“We’d better go,” Trey finally said.
“Yeah.”
We got dressed and walked out of there. I went to my bunk, and he went to his.
The next day—night—after our shifts, we met up on the berm as usual. We didn’t talk about what we’d done. We just sat there, smoked cigarettes, and chucked rocks at the storage shed. We didn’t get around to doing it again for about a week. It started with us sitting up on the berm, me talking about some shit, Master Sergeant Dickhead Blanchard, I think, when Trey suddenly leaned over and kissed me and mumbled, “Do you wanna go to the room?” and I of course nodded and said “Sure.”
So that became our pattern. We’d hang out; we wouldn’t talk about what we were doing; we’d go and fuck; we’d wait a couple days and then do it all again.
And that was fine by me. I was crazy about the guy. So what if we didn’t talk about it? I didn’t want to talk any more than he did. I just wanted to be with him, to hang out on the berm, to fuck as much as we could. To just get through all of it somehow.
I think I figured that if we talked about us, maybe we’d have to talk about other things as well. Like about what was going on in the Admin Core.
Sometimes, after we finished, I’d lie there and think I heard things. Laughing, sometimes. Shouts, now and then.
And other things. Moans, maybe. Crying.
I’d tell myself that wasn’t what I was hearing. I was hearing the wind. I was hearing stray cats.
I think now that I didn’t really hear that stuff. Not any of it. No moans, no stray cats. My mind was just filling in the blanks, of what I knew and didn’t want to see.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HARRISON WANG’S DINNER is at a space in 798, the old East German factory complex at Dashanzi. Artists colonized it in the late ’90s, carving out studios in the middle of machine tool factories and industrial laundry facilities. Now it’s mostly galleries and bars and restaurants. That’s what always happens. Artists come and make something cool, and then everybody wants it, and the people who made it cool can’t afford it any more.
I wander among red-brick buildings, cement-block dorms, tangles of pipes and water tanks, and weird industrial detritus that the artists left here, even after the factories departed. I’m looking for a space called “Door.” I’ve never been there, but I’m pretty sure it actually exists—it was listed on one of the signboards by the gate.
But I can’t find the damn place. It’s dark, they don’t light things well, and the signs aren’t clear. I hear snatches of music, a party going on somewhere; people gather outside an Italian restaurant, waiting for their table. Here’s a photo gallery having an opening, BMWs and Mercedes parked in front. I turn a corner. Find myself walking down a narrow path between two long red-brick buildings. Darkness. Galleries, boutiques, a few studios. All closed for the night. Nobody here but me. And a surveillance camera, the black dome in the plastic frame an oily bubble emerging from white.
Keep walking, I tell myself.
I come to the end of the row. Facing me is what looks like the back wall of a factory building. Two stories high, gymnasiumwide. It’s blank brick.
Except for a big brass handle in the middle of the wall with the single character for “door” stenciled above it in white paint.
Cute.
It’s a door, camouflaged in the brick.
I pull it open. And immediately feel underdressed.
“Good evening, Miss. May I have your name, please?”
The door opens into a foyer. A hostess in black silk smiles at me. Behind her, water runs down slate onto perfectly round gray stones, interspersed with stalks of bamboo.
“Ellie Cooper.”
She runs a manicured finger down a smoked Plexiglas clipboard.
Watch me not be on the list, I think. God, I hate this kind of shit.
“Thank you, Miss! Enjoy your evening!”
Inside, huge paintings hang on white walls above a black granite floor, interspersed with giant red doors studded with brass knobs and lion’s-head knockers, like something out of the Forbidden City. Ambient techno fills the room, playing at just the right volume. People sit at tables or drift amongst them, socializing. Waitresses in beautiful embroidered qipaos glide between the tables, keeping everyone supplied with drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
A waitress approaches me with a tray full of wine.
“Would you like wine? Red or white?”
“Uh, red.”
I’m not a big wine drinker. But a drink sounds like a good idea.
