“Not for a couple of days.”
“Did he say where he is?”
I shake my head.
“Ah,” Sloppy says, and turns her focus to the fresh jiaozi.
“He said I could stay at his house a while,” I lie.
“His house is a little messy,” Sloppy says carefully. “Some people come to visit.”
“I understand. I can do some cleaning while I’m there.”
We finish up our meal. Sloppy tries to force money on me, but I refuse. “Next time, you invite me,” I say with a wave.
As I make my way to Lao Zhang’s, I’m thinking about a number of things. I’m thinking: so, I went to the jiaozi place, and what did I learn? Sloppy Song turned up, and it would make sense if she was in on whatever it is that Lao Zhang is doing; they’re friends, fellow artists and all. On the other hand, she’s always eating at that jiaozi place, and it might not mean anything at all. Maybe somebody else in the restaurant’s involved, the waitress, the cashier, the owner for all I know. Maybe there was another customer, someone I don’t even know, or one of the regulars I tend to ignore, sitting there, watching me.
Maybe the Monk just wanted to see if I’d do what he asked me to.
Why a game? But then, why not? This is China. Bulletin boards and chat rooms are monitored. The government can read your e-mails whenever it wants. If you needed a way to meet people, to talk to them, and you didn’t want the government to know, who’d think twice about a game? About avatars slinging swords and hurling spells at each other.
I stop at the corner market to buy more beer and water. There’s a young guy hanging out by the door, a liumang, kind of a punk, with a dirty denim jacket, spiked hair, and sunglasses, one of those guys where you can’t tell if he’s an actual delinquent or just playing at being one. He leans against the power pole, beer in hand, lost in the tunes beamed into his head through his earbuds.
But I feel his eyes on me when I leave the store.
He’s just a local rascal, I tell myself.
The courtyard of Lao Zhang’s compound is dead quiet. No electronic erhu sounds from the composer across from him. No sounds of partying from the sculptor’s, or the novelist/painter’s. The empty Mao jacket seems to glow in the moonlight.
Did they split, I wonder? Take off for their own versions of Bumfuck Shanxi like Chuckie? Get arrested?
If it weren’t for the moonlight, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. I fumble around and finally manage to slip the key in the lock of Lao Zhang’s apartment door.
The lamp in the entryway has a red shade, making it look like you’re going into a club. “Hides the dirt,” Lao Zhang used to say. The place smells stale, dusty, like it’s been closed up a few days.
Inside, everything looks the same. Not particularly messy. Not really neat either. Paintings stacked against the walls. Here’s the couch, here’s the TV. There’s the computer.
Do I hear something? Something in the kitchen?
“Anyone here?” I call out, mouth dry.
It’s just the wind, I tell myself. There’s no one home. No one but me.
Still, when I go into the kitchen, I check the utility room to make sure.
No Uighur in the closet. Now what?
I grab a beer and some water and put the rest in the fridge. There’s no way I’m going to risk using Lao Zhang’s computer, so I turn on the TV. It’s the usual stuff. Some variety show that alternates between comedians with animated sound-effect balloons blossoming above their heads and children dancing around, twirling banners. A news program about old people playing traditional Chinese instruments. A commercial for a “tonic” that increases “man’s stamina” with a middleaged guy in glasses who gives us a thumbs-up as he and some babe in a red dress clink champagne flutes.
I finally settle on a wuxia movie. It looks pretty dumb, but I like watching all those Shaolin monks flying through the air. I drink one beer, and then I drink another, and then I think: hey, why not, let’s have a Percocet. I only get a little ways into the third bottle before I can’t keep my eyes open any more. I’m too tired to go all the way into the bedroom. I pull the ratty quilt Lao Zhang keeps on the couch over me and rest my head on the arm of the couch. On the TV, an old blind monk with a wispy gray beard that reaches down to his crotch is hurling some mystical weapon that resembles a salad spinner at the bad guys.
I switch off the TV and close my eyes.
