collar of my coat, pull my knit hat over my ears, and pop a beer with the giveaway Yanjing bottle opener I got at a Beijing bar a couple of months ago. Take a long pull and think about what I should do.

Here’s another difference between old me and new me: Last year I had to keep going, whether I wanted to or not. I didn’t have a lot of options.

This year, you know, I don’t
have
to be doing this. Sure, I want to help Dog, but I already gave it my best, and I already have some dude attacking me over it. I think.

I can just pack it in, go back to Beijing, and try to deal with my life. Back to the place where the DSD invites me to drink tea. Where they’ll maybe deport me or even throw me in prison, try to get me to betray my friends—an entire fucking arm of the state, with their $95 billion or whatever it is, dedicated to “maintaining security,” and me on the wrong side of it.

Where Creepy John is coming home to meet my mother.

Which leads me to another difference.

I used to be scared all the time. I’m still scared, but I’m also really pissed off.

I’m tired of being pushed around. Tired of being scared.

And the guy that attacked me? Not all that scary.

I mean, comparatively.

“E
LLIE
? H
ONEY
? Y
OU STILL
asleep?”

What do you think?
I want to say. Instead I manage, “Huh?”

“Well, it’s after nine. Andy thought we could rent bikes and go visit the Big Banyan Tree.”

“The what?”

She scrunches her face in a puzzled frown. “It’s a famous tree of some sort. I guess it’s over a thousand years old. There was a love scene from some big movie filmed there.”