Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  There’s a shot of a bag of New Century Hero Rice. The farmer smiling, raising his hoe like a rifle.

  “They’re putting this stuff on the market illegally. Without permission. Hiding what they’re doing in places like Guiyu, where no one would think of looking.”

  Shots of Guiyu. Of tainted fields surrounded by smoking electronic scrap. Of the New Century Seeds storefront, the electronics workshop where I ran into Mr. Piggy, who subsequently arranged to have my ass kicked, I’m pretty sure.

  “In Yunnan, one of China’s breadbaskets.”

  I think I recognize the landscape, the green fields and hills around Dali. Then a shot of another storefront, in the middle of a typical Chinese city street. The camera lingers on it long enough for me to take in a cartoon graphic on the window—a dancing tomato tangoing with an ear of corn. The supered title reads: “Modern Scientific Seed Company. Dali, Yunnan.”

  “Eos has its people working in the US government, in the Department of Agriculture, in the FDA, making sure their products get approved with minimal oversight.” A slide of names and positions. Most of them I don’t recognize—I mean, who knows the names of deputy directors of the FDA and US Trade Policy Committee members?—but isn’t that one a Supreme Court judge? “It works the other way, too—Eos employs former congressional and White House staffers as lobbyists—they’ve spent hundreds of millions of dollars on lobbying and campaign contributions.”

  A photo of some old white dude, with a name beneath it and FORMER SECRETARY OF DEFENSE NOW ON BOARD OF DIRECTORS.

  “And in China? Who knows how it works?”

  A slide of the Great Wall with a big red question mark supered over it.

  “These people are trying to control the global food supply,” he says urgently. “I know that sounds crazy.”

  Yeah, well, kind of. I get that the stuff they’re making maybe isn’t safe. But control the food supply all over the world? I mean, nobody can do that.

  It’s like he’s reading my mind.

  “They own the patents. If their stuff contaminates other crops, they can claim they own those, too. That the farmer owes them money. That the farmer has to buy their seeds.”

  More PowerPoint slides. A list of citations. Things like “Eos Sues Farmer for Patent Infringement.” “Farmer Claims Eos Corn Contaminated His Fields.”

  “There’s a tipping point that happens,” Jason says, because it has to be him, right? “Like with soybeans in the US. GMO soy is ninety percent of all the soybeans planted in the US. Ninety percent! And if GMOs get a foothold here? In China?”

  In China, where they barely regulate food safety. Where restaurants use sewer oil and pork glows in the dark. Where milk powder poisons babies.

  “We won’t have a choice anymore. They’ll own us. All of us.”

  He’s manic-depressive, right? Paranoid. A criminal.

  I know you are, but what am I? Ha-ha.

  “I don’t know if anyone will see this,” Jason says. “I’m putting it out there, hoping somebody does. I have proof. I can prove it all.”

  AFTER THAT I LOOK around the elegant room, and I realize that there’s no way I’m going to stay here.

  It’s too bad. It’s nice. Quiet. And this has got to be one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever slept on. But I want to pick up those bread crumbs. Even if Jason’s crazy, like Natalie says and like he kind of sounds on that video. Maybe especially if he is.

  Maybe even more if he’s not.

  I can go to both the Dali Perfect Inn and Modern Scientific Seed Company today and, if I don’t learn anything, get out of Dali tonight. I’m not sure what time the train to Kunming leaves, but there are long-distance buses going there every couple of hours.

  Besides, being here by myself … it doesn’t feel right.

  I miss the dog. Maybe I even miss Creepy John.

  I DECIDE TO GO to the Dali Perfect Inn first. It takes about as long to get to the old town as it does to get to the new city from Shuanglang, at least according to Google Maps; I just have to go back the way I came, west and then south around the lake. I figure it’s better to start there, at the hotel, where there are less likely to be thugs with iron rods.

  The front desk arranges a car and driver for me. I have another cup of coffee while I wait for it to arrive. Sit on a terrace overlooking the lake. Watch the birds and the clouds and wonder how I got here.

  “OH! WE THOUGHT YOU checked out!”