I wander around, snagging a couple of snacks off passing trays, and wonder how this works. There are a hundred people here, at least, not exactly what came to my mind when I got the invitation to dinner. Do I grab an empty seat at any old table? Does that mean I have to talk to people I don’t know? I hate that.
“Ah, Ms. Yili. So glad you could come.”
This, as I recall, is Harrison Wang.
He’s handsome, elegant, in a snowy white shirt that seems to glow, it’s so clean. Mid to late thirties, though he could be older—he’s one of those guys who’s very well kept, probably works out every day and does yoga or Pilates or whatever. He’s perfectly groomed. If I stroked his cheek, I know it would be smooth, with just a hint of beard beneath the skin.
I bet he exfoliates.
“Thanks for having me,” I say.
“My pleasure.” He takes my hand, clasps it gently.
I’d assumed he was Chinese, but there’s a sort of European cast to his features, which makes me wonder where he’s from, and his English is perfect. Unaccented. He smells nice. I’m a sucker for that.
“I’ve been anxious to talk with you since I heard about your association with Zhang Jianli.”
“Oh. Well, it’s not like I’m … I mean… .”
I don’t know what to say.
“I don’t represent him, or anything like that,” I manage.
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and lets go. “Of course. I know the two of you are good friends. That’s all.”
He checks his watch—a real Rolex, I’d bet. “We’ll be serving dinner in about a half hour.”
His eyes meet mine, and he smiles. “You’re seated at my table. We’ll have a chance to talk then.” And with that, he excuses himself to go play host.
Maybe Harrison is interested in Lao Zhang’s art.
He’s definitely interested in something, and I doubt it’s my good looks and charm.
Halfway through my glass of wine, someone taps me on the shoulder. “Oh, Yili. How nice to see you again.”
Lucy Wu.
“Likewise.”
Tonight Lucy’s wearing a scarlet silk shirt with a neckline that plunges practically to her crotch, Capri pants, and espadrilles with embroidered Eiffel Towers on them.
“So, I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Harrison,” she says.
“I’m not. I mean… .” I drink some more wine. It’s not bad, I’ve decided. “He just invited me to dinner.”
“Because of your connection with Jianli?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I see.”
“Hey, maybe you know,” it occurs to me to ask. “What’s Harrison do, exactly? Is he an artist?”
She giggles politely. “Oh, no. He’s a collector.”
Then she leans forward, puts her hand on my shoulder, and practically whispers in my ear, “You should be careful with him.”
“Careful? Why?”
“He sometimes takes advantage, that’s all.” Lucy Wu ducks her head, seemingly embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s only that I know when you’re a foreigner, it can be difficult, knowing who to trust.”
Like I trust you, honey, I want to say, but I don’t. “Thanks for the warning.”
She giggles again. “Don’t take me too seriously. I’m told I tend to be dramatic.”
She gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “We should have lunch. Can I call you?”
“E-mail me. My phone’s
not working too well.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
With that, Lucy Wu gives me a goodbye hug and pitterpatters off.
But it won’t be a real party until Creepy John shows up.
“Glass of wine?” a waitress asks.
“Sure.”
I’ll drink this one slowly, I tell myself. Because it’s just about time for dinner to be served, and I’m sitting at Harrison Wang’s table, which means that I shouldn’t get too drunk, in case he tries to take advantage of me.
A hostess guides me to Harrison Wang’s table. Sloppy is there, deep in conversation with a familiar-looking European woman wearing an embroidered jacket from Yunnan, reddish hair forming a frizzy halo around her long, pale face.
“Oh, Yili,” Sloppy says. “This is Francesca Barrows. You remember. From Simatai Great Wall.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to find my place. There are two empty seats, next to each other, at the six-person table. I sit down next to Sloppy.
About a minute later, Harrison Wang slides into the last remaining chair, next to me.
“Miss Yili. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am. Thanks.”
