They wanted different lives.
“Ellie.”
I turn. There’s Harrison Wang. He’s wearing a white silk T-shirt and lightweight black pants. I think this might be the first time that I’ve seen him actually sweat.
“Hey.”
“You got my email?”
I nod. “Crazy couple of days.”
“You’ll have to tell me about that.”
He stares north, toward the Forbidden City.
I look around. I spot Sloppy and Francesca, on the west side of the monument. Francesca has a big camera, with a long lens. Nothing weird about that—this is a huge tourist attraction after all.
“We have other people with cameras and cell phones,” Harrison murmurs.
“What’s he going to do?”
“I don’t know. But I thought we should be prepared to document it.”
We stand there, waiting.
“Hey! Dude!”
There’s only one person who calls me “dude.” That would be Liu Chaoke, Chuckie, my former roommate, the hacker and gamer who introduced me to Lao Zhang.
He’s wearing an oversize Green Lantern T-shirt and baggy shorts, and he’s still thin and knobby kneed, though he’s switched his old heavy-framed glasses to some rimless models.
“Dude,” I say. I haven’t seen him in over a year. And I can’t help it—I give him a quick hug. He pats me on the back, as awkward as I am.
“How are you recently?” he asks.
“Oh, you know. Pretty good. You?”
“Same thing.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Hacking for PLA.”
This is kind of a surprise on the one hand, given Chuckie’s problems with authority. On the other, I guess he’s pretty good at hacking.
“Oh. So. How is that?”
He shrugs. “Boring. I quit.”
Which doesn’t surprise me at all.
It’s almost noon.
Now I see a man approaching from the east side of the square. He’s wearing shorts and a plain T-shirt and a scarlet baseball cap like he’s a Chinese tourist on a group tour. He’s carrying something, some kind of long, bright bundle, tucked under one arm.
Lao Zhang.
For a minute or two, I just stand there while he takes up a position slightly to the north of the monument.
I shake myself, and I limp toward him.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up. “Yili.”
We stare at each other. I haven’t seen him in over a year. All this time, everything that’s happened, it’s like he’s turned into a symbol of something rather than a man.
Now we’re standing in front of each other, and I really see him. He’s thinner than he was. His hair’s retreated above his temples, and he’s shaved it close to his head, shaved off his goatee, too.
Mostly he just looks tired.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“A performance.” He indicates the bundle under his arm. “It’s just a kite. I want to fly it for a while.”
“Don’t do it,” I say. “Don’t. You don’t have to. You can still leave.”
“I don’t want to.” He closes the distance between us. Rests his hands on my shoulders for a moment. “I never should have left you the way I did. It was selfish.”
I want to hug him, but I’m afraid to. I don’t know who’s watching.
Besides, I’m pissed off. He comes home just to get himself arrested?
To leave again?
I step back. “Okay. Maybe you shouldn’t have. How’s this going to help?”
“It’s just time, that’s all.” He starts to unroll the kite. “Time to step away from the computers. To act.”
“You and what army? This isn’t 1989. You see anybody out here marching with you? They don’t care. They’re too busy trying to make down payments on their fucking Audis.”
“I care. Let me do this.” He unfolds the kite. It’s a big kite, white with red trim, and I catch a glimpse of black characters and a fragment of English—DELETED, it says.
“You really think doing some kind of art piece is going to change things? Jesus. Your ego’s bigger than I thought.”
He pauses with his kite and smiles. “Maybe so.”
It’s making me nervous just standing here next to him. I glance to my right. Those two guys over there, are they plainclothes? Are they watching us?
I glance around the square, and there are other people flying kites: kids and their parents mostly, and a few older men with fancy kites, like this is their big hobby. A unit of uniformed soldiers march by in cadence, and no one seems to notice. They’re just part of the landscape.
“I’m going to move to the side a little,” Lao Zhang says. “Wind is better there.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“Take good care of yourself,” he says. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I make for you.”
He turns and walks away, holding the big kite under his arm.
You can’t go after him, I tell myself. You can’t. It wouldn’t do any good.
He’ll do what he wants to do, and it’s not up to me to stop him.
I let him go.
When I get back to where Harrison is standing, Chuckie’s gone. “Your friend said he wanted a better view,” Harrison tells me.
I nod, throat too tight to let me speak.
Lao Zhang has taken a position about twenty yards in front of the Monument to the People’s Heroes. I get what he’s doing. You frame the shot right, you’ll get him with the monument in the background. I’m guessing some of Harrison’s videographers know that, too, and are positioned accordingly.
I stay where I am. I don’t need the perfect shot. I don’t even want to watch this.
But here I am.
Lao Zhang puts his kite on the ground. Squats down and fiddles with it—he’s tying the line onto the crossbar, I think. Stands, holding the kite in one hand, a reel for the string in the other. Stretches.
He holds the kite out in front of him, slightly above his head. Waits for a gust of wind and lets it go.
It takes him a few tries to get the thing up in the air, but when it does rise, it’s as easy and gentle as anything that’s going back to where it really belongs.
Up in the air.