  I’m back at the Dali Perfect Inn, and it’s still fucking quaint. The same girl stands behind the counter as when I checked in a couple days ago: slim, young, wearing a Bai Minority costume. She looks kind of nervous. I wonder if the PSB paid her a visit.

  Then I realize that John did.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Change of plans. And I wish I could stay a little longer, because this is a very nice hotel.”

  “Thank you,” she says, nodding rapidly.

  “But I’m still trying to find the person who made the video. ‘Dali Scene.’ You said you could ask your manager?”

  She bobs her head again. “Yes, certainly. Please, wait a moment. I will ask her.”

  I sit in one of the Ming-dynasty chairs, stare at the world clock telling me that it’s 8:49 A.M. in Moscow.

  At 9:02 A.M., Moscow time, another woman appears: middle-aged, in a sweater and slacks.

  “Yes, I remember the foreigner who made the video. Very nice young man.”

  “Great! Do you have a cell-phone number for him? Because I want him to make a video for me.”

  She nods. “I found the number for you.” Hands me a slip of paper with a number written on it.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Thanks very much.”

  She hesitates. Smiles. “Will you be staying with us now? We have very nice room available.”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell her. “I might be leaving town. But thanks for that.”

  I STAND OUTSIDE THE Dali Perfect Inn and dial the number. And get the China Mobile recording: “Ni hao! Nin suo boda de shi konghao. Qing chazheng hou zaibo.”

  The number you dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.

  I take a taxi to Xiaguan, to New Dali, to the long-distance bus station. It’s a cement building painted peeling white and blue with a couple of buses parked in a small lot, on a narrow street, on a block that looks like any other third-tier Chinese city: cluttered, grimy, cracked plastic signs. I check my duffel in to a locker there, and find another taxi to take me to Modern Scientific Seed Company.

  TURNS OUT IT’S A storefront on another typical block, wedged between a paint store and a place that looks like it’s selling mostly doors.

  I stand on the sidewalk across the street. Unlike the New Century Seed Company in Guiyu, this place has a sign, and the characters above the entrance, according to my trusty Pleco dictionary, actually do say MODERN SCIENTIFIC SEED COMPANY.

  There’s a cartoon graphic of dancing ears of corn and tomatoes stenciled on the window.

  The seed company in Jason’s latest video. I’m positive.

  So he made it as far as here. Across the street at least. About where I’m standing right now.

  You never know, and that’s the only thing that’s for sure. You never know what you’re going to step in. What’s going to be safe and what isn’t.

  I take a deep breath, and I walk across the street.

  AN ELECTRONIC DOORBELL SOUNDS as I push open the door, so loud that I jump.

  Not cool, McEnroe.

  Inside, it’s almost like a small showroom. Shoe-box-shaped. Cement floors. Plastic photos lit from behind on the walls of green fields, a factory complex, and various crops, with slogans like “Creating Green and Harmonious!” and “Harvest Happiness!” There’s a counter at the back with a computer sitting on it, a lone woman wearing a white smock, like she’s working in a hospital or a pharmacy. Older than me. Hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s staring at me.

  I smile. Nod. Walk along the wall,
looking at the pictures of various seeds and crops. Cartoon ear of corn carried by happy baby. “Lihai 231 Hybrid,” it’s called. The dancing tomatoes. “Jingli 88.” Something green with stalks that’s rice or wheat or hay, like I can tell, called “Zhongcheng 351.”

  By now my circuit has brought me to the back counter. The woman who sits there smiles tightly. “Wo keyi bang ni mang ma?” Can I help you?

  “Ni hao.” I hesitate. I’m not sure what to ask. Do I pull out my photo of Jason/David/Langhai?

  Maybe I should, you know, have an actual plan the next time I do something like this.

  “I hear you sell a special kind of rice,” I finally say.

  She keeps smiling. “We sell several special varieties of rice. For different circumstances.”

  “This one is called New Century Hero Rice. Do you know it?”

  She frowns. A cartoon kind of frown, almost. Put it up on the wall next to the dancing tomatoes.

  “Burenshi.” Don’t recognize it. “I can search our products.”

