Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  I lean back against the bench seat, my leg and wrist throbbing.

  By the time we get to the university district, to Cuihu, Green Lake Park, everything seems to slow down. The buildings are smaller. There are more trees. People stroll, like they’re not in a hurry to get anywhere.

  Wenlin Jie is a little street lined with small businesses, including a place called Teabucks. If I didn’t so need coffee, I’d stop there. The taxi driver takes me a few blocks farther, and I can tell that we’ve entered a laowai ghetto. I see an ice-cream parlor, a pizza place, a wine store, and a head shop. Most of the people on the sidewalk are Chinese, but there are plenty of foreigners around, too—students and backpacker types mostly, plus a few older Westerners who give off that long-term-expat vibe.

  There’s a place on the corner called Salvador’s advertising coffee. “You can stop here,” I tell the driver.

  Inside, it’s dark wood. Nice music. Two levels, with computer terminals and a makeshift travel library, a glass case displaying their Tshirts, coffee, juices and all kinds of other organic products. Vegetables. Meats. Cheese, even. There’s an explanation on the menu about how all the employees get health care and free English lessons and actual paid vacations. It’s like I’ve suddenly been transported to Berkeley or something.

  I order a cup of “fresh-brewed coffee” with an espresso shot, plus a breakfast quesadilla. Boot up my laptop. Since I’ve had my phone off all this time, I figure I’d better at least check my email.

  The coffee is good. The quesadilla is excellent. This isn’t a bad place, I’m thinking. Maybe I should move here. Set up shop. It’s cheaper than Beijing, and I’ve heard that a lot of artists are buying second homes around Kunming.

  I’m thinking this when I hear the Skype orchestra hit signaling a contact request.

  It’s Vicky Huang. That’s the name that comes up, anyway, in a little box requesting that I add her as a contact. No photo, just a blank icon.

  I mean, this behavior really is reaching stalker level.

  I think about ignoring it. But there’s that whole, not wanting to piss off a Chinese billionaire factor.

  I make sure the video camera on my laptop is off, and I accept.

  Thirty seconds later, the Skype phone rings.

  “Wei?”

  “Ellie McEnroe?”

  Her camera is off too. But I recognize that voice.

  “Yes, this is Ellie.”

  “Vicky Huang.” She says it like she’s Bond. James Bond. “I cannot reach you by phone.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I, uh, dead battery.”

  “Are you in Yangshuo?”

  “I …” I’m trying to think fast, and it’s hard. I’m only on my first cup of coffee, and thinking fast is not something I do well anyway.

  “No,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I had … a family emergency, and I had to leave suddenly.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “I see,” she finally says.

  “Look, I really do want to meet with you.” I really do, because blowing off Chinese billionaires is really not a good idea. “I just have some personal business I need to deal with.”

  “For how long?”

  Like I have a clue.

  “Around a week,” I say.

  Another pause. “All right,” she says. “Then we will speak next week.”

  JUST MY LUCK: MY sleeper car is filled with fucking hipsters.

  Chinese artsy types. Western backpackers. A whole carload of ironic Tshirts and soul patches. It’s a big rolling party the minute the train pulls out of Kunming at 11:40 P.M.

  I got a little bit of sleep while I hung out in Kunming, at a bathhouse mostly, where I also splurged on a massage and spent some time in the steam room. You can hang out for hours in these places. There are separate sides for men and women, and then meeting rooms for both; you can wrap up in a bathhouse robe and fall asleep in the lounger chairs if you want to, so that’s what I did.

  “Just leave the leg alone,” I told the masseuse. It doesn’t look as swollen, I told myself. The bruises are dark purple, but greening around the edges.

  “We have acupuncture clinic, you can go have treatment,” the masseuse said, and I had the time. When I finally come out of there, I’m feeling pretty good. Better anyway.

  Not good enough to party all night on the train to Dali, though.