I watch it rise. Lao Zhang reels in the string to keep it from going too high too fast. So we can all see what’s written on it.
对不起，原文已经被删除
It’s the message you get when you’re surfing the web here or following links on Weibo, and whatever you were looking for got harmonized. Censored.
And in English:
SORRY, THE ORIGINAL TEXT HAS BEEN DELETED.
We all stand there watching. The kite bobs and weaves. It takes at least five minutes before a couple of those obvious plainclothes guys start pointing at the kite and yapping at each other about it. Like, What do we do? Is this subversive? It must be, but we aren’t exactly sure why it is. One of them makes a call on his cell phone.
Then they march over to Lao Zhang and start asking him questions.
I watch him shrug. Continue to fly the kite. One of the plainclothesmen grabs the kite string out of his hands. Lao Zhang lets him. He knows it’s over. The plainclothes guy reels in the kite. Snatches it out of the sky.
More plainclothesmen converge, along with a couple of actual uniforms. They’re getting in Lao Zhang’s face now, but he just stands there, all calm and Zen. Finally two of them flank him, grab his upper arms and frog-march him away.
I start to follow. I don’t even think about it. Harrison clasps his hand around my wrist.
“Don’t.”
I stop. “I know. But—”
“We’ll try to get the plates of whatever car they put him in, so we know who has him,” Harrison says. “That’s all we can do right now.”
He stares out over the square. People still fly kites. Take selfies. It’s as if nothing happened at all.
Harrison
takes me out for a late lunch and drinks at a hutong restaurant that serves Malaysian food. I don’t eat that much. I tell him what happened with me and the Caos. I tell him I can’t do this anymore. “I just need a break, that’s all,” I say.
It’s funny, because while I’m telling him all this, I’m not really feeling much of anything. I’m mostly staring at my plate of nasi kandar and thinking I should take it to go for later, because I can’t eat it right now.
“Ellie.”
I look up. Harrison’s expression is one I haven’t seen on him before. He looks … I don’t know. Sad. Concerned. Like he actually gives a shit.
“We can manage a break. Don’t worry about that. Do what you need to do.”
I shrug. “Yeah. I will.”
“Just remember, you have a place here.” Then he does something really weird, for Harrison: he reaches out and covers my hand with his.
“What we’re doing, it means something. It’s important.”
I laugh a little. “Yeah.”
I stumble back to my apartment.
I’m thinking I’m not nearly drunk enough, all things considered. But I’m so far beyond tired that I don’t even feel like drinking.
I’ll take half a Percocet, I decide. Watch something loud and stupid on TV until I fall asleep. The way I’m feeling, it shouldn’t take long.
Funny. The place looks so empty without my mom and Mimi. It’s like I’m already gone. A ghost in my own apartment.
I pop open a Yanjing Beer. Collapse on the couch. Retrieve my Percocet stash from my daypack.
I open the bottle and tap a pill onto my palm. Think about it and tap a little harder. I keep doing that until I have maybe a dozen of them cupped in my hand.
I’m trying to calculate what happens if I take them all.
Would that be enough narcotic for me to just sort of … drift off? Or would I puke them up?
It’s actually the acetaminophen you really have to worry about. That shit trashes your liver. So I take an overdose of Percocet, and maybe all I manage to do is blow out my liver and die a slow, horrible death.
“Fuck it,” I mutter. I pour the pills back into the bottle.
I drink my beer. I don’t even make it to the end of the bottle before I sink down onto the couch and close my eyes.
What wakes me up is my phone ringing.
My hand finds it on the coffee table. As I pick it up, I try to remember which SIM card is in there. Is this the number the Caos have? Because I really don’t want to talk to any of them right now.
Unknown number.
“Shit.”
I hesitate for a moment, and then I slide the bar to answer. “Wei?”
“Ellie. It is John.”
I feel … How do I feel? It’s nice to hear from him, I guess.
How much does he know about what happened today at Tiananmen?
“Did you hear? About Lao Zhang?”
“Yes. That’s why I call.” A pause. “I think there is a way maybe … to … to … have an influence. Over his case. And yours.”
You know, seriously? I’m so done with this. I’m tired. If I’m not going to kill myself, then I just need to get away from all this bullshit. Go someplace peaceful. There has to be a place like that for me somewhere. Right?
“But … I need you to help,” John says. “And … you must be careful.”
I let out a sigh.
“Okay,” I say. “What do I have to do?”
STRAWBERRY CRÈME, 11:30 P.M.
“Not really dangerous,” John told me. “I make sure to watch. But … maybe he’ll be angry.”
“Maybe?”
“I take other pictures. But I cannot be seen. You just must take one. And he must know that you take it.”
I can think of a lot of ways this could go wrong, actually. But I’ve gotten to that place where I’ve already surrendered.
Whatever happens, happens.
Strawberry Crème is another one of these overpriced Beijing nightclubs that I’ve done my best to avoid since moving here. This one’s owned by Russians. You know you’re getting close to the club because there are all these billboards with Russian women on them, draped in furs and diamonds.