  She starts tapping on the keyboard. I glance around and see a surveillance camera, one of those black domes encased in white plastic, tucked in the corner of the ceiling.

  Okay, I tell myself. Okay. These cameras are everywhere. It doesn’t mean anything.

  The woman shakes her head. “We don’t have that brand,” she says. “Sorry. But I can ask my manager to recommend the proper kind.” The smile is back. “Depending on your circumstances.”

  I start backing toward the door before I even think about it. “Thank you,” I say. “Wo kaolü hou zai jueding.” I’ll consider before I decide. “Zai jian!”

  Another step. I turn around. Just get to the door, I tell myself, the muscles between my shoulders clenching.

  Get to the door. Open it. Walk outside.

  By the time I reach the sidewalk, I’m sweating like crazy. My heart’s pounding. Nerves in my bad leg lighting up like they’re on fire. I gulp in a breath. Then another.

  Okay, I tell myself. No one’s coming to get me. It’s okay.

  I’m a fucking head case. What makes me think I can do this kind of shit anyway?

  Bus station.

  Even though I’m a head case, even though there are no guys with iron bars chasing me, all I want to do right now is get to the bus station and get out of town.

  FIVE HOURS FROM DALI to Kunming and I’m stuck on a bus playing a Hong Kong comedy at a volume that rattles the cheap speakers. I tilt the seat as far back as it goes, prop my feet up on the footrest. Close my eyes and try to figure out why I freaked out in the Modern Scientific Seed Company showroom.

  Well, there’s the fact that, as mentioned, I’m a head case. Plus, the attempted mugging, getting beat up, followed, framed, Jason’s video, and having amazing sex with Creepy John.

  I mean, it’s all pretty unsettling.

  But that whole setup. An empty display room. The woman on her computer. The way she looked at me. The surveillance camera.

  What was it? There weren’t any actual seeds there, at least that I saw. It didn’t look like the kind of place that farmers would go in to buy their future crops. Though what do I know about how Chinese farmers do business? Next to nothing. Maybe they go in there and look at all the pretty photos and place their orders over the Internet or something.

  A corporate branch office, maybe.

  Why was it on Jason’s list?

  He had to have gotten those names from Han Rong, right? Han Rong, who claims to be a dissatisfied employee, but who doesn’t have any evidence of his own to bust Eos.

  The whole thing stinks. Like a rotten fish tomato.

  I GET INTO KUNMING around 9:00 P.M. I’m sore, I’m tired and I’m hungry. I check in to a hotel near Wenlin Jie, the cool area near the university where I hung out before. Limp down the street and find a restaurant specializing in Yunnan food. There’s all kinds of people out and about: students and tourists and locals, wandering down the narrow street that smells faintly of spices and sewage, gathering in clusters around the open-air bars, eating ice cream, drinking beer.

  I sit and eat. Spicy beef with crispy basil and something called “Grandmother’s potatoes,” which is sort of like fried mashed potatoes but better. Wash it down with a Dali beer.

  After I settle up, I’m feeling pretty good, so I wander down the street until I find a bar that looks decent. Well, actually, it looks kind of tacky, with silver walls and Plexiglas tables and red and blue floodlights, but it’s not crowded, which is what makes it look decent to me right now.

  I take a seat at the bar, facing the street. Order an overpriced tequila shot and another Dali beer.

  There’s one more name on Jason’s list. Bright Future Seed Company, in Guiyang, the capital of Guizhou Province.

  I’ve never been to Guizhou. I don’t know very much about it, only that it’s poor and supposedly beautiful and that it’s located between Yunnan, where I am now, and Guangxi, where Guilin and Yangshuo are.

  Just east of here.

  I don’t know, I tell myself. I don’t know. Does it make sense for me to go there? I mean, what are the odds that I go to Bright Future Seed Company and all my questions are answered?

  That I find Jason.

  Because that’s why I’m doing all this, right?

  I’m thinking this, and I’m tired, and I guess I’m a little buzzed. Because when my phone rings, I flinch, and I grab it, and I hit ANSWER, even though it’s an unknown number.