  I apologize to the goateed Chinese guy in the porkpie hat and his girlfriend wearing the cat’s-eye glasses and a LEI FENG FOREVER T-shirt that I can’t share my bottom bunk with them because I need to stretch out my leg. They offer me some baijiu and the backpacker couple across from me ask if I’d like a beer, so I have a little baijiu and a beer to be polite, and then I try to sleep, in spite of the noise and the lights. At about 3:30 A.M., it finally quiets down, and I doze a bit, just enough to feel really out of it when the train pulls in to Dali at 7:30 A.M.

  I GO TO THE old town. There’s a new city, which is where the train station is, but, you know, it’s a typical Chinese city, where you can only tell where you are by the street signs. It’s not where the tourists go, and it’s not where “Dali Scene” was shot. I can tell that as soon as I get off the train. What people think of as Dali is actually a half hour’s drive north. I found that out from the hipsters on the train.

  Modern Scientific Seed Company is in Xiaguan, the new city. But there’s no way I’m ready to tackle that right now.

  Instead I share a taxi with the couple from the train and head to Dali proper, to my room at the Dali Perfect Inn, which, according to the booking website, “features a traditional Bai Minority architectural style while applying modern management methods. It is a glamorous and attractive place to rest!”

  More to the point, the Dali Perfect Inn is featured in “Dali Scene.” I’m guessing Langhai stayed there, or if he didn’t, maybe they know where he is.

  I’m dozing off in the car, but when I open my eyes now and again, I see flashes of an immense lake, mountains, deep blue skies. Then an old-fashioned city wall, stark white in the glaring sunlight.

  “Ming dynasty,” Porkpie Hat Guy tells me.

  They get dropped off on a quiet section of a street close to the lake, lined with traditional buildings, grass growing out from between the grey roof tiles, by a produce store with vegetables and fruits spread out in plastic tubs and a bar with a bright yellow door, called Lazy Bastard.

  “We’re going to Cheeky Monkey later,” Lei Feng T-Shirt Girl says. “Maybe see you there?”

  I force a smile. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

  The Dali Perfect Inn is west, toward the mountains. It’s cool and crisp out, hat and jacket weather and nothing like the overcast damp of Yangshuo. We wait at an intersection for a mob of Chinese tourists to pass, all wearing identical turquoise baseball caps, led by a guide, a woman barely into her twenties, with a giant pennant and a battery-operated bullhorn. It’s not even eight-thirty. “Tourists like to walk on this street, Fuxing Lu,” the driver explains. “Go from south gate to north gate.” I tell myself to avoid Fuxing Lu.

  The road we’re on slopes gently upward. We pass another narrow street lined with traditional houses turned into pizza places, coffeehouses, bars. “Yangren Lu,” the driver says. Foreigner Street. Most of the people I see on it look Chinese, though. A riot of sloping triangular roofs, wooden shutters of red and gold, painted eaves, carved signboards against a sky that’s a deep, sharp, almost desert blue.

  You want to talk quaint? This place is quaint on steroids.

  Finally we arrive at Dali Perfect Inn.

  It’s a small building tucked away on another narrow street, two stories of weathered grey stone and wood. It looks old, but you never know for sure in China; they create fake old stuff all the time. You know, after they knock the real old stuff down.

  “Room number twenty-one, here is key, and you can have a breakfast until nine A.M.”

  I look around the lobby. It’s elegant, almost, with world clocks set in carved panels, Ming-dynas
ty-style furniture, stone floors. You can find plenty of cheaper hotels in Dali, less than the Perfect’s thirty dollars a night. Not quite the backpacker dive I’d figure was Jason’s kind of place. But the kind of place that looks like it has the money to sponsor a video.

  “Zhege lüguan, zhen piaoliang,” I say. Your hotel, it’s very pretty. “I saw a video on Youku recommending it.”

  The woman behind the counter is slim, young, wearing what I guess is Bai traditional dress—this red tunic thing with white sleeves and an embroidered trim. She smiles.

  “Oh, yes, ‘Dali Scene.’ ”

  “That’s the one. It’s a very good video.” I hesitate, not sure how far I should push this right away. “Do you know the person who made it? Because maybe I would like to hire him to make a video for me.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “I myself don’t know. But my manager, I can ask her later.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

  It’s a start, I guess.