Inside, it’s a lot of black and red and gold: a foyer with a huge Plexiglas escalator that has the mechanics exposed, as long and as steep as a ride down to a Beijing subway. Giant paintings line the walls in gold-painted frames, a lot of fake eighteenth-century European stuff: kings and queens and half-naked nymphs. When I get to the bottom of the escalator, there’s more red-and-black wallpaper and giant paintings hung from the ceiling as well as on the walls, so if you look up, you’ll get an eyeful of pink nymph flesh, plus gold and crystal chandeliers. Look down and you’ll see black leatherette booths with gold studs, giant samovars and hookah pipes sitting on tables here and there, and a dance floor with a disco ball and a small stage where go-go dancers are gyrating around poles, vaguely in time to the earsplitting music.
I do some recon, a quick sweep of the floor, checking out the guests. Mostly Chinese men, some Russian men, and a bunch of European women, most of whom are … If I had to guess, I’d go with “paid girlfriend”—younger than the men, wearing micro-miniskirts, low-cut blouses, and stiletto heels. There’s a lot of vodka being drunk here. There’s a lot of drinking period—it’s not even midnight, and I’m already seeing dudes spilling their shots and draping themselves on each other.
I’m walking past one of the booths, and who I actually notice first is a Russian-looking man—trim, bald, wearing an open-necked silk shirt and a thick gold chain, lifting his shot glass in a toast and draining it in one gulp. He doesn’t seem all that drunk, though. Unlike the Chinese guy next to him, whose face is bright red and beaded with sweat.
Pompadour Bureaucrat.
I get out my phone and snap a picture. Even though John told me what to look for, seeing it in person is so much better than I ever imagined. His shirt’s unbuttoned, revealing white tank-top underwear stretched over a potbelly. He’s leaning back against the back of the booth and laughing. One of those girlfriends for hire sits on his lap. She picks up a shot glass brimming with liquid and presses it against his lips, until he opens his mouth like he’s about to suck it down. Instead she slips a finger in his mouth, and he sucks on that. I take another picture. She withdraws the finger and tilts the shot glass against his lips, and he switches to the vodka.
Which is when the not-drunk Russian guy notices me.
“What are you doing?”
I lift up my hands. “Who, me? Nothing.” I quickly touch the photo to call up the sharing option and hit MESSAGE. Type “Z” to bring up the contact number John gave me on the phone today.
“Just sending this to a couple of buddies.”
I hear a choking sound. It’s Pompadour Bureaucrat, trying to uninhale his vodka.
“Ni hao!” I say. “I am so looking forward to drinking tea with you again.”
I didn’t think his face could get any redder. I was wrong.
He stands up, spilling vodka and knocking his temporary girlfriend onto the leatherette bench. “You! You, you …”
“Bitch?” I supply. “I get that a lot.”
He lunges across the table, toppling a whole bottle of vodka and several water glasses. “Give me that!”
I guess he means my phone. “Sure,” I say. “If you want. But that photo I just took? It’s already gone.”
I’m so busy gloating that I don’t notice the Russian muscle until he’s come around from behind the booth and has fixated on me, like a leopard. Or a jaguar. Whatever.
Oh, shit. I pivot and make for the dance floor.
The music’s pounding, Russian disco, blue and purple strobes flashing in time, and up on the stage there’s a chick with a white fur bikini writhing around one pole and a guy wearing a leather Speedo hanging off the other. I push on through, holding up my arms and waving them in a way that I hope looks sort of like dancing, weaving to the back of the dance flo
or, Russian Muscle not far behind me, crashing into the dancers like a bowling ball hitting the pins.
“Ellie!”
A hand circles my wrist and pulls me forward.
John.
“This way.”
There’s a door by the back of the stage. I plunge through it, led by John. A dark corridor. Then fluorescent lights, a glimpse of long tables and heaps of costumes, half-dressed women and men, the next act in the floor show. Past that, a long concrete staircase, lit by naked bulbs in iron cages.
I’m barely dragging my ass up all these stairs. “Come on, Ellie!” John says, his hand pressed against the center of my back.
“Okay. Okay.”
We get to the top of the stairs. John pushes against a broad door, and we both stumble outside.
Halfway down the block is a new silver Toyota, right wheels parked up on the curb. John jogs ahead, unlocking it with the button on his key. He already has the engine started when I open the passenger door and fall into the seat.
I don’t even have the door closed when he peels away from the curb, right wheels hitting the street with a jolt that sends a shock up my spine.
I slam the door shut.
“Holy shit,” I gasp. “That was … awesome.”
John turns his head to me. He’s smiling as wide as I’ve ever seen him smile. “Yes,” he says. “I thought you would enjoy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
★
“HE WAS VERY angry.” John tries to keep his serious face on, but the smile won’t stop breaking through.
“I bet.”
We’re sitting in a jiaozi restaurant on Andingmen, chowing down on dumplings and vinegar peanuts with spinach. It’s two days since I saw Pompadour Bureaucrat at Strawberry Crème.
“I tell him you send these photos to some of your friends. But you say you won’t put them on Weibo or send to newspapers and websites if he stops bothering you. And stops bothering Lao Zhang.”
Dragon Day Page 28