  I don’t stop to think about what that might mean.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “ELLIE? ELLIE MCENROE?”

  A woman’s voice.

  I don’t recognize her at first because she sounds nervous, almost panicked, as opposed to being her usual pain in my ass.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Vicky Huang.”

  I have a moment of panic myself, thinking, Weren’t we supposed to talk in a week? Has it already been a week? I try to count up the days.

  “Sorry to call you so late,” she says.

  I think that it hasn’t been a week, it’s been … what, three days? Four? And yeah, it is pretty late, like almost midnight. And all the time zones are the same in China, so she doesn’t have that excuse.

  “Uh, that’s okay,” I finally manage. “What can I do for you?”

  A hesitation. “I just need to know …” Another pause. “Do you negotiate to sell Zhang Jianli’s work to another collector?” Her words come out in a rush, like they’re propelled by a small explosion.

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  A brief, nervous laugh. “So sorry! It is only that … Mr. Cao, he … he is very anxious to secure certain pieces. For his collection. He is very serious about his collection.”

  She sounds like he’s going to take it out of her hide if he doesn’t get what he wants.

  “I promise you. I’m not negotiating with anyone. I’ve just been on vacation. That’s all.”

  At that moment the waitress swings over. “Zai lai yi ping pijui,” I tell the waitress, because I really need another beer if I’m going to have this conversation.

  “Where are you now? Mr. Cao is very anxious to arrange a meeting.”

  “I’m in Kunming … Look, I’ll be back in Beijing in a few days. Tell Mr. Cao not to worry. Nothing’s being sold right now. And I’m sorry we haven’t been able to meet.”

  Because as much as I hate apologizing to this pushy bitch, I can’t afford to piss off a Chinese billionaire potential investor.

  “I’ve had some personal business, that’s all. It doesn’t have anything to do with Zhang Jianli’s art.”

  “I see,” she says.

  I can’t tell for sure if she believes me, but she sounds calmer anyway.

  Man, people are freaks.

  I SIT THERE A while longer, sipping my beer. I think about checking my email. I haven’t done that since I left Dali, and there’s free wireless here.

  I have my laptop with me, like I always do—no way I
trust leaving it in a hotel room. No matter how careful I am about using VPNs, about clearing my browsing history and running spyware and virus scans, about deleting anything sensitive off my hard drive, I just don’t know enough about how all that stuff works to be sure. Besides, one thing I do know is, people can put all kinds of spyware and key-logging software on your computer if they have access to it, and even on a Mac that stuff can be hard to find.

  For all I know, that kid Moudzu back in Guiyu could have bugged it when he fixed it. I mean, I don’t think so, but how can I know for sure?

  No Great Community, I tell myself. Just email.

  When I log on, there’s a message from my mom.

  Hey, hon, hope you’re having fun. Things are okay here. Andy’s friend got the toilet fixed. It’s been really great having Andy around, since you’re not here. It’s nothing I planned on or expected, but I think things might be getting serious between us. Will you be home soon? Love, Mom.

  I lean back in my chair, sip my beer, and think about ordering another tequila shot, even though I know I shouldn’t. I mean, what am I supposed to say to this? “Way to go, Mom! So happy you found another crazy boyfriend!”

  While I’m trying to decide what to drink and what to write, I launch Skype. Dog Turner’s account is green.

  It’s 12:45 A.M. here, 8:45 A.M. in San Diego.

  Not that early for most people, I guess.

  As I stare at the screen, the Skype phone rings. Dog Turner.

  I hesitate for a moment. I don’t know what to say to him.

  I could just not answer it, I guess.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter. I’m going to have to talk to him eventually. Might as well get it over with.

  I hit ANSWER. But it’s not Dog’s face on the screen. It’s Natalie’s.

  “Ellie, hi. Thanks … thanks for picking up.”

  She looks like shit, but then just about anybody lit up by a computer screen looks kind of sickly.

  “Hey,” I say. “Give me a second. Let me get my earbuds in.”

  It’s more than the blue computer light, though. Her eyes are red-rimmed, the lids puffy. Her streaked blond hair has taken on the texture of straw.