  I limp up to my room. It’s on the second floor. There’s this covered walkway that runs alongside the rooms, with stone arches and a beamed ceiling, making a horseshoe shape around a central courtyard. When I get to my room, it’s all wooden shutters, wooden furniture, a bed with a carved wooden frame, a canopy, and embroidered pillows on top of a puffy quilt.

  Fucking quaint.

  I kick off my shoes and collapse on the bed.

  When I wake up, it’s late afternoon, I have a headache, and I’m hungry.

  I make myself an instant Starbucks coffee, stand in the shower for a while, dress in jeans, a semi-fresh T-shirt, sweater, and jacket. I head outside.

  After Yangshuo the light still feels bright here, the shadows sharp-edged. The wind has picked up, and I zip my jacket against the chill. I’m thinking pizza. Or … I don’t know, a burger. The street parallel to this one is full of all kinds of restaurants, outdoor cafés, some with free Wi-Fi, each with its carved wood, arched roofs, and postcard-ready façade.

  “Ganja? Ganja?”

  I turn. There’s a little old lady wearing traditional clothes, a tunic and this black headdress with embroidered flowers and beadwork hanging off the back. She’s about five feet tall and has sidled up next to me. She mutters again, “Ganja? Ganja?”

  You know, I’m kind of tempted, because I’m starting to feel hungover all the time from the Percocet I’ve been taking. Also constipated. Maybe a little ganja would help, but even though pot’s not a super big deal in China, I can’t afford the risk.

  “Xianzai buyao,” I say, and continue my search for a likely restaurant.

  I SETTLE FOR INDIAN food, and after I’ve eaten, I do what I do in every place I’ve been: find a coffeehouse/bar advertising free Wi-Fi, order a beer, and get out my laptop.

  I sip my beer—I splurged for an imported Sierra Nevada—and check my email.

  Spam. Messages from various artists. One from Torres, another buddy of mine from the Sandbox.

  One from Dog Turner.

  “Heya baby doc hows it going? Any joy yet on my bro? if you see him tell him to get his ass home ok?”

  I hesitate. I’m using the VPN, but I still feel uneasy. This whole thing, it’s another one of those situations that feels way bigger than me, where there’s stuff going on that I don’t know about, stuff that could come back and bite me on the ass.

  Your basic iceberg of shit.

  I mean, if Jason really is this wanted guy, considered a terrorist to boot, just because I’m using a VPN, that doesn’t mean that Dog’s end of the communication is secure.

  “Hey, Dog,” I type. “Sorry, nothing to report. Have been tied up with business stuff. Not sure I can really help. Let’s talk next week, okay?”

  I feel like shit, because I’m lying. There’s plenty of things I could tell Dog. And he’s going to read the email, and he’s going to think that I’m being a Fobbit, afraid to go outside the wire, afraid to take a risk to help a buddy.

  Then I think, I’m such an asshole, because I’m more worried about what he’s going to think about me than how he’s going to feel about what I said.

  Next an email from Harrison.

  Dear Ellie,

  I hope this finds you well and that you are enjoying your vacation.

  The possibility that we may be facing some of the complications we spoke about during our last dinner is looking more likely. I’ll see what I can do on my end. There’s no immediate crisis, but the situation is complicated. If you have a chance, give Lucy Wu a call. She can fill you in.

  Best,

  Harrison

  Great. Fucking great.

  Finally, the latest from my mom:

  Once upon a time, there was this girl who had four boyfriends.

  She loved the fourth boyfriend the most and adorned him with rich robes and treated him to the finest of delicacies. She gave him nothing but the best.

  She also loved the third boyfriend very much and was always showing him off to neighboring kingdoms. However, she feared that one day he would leave her for another.

  She also loved her second boyfriend. He was her confidant and was always kind, considerate and patient with her. Whenever this girl faced a problem, she could confide in him, and he would help her get through the difficult times.

  The girl’s first boyfriend was a very loyal partner and had made great contributions in maintaining her wealth and kingdom. However, she did not love the first boyfriend. Although he loved her deeply, she hardly took notice of him!

  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 cal
l Lucy Wu.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “OH, 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.”

  WE 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.