Sometimes when I drink too much, I’ll pass out for a few hours, and then I’ll wake up, and I won’t sleep well after that, just kind of toss and sweat and doze. It doesn’t take much to wake me up the rest of the way.
Little things, like the rattle of a doorknob. A creaky hinge. A light step across the threshold.
And I’m wide awake. My heart pounds like it’s going to choke me. I freeze on the couch for a moment. Then I scramble off it, quietly as I can. Where to go? I grab the heavy flashlight Lao Zhang keeps by the TV in case of power outages, and I duck behind the couch.
A slight female figure, dressed head to toe in black, steps into the room, not exactly crouching, but doing a pretty good impression of stealthy.
I jump up from behind the couch, shine the flashlight in her face. “Hey!” I yell. “Ni shi shei?”
Who the hell are you?
She’s a pretty cool customer. She straightens up. “Oh,” she says in English. “Oh, please excuse me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize anyone… .”
It takes me a minute to place her.
“You’re … you’re that art dealer from Shanghai,” I manage.
She smiles at me. “Yes. Lucy Wu. So sorry to disturb you.”
“Disturb … ? What are you doing here?”
“Oh,” she exclaims, smiling furiously. “Jianli invited me here. To see his paintings.”
I look around. It’s some time after dawn, but I’m pretty sure it’s awfully early for an appointment.
“So, what’s with the ninja outfit?” I ask, holding the flashlight like a club.
Lucy Wu draws herself up to her full, diminutive height. “It’s Vivienne Tam,” she says, mightily offended.
“Whatever.” I thump the flashlight against my palm. “Anyway, Lao Zhang’s not here.”
“Oh,” she says, recovering her smile. “I know. That’s why I’ve come so early. He told me I should just drop by. At my convenience.” She holds up a key. “He left this for me.”
On the one hand, there’s no way I believe this. On the other, there’s Lao Zhang’s habit of taking in strays.
But Lucy Wu? She’s no stray. She’s a fucking thoroughbred.
How did she get Lao Zhang’s key?
I stand there with the flashlight, and I don’t know what to do.
“You want a coffee?” I ask.
In order to make espressos with Lao Zhang’s fancy machine, I have to put the flashlight down and briefly turn my back on Lucy Wu. She couldn’t actually be dangerous, could she? It’s not like you could hide a pair of numchuks in that catsuit.
“I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,” she says, as I tap down the grounds. “It’s only that I did not know anyone would be staying here.”
“Well, you know how Lao Zhang is. The door’s always open.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, sitting down at the kitchen table. “He’s been like that as long as I’ve known him.”
I bring the espressos and sit across from Lucy Wu, who thanks me and stirs a little sugar into her tiny cup.
“You’ve known him a while?”
“Since Suojiacun International Art Camp. Are you familiar with it?”
“A little,” I say—meaning I’ve heard the name, and I know it was one of the places Lao Zhang used to hang out.
Lucy Wu smiles, and it’s something different from the smug little grin I’ve seen on her face before.
“That was quite a time. People from all over the world came there to live and do art. Of course, after a few years, the government said Suojiacun lacked the proper permits, and
they tore most of it down.”
For a moment, Lucy Wu stares down at her espresso. “It seems trouble always follows Jianli.”
I feel like I’m two steps behind here, like if I were only a little faster, I might know what to ask, how to respond.
“You think he’s in trouble now?”
“Well, I couldn’t say. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I don’t really know what he’s been up to.” She looks concerned. Almost eager. “Is he having some problems?”
“I, uh… . He just had to go out of town.”
“Of course things are different now,” Lucy Wu says with a tiny shrug. “No one cares what artists do these days. As long as they are only doing art.”
How can you tell if someone’s lying or not, when everything they do seems like an act?
“So, you were an artist?” I ask. I have a feeling I’m sounding a little desperate, but I’m not cut out for this spy stuff. I don’t even know how to make small talk for real.