I’m enjoying the wine, anyway.
“A French Meritage,” Harrison explains, gesturing toward my glass, “though they’ve adopted a more New World style, I’d say. But try the white with the first few dishes.”
Okay.
Dinner arrives, and I enjoy that too. The food, at least. Lots of small plates. It’s not exactly Chinese, but still sort of Asian.
“This is delicious,” I comment over an appetizer, which tastes like custard flavored by the ocean.
“The uni?” Harrison asks. He notes my look of non-comprehension. “Sea urchin.”
“Oh.”
The conversation is similarly rarefied. There’s an American professor who’s writing a book on the Star Star Exhibit and Democracy Wall; he keeps talking about “misty poetry.” All I know about Democracy Wall is that it happened before I was born, back in 1979. The other guy at the table, a Chinese artist, leans back, chuckles, and makes sweeping statements about Star Star artists’ “derivative naiveté.” Sloppy practically leaps across the table at this.
“You say that, but they took real chances. They moved people. Art was important then.”
“It could get you arrested, anyway,” Harrison says dryly. “But I think political art is rarely good art, detached from its politics.”
“What about Guernica?” asks Francesca, equally dry.
“I would argue that Guernica was a personal expression before it was a political expression. And ahead of either of these is Picasso’s artistry. The work has form, organization. Picasso views the event with a sense of aesthetics. He makes art out of it.” Harrison sips his wine. “Genius is rare. Polemics, unfortunately, are not.”
The Chinese artist, Zhou somebody, nods vigorously. “Yes. This is the problem with modern art in China. Still too much of this nonsense performance art. Just because it shocks people—”
“Threatens authority, you mean,” Francesca interrupts.
“Art is powerful when the state is afraid of ideas,” Harrison interjects smoothly. “The simplest way to defuse art’s power is to ignore it, or co-opt it.” He smiles. “Make it into an advertisement, if possible. Or a tourist attraction. Like this place.”
Everyone laughs.
I’ve sat here the whole time, taking in this conversation—trying to, anyway, as most of it is way over my head, and I’ve also had a lot of wine.
Maybe it’s the wine that prompts me to ask: “So, Lao Zhang … Zhang Jianli. His work. I mean, it’s really cool. I think. But I don’t know that much about art. So I’m wondering … what’s it about, for him? Art or politics?”
“I’ve always considered Jianli fundamentally a political artist,” Francesca Barrows says. “The majority of his pieces have a political theme or context. Which would explain why he hasn’t joined the ranks of China’s artist millionaires,” she adds, with a pointed look at Zhou.
“Yue Minjun—” Zhou begins.
“Can’t show his Tiananmen painting inside China,” Francesca interrupts. “Then there are the artists here at 798 who’ve had their leases cancelled because of their political content.”
“Zhang Jianli doesn’t make very much money because he doesn’t care to try,” Zhou says, exasperated. “I hear he has rooms full of paintings he won’t show anybody. But maybe they aren’t very good.”
“They are good,” I protest.
Zhou focuses his attention on me, his face lit by sudden interest. “You have seen them?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve seen them.” My face flames red. “I mean, I think they’re good. But I don’t know that much about art.”
Sloppy tugs on her braid and seems to focus on her food. “Jianli once say he paints for himself, just what he sees in his head,” she says quietly.
Harrison smiles at me. “To answer your question, Yili, I believe Zhang Jianli’s art is difficult to categorize in so Manichean a fashion. If I were to look for a common theme, I would say his work deals with the meaning of community in a post-Mao, post-democracy era, in the greater context of globalization.”
Francesca Barrows arches an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting analysis.”
“I’m speaking primarily of his performance pieces and installations, since I haven’t seen much of his painting.” He turns to me again. “What do you think?”
I catch a whiff of his aftershave.
I think of all the times Lao Zhang talked about living a creative life, about what that means, how hard it is to do in a world of mega-malls and labor camps.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I mean, look at Mati Village. He pretty much started that place, didn’t he?”