She giggles. “A bad one. Jianli was kind to me, but it’s the truth. Finally I realized I was better at appreciating good art than creating it myself.”
I study her face. I almost think she’s telling the truth. And that little blush in her cheeks when she mentions Lao Zhang… . Well, if I didn’t know before what kind of “old friends” they were, I’m pretty sure I know now.
Except, except … the way Lao Zhang acted that night at the Warehouse. Is that how a guy acts when he’s happy to see an old girlfriend?
Maybe she dumped him.
“I’m so excited to see his paintings,” Lucy Wu continues. “Because you know, his performance pieces and installations are very exciting, of course, but such things are difficult to exhibit at times, and to sell. While paintings, on the other hand… .”
“You can make some money off of them,” I offer.
Lucy Wu frowns, her forehead creasing fractionally. “Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that I’m only interested in profit. My primary consideration is the artistic merit. And to help an old friend.”
“Right.”
We finish our espressos.
Or maybe he dumped her, and she’s the psycho ex. A bunnyboiler. With Chinese characteristics.
“So,” she says, the tip of her tongue licking the last bit of sugar and coffee off her spoon, “might it be possible for me to see some of Jianli’s recent work? If it’s convenient for you?”
“I guess.”
There are canvases stacked all around the house, leaning against the bedroom wall, stuck behind the couch, like they’re part of the furniture. I hardly notice them any more.
“I think some of these are pretty recent.”
Lucy Wu crouches behind the couch and separates one painting from another. She arranges them in a row against the front of the couch where the light from the skylight and courtyard windows filters in.
“Ah,” she breathes. “These are very special.”
I squint at the paintings. I really haven’t paid that much attention to what he’s been doing lately. For a minute, I feel bad about that. Like, maybe that’s why he left without an explanation. Because I didn’t even care enough about him to take in what his work is about.
The paintings are kind of strange. It’s like he’s taken bits and pieces of things that look familiar but don’t really go together. Fish in the middle of forests. Boats floating down broad Beijing avenues. Here’s one that looks like a landscape painting—except instead of temples or pagodas, the buildings are Vegas-style casinos perched among steep jade mountains. I can see the symbols on a slot machine in the closest pavilion—two Mao faces, a BMW, a cell phone, and a cabbage.
Some of the other paintings, I can almost understand them, but not quite. Like somebody’s whispering an explanation in my ear and I can’t quite hear it.
This one, it’s colors and shapes, and then I see there’s a person, crouched by what maybe is a lake, and it makes me feel peaceful, but I’m not sure why.
And this one, gray streaked with red. A kneeling, huddled figure surrounded by large, dark men.
I don’t like the way that one makes me feel.
Then I get a shock.
“Oh, that’s you, isn’t it?” Lucy Wu says brightly.
I guess it is. She looks like me, the woman in the painting—the lines in her face are more exaggerated, the features slightly elongated, but still. She stands in front of rolling sand dunes. One hand holds the scruff of a snarling dog; it’s big, like a German shepherd or a Rottweiler, but it’s missing one of its front legs. There’s a cat cradled in her other arm, small with big eyes, fur puffed out like it’s scared. Behind her, a helicopter spins out of control, spitting flame, and an explosion scatters sand and rock.
The funny thing is her expression. It’s—I don’t know. Calm. Strong, almost.
That part doesn’t look like me at all.
Lucy Wu chuckles. “Very amusing. Of course these themes have been explored by others, but still… .” Her dainty tongue darts out and licks her lips. Her expression is avid. “This work is very significant. I had no idea he’d done all this.” She gestures at a stack of canvases. “Some of these paintings are ten, fifteen years old, and he’s never shown them.”
“Lao Zhang’s not here,” I say. “It’s not like I can tell you anything about what he wants to do with them.”
“Oh, of course. But perhaps, the next time you speak to him, you might mention our conversation.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Well, I don’t wish to disturb you any further,” Lucy Wu says. “I’ll let you get on with your day.” She turns to go. Then pauses. “You know, some friends of mine are throwing a party. At Simatai Great Wall. Perhaps you would like to attend.”