Harrison nods. “In a way, you could consider Mati Village his most elaborate piece. Of course, it’s nothing if not a collaborative project,” he adds, with a smile in Sloppy’s direction.
I think of the Great Community. Of the Game.
Harrison rests his hand on my arm, just for a moment. “Perhaps Jianli has things to teach us,” he says. “More wine?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Harrison Wang lifts his hand to signal a waitress, then orders more wine for the table. “Something special, this time,” he says, with a mischievous smile.
HARRISON WANG’S SPECIAL bottle of wine tastes pretty good, so far as I can tell. We drink that, then he orders another, and I’m a little fuzzy on exactly what happens after that. It’s not like I intend to get hammered, but this stuff is easy to drink, and it feels so good to finally relax, to let go.
At one point, I remember Sloppy looking concerned and tugging on my sleeve.
“Yili,” she says, “why don’t you come with Francesca and me? Maybe get some sleep?”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’m not tired.”
“So, where you going to stay?”
I shrug. I’ll figure that out later.
The music gets louder. I laugh a lot, even dance a little, with the Chinese artist and the American professor, and I must be pretty drunk because that’s what it takes to get me to dance these days with my leg like it is. But I’m having fun for a change, so why not?
After a while, it’s like somebody flips a switch, and all of a sudden I just want to get out of here. Go home. Wherever that is.
I stumble toward the exit. I’ll catch a cab at the gate, I figure. There’s gotta be a cab, right? And I’ll go … someplace. Maybe Chuckie’s place at Wudaokou. They’re not going to think to look for me there. They think I moved out. It’s probably safe for one night. Maybe.
Or I could get a hotel. I know a couple cheap dives not too far from here. Maybe that’s a better idea.
“Ms. Yili? Are you leaving?”
Harrison Wang has appeared at my elbow.
“Yeah. Yes. Thanks. I had a really great time. But it’s getting late, and… .”
�
��I hope you’re not planning on going to Mati tonight. That’s a long way.”
“No. I’m staying in town.”
Harrison Wang hesitates. Cups my elbow in his hand, just for a moment. “I’m leaving too. Can I give you a ride?”
I shiver a little, and I’m not cold. He’s attractive and polished and rich. Everything I’m not. He’s way out of my league. And he takes advantage—that is, if I can believe Lucy Wu. Which is a big “if.”
I shouldn’t, I think. I’m drunk, and I know it.
“Sure. I’d appreciate that.”
HARRISON WANG NOT only has a car, a Lexus SUV hybrid; he has a driver.
“Would you like a drink?”
The two of us sit in the back seat. I make a noncommittal noise. I know I shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t mind having another drink.
Harrison Wang reaches into a storage compartment behind the driver’s seat and pulls out two tumblers and a bottle of something—Johnny Walker Blue—and pours.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his tumbler.
“Likewise.” Which is a stupid thing to say. Harrison pretends not to notice.
We drink. Dang. I could start drinking whiskey if more of it tasted like this.
“Where can I drop you?” he asks after we’ve both had a few sips.
“Oh. There’s a hotel not too far from here. It’s, uh, it’s called… .”
I can’t remember the name. It’s close to here, though. Greenish.
“Do you have a room there already?”
“No, I mean, I… .”
“There’s no need for you to find a hotel, Yili,” Harrison Wang says gently. “I have an apartment in Chaoyang I use when I’m in town. Please, be my guest for the evening. There’s plenty of room.”
I know I can’t trust him. I’m just not sure that I care any more. Whatever happens, happens, right?
What difference does it make?
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”
We drive south, deeper into Chaoyang District. I drink my whiskey and do my limited best to make conversation.
“So, Harrison … you’re an art collector?”
Harrison shrugs. “I enjoy art. I try to support what I like.” He freshens our glasses. “What about you? I know about your association with Zhang Jianli, of course. But what do you do here, in China?”
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