“Thanks … I… .”
Lucy Wu reacts fast, before any awkward silences, before I can say no. “Tell me your e-mail address,” she says. “I’ll send you an invitation.”
Do I want to do this? Even if she’s not the psycho ex-girlfriend, how do I know she isn’t working for some Chinese security agency? Or even the Suits?
“I appreciate the invitation,” I say. “I’m not sure if I can come.”
“I won’t take no for an answer,” she says, wagging her finger at me. She giggles. “Don’t think you can get away from me so easily!”
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER LUCY WU leaves, I make myself another espresso. I’m stiff and sore and have a pounding headache from my night on the couch and all those beers, so I take a Percocet as well.
After that, I pace around the living room and stare at Lao Zhang’s paintings, propped against the walls, against the TV, against the couch. Is Lucy Wu for real? Are these paintings brilliant? How can I be sure? What do I know about art?
Okay, I think. Okay. I need to do something. I don’t know what.
Breakfast, maybe.
Mati Village has a cool coffeehouse that serves Western and Chinese pastries along with passable mochas. They’ve got Internet too. Not that I expect their Internet connection to be safe, exactly, but maybe it’s slightly safer than Lao Zhang’s.
This place is called Comrade Lei Feng’s, which is pretty funny, Lei Feng being this low-ranking Peoples’ Liberation Army soldier who fell off a truck or something and died in the early 1960s and became a Cultural Revolution icon because he left this diary praising Chairman Mao and serving the people and helping little old ladies across the commune. The coffeehouse has a nice side business selling coffee mugs and Tshirts with the famous picture of Lei Feng looking resolute in his PLA Snoopy hat on them, except he’s holding up a steaming mug of coffee.
I order up a large redeye and a limp croissant, and I park myself in front of a computer.
My inbox is full of the usual stuff. Here’s an e-mail from my mom—animated kittens and puppies chasing each other, interspersed with the following text:
“Happiness keeps you sweet, Trials keep you strong, Sorrows keep you human, Failures keep you humble, Success keeps you glow
ing, But only God keeps you going!”
“One good thing about taking the bus to work,” my mom adds in a P.S.: “I’m doing so much walking that I’ve lost seven pounds! You never know what might turn out to be a blessing.”
Here’s Trey again. “Ellie, you and I have got to talk. It’s wrong for you to just keep running away this way. It’s not going to help you. Call me on my cell. Love, Trey.”
Asshole.
And here’s an Evite from Ms. Lucy Wu—A Great Occasion—inviting me to a party at Simatai Great Wall.
That was fast.
There’s nothing from Cinderfox or the Great Community.
I log on to the game and go to the Yellow Mountain Monastery.
My avatar looks different now. She—I—carries a shield that looks like a giant tortoise shell with the characters for “Great Community” blazoned upon it and a sturdy walking staff taller than she is. I check my character inventory, and I’ve gotten stronger than I was the last time I played; smarter too; and the staff and shield have some major kill-and-protect power. Thank you, Cinderfox. Poor Chuckie. If only he knew what he missed out on by running back to Shanxi.
I’m walking up that steep mountain path again, bootheels crunching on round stones. I look up, and in one of the twisted pines there’s a dragon twined around the branches, holding a black pearl between its front claws.
Then I remember I’m supposed to be anonymous. I type in the command.
The dragon opens its alligator snout and spits flame. Another non-player character, I think. Or, in any case, not one of my new buddies from the Great Community. The pearl is probably worth something, some big prize, but I don’t care about that. I’m on a different quest.
I continue up the path, which twists and turns, disappearing into fog as it crawls up the mountain.
Here’s a monk, sitting crosslegged on a huge boulder, eyes closed, hands resting on his thighs, palms up, thumb and index finger forming a circle. Meditating, I guess.
Monk of the Jade Forest.
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