Year of the Tiger

by Lisa Brackman

  I can’t help it. I still want him.

  ‘You are so full of it.’ I yank my hand away. ‘What would Jesus say about you dumping me for her? About you fucking her when you’re married to me!’

  ‘We’re all sinners,’ he says intensely. ‘That’s the point. And I told you what the bottom line was for me. I need to be with somebody who wants to live a Christ-centered life. And you’ve left that, Ellie. You’ve left that, and nothing I can say makes a difference. So what am I supposed to do? I can’t live without it. I just can’t.’

  For a moment we stare at each other.

  ‘Okay,’ I finally say. ‘Okay. We’ve had this discussion how many times? You wanna live with little Miss Come to Jesus, that’s fine. You wanna get divorced, that’s fine with me too. But you know what I want, Trey. You know it. Give me what I want, and I’ll sign anything you want me to sign.’

  Trey leans back in his chair. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. I think I got it figured out.’

  At that moment, two things happen almost at once. Two foreign men in suits approach our table. ‘Mr Cooper, Mrs Cooper,’ one of them says in an American accent. They sit. And the waitress brings us our food.

  ‘Parma-san?’ she chirps.

  ‘Hey, guys.’ Trey flashes his smile at them.

  I just sit there, staring at the mass of coiled noodles, which suddenly don’t look like something I much want to eat.

  ‘Mrs Cooper, sorry if we startled you earlier,’ Suit #1 says.

  I don’t say anything. I twirl a forkful of spaghetti, and I eat it. Not bad, actually. Good noodles. ‘Yes,’ I tell the waitress. ‘Please bring parmesan.’

  Suit #1 leans forward. He’s the younger of the duo, a wiry guy with wide eyes and an earnest expression. ‘We’re not here to cause you any problems.’

  I take another bite of spaghetti. It tastes okay, but it’s going down like glue. ‘So why are you here?’ I ask.

  ‘Ellie –’ Trey begins, all concerned and placating, but Suit #2 cuts him off.

  ‘The Uighur. Hashim Abdullaabduzehim.’

  I have to think about this for a moment. ‘Abdulla … ?’

  ‘Abdullaabduzehim,’ Suit #2 repeats impatiently. He’s a half dozen years older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot bulkier than Suit #1, with heavy-rimmed glasses, a bristling mustache, and a scary edge. The bad cop, apparently.

  I decide it’s best not to say anything. I focus on twirling the perfect forkful of noodles and sauce, braced against my spoon.

  ‘You met him, right?’

  Why is it so hard to get the right amount of noodles on your fork? You either end up with a few pathetic strands or half the bowl.

  ‘I meet a lot of people,’ I finally say. ‘So what?’

  Suit #1 puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘Mrs Cooper, it’s very important that you tell us anything you can about Mr Abdullaabduzehim.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mr Abdullaabduzehim is a known associate of Islamic extremists who plan to carry out attacks against American interests.’

  ‘Against people like your former comrades-in-arms,’ Suit #2 says. He sounds pissed. ‘If you still give a shit about them.’

  I put down my fork. ‘You know what? Fuck you.’

  ‘Mrs Cooper …’ Suit #1 sighs. ‘I know you’ve had a rough time. We wouldn’t intrude on your privacy if it weren’t extremely important. Mr Carter here …’ He stares at me, those wide eyes of his suddenly seeming like a cartoon of sympathy. ‘Mr Carter gets impatient.’

  ‘Parma-san.’ The waitress has returned, with a little green can of cheese. ‘More beer?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Trey.

  ‘The Uighur,’ Suit #1 continues. ‘He was staying with a friend of yours, Zhang Jianli. An artist of some sort, right?’

  I don’t say a word.

  ‘In Mati Village. You went to Mati Village yesterday. You spend a lot of time there.’

  I drink some beer. I turn to Trey. ‘What have you been telling them about me?’

  ‘It’s not him, Mrs Cooper,’ Suit #1 says.

  ‘Who is it, then?’

  He smiles. ‘We have an interest in Mati Village. A lot of interesting people go there.’

  ‘Listen, Ellie.’ Trey gives me a look, as warm as can be, like he really cares. ‘You help these guys, they can help you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘They’ll set you up with a job – you won’t even have to go to work if you don’t want, but you’ll get your visa. So you can stay here after I leave, if that’s what you want.’ He stares at me, and those green eyes turn hard. ‘’Cause I’m leaving. I’m divorcing you, and I’m gonna marry Lily, and I’m taking her home to the States with me.’

  I have to blink a few times. Because for a moment – and it’s the weirdest thing – I just want to cry. I know he doesn’t love me, and I don’t love him either. He’s a shit. A total shit and a hypocrite. Why should I care what he does?

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ I say furiously. ‘They promised you something, didn’t they? Like a no-hassles green card for your girlfriend.’

  Suit #2 slaps the table. ‘This is a waste of time.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Suit #1 says calmly. ‘We just need to get things back on track. I’m sure that Mrs Cooper wants to help, and maybe we can help her with a few things.’ He turns to me. ‘You’re receiving, what is it, a seventeen-percent disability?’

  I don’t bother to ask him how he knows that.

  ‘Seems a little low.’

  ‘That’s what they rated me,’ I say.

  ‘Those leg injuries looked pretty severe. And I don’t know why they turned you down on the PTSD. Obviously you’ve had significant adjustment problems. Working part-time in some dive bar in China – not exactly what I’d call a career choice.’

  I really want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I don’t like being repetitive.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I met a guy named Hashim, maybe for all of five minutes. The last thing I would have figured him for was a terrorist. He was just an ordinary guy. We said hello, we ate some dumplings, and that’s all I know about him.’

  ‘And your friend, Zhang, what’s his association? Have you heard him express any anti-American sentiments, or –?’

  ‘He’s an artist,’ I say with emphasis. ‘He’s not political. This Hashim guy was just a friend of a friend. That’s all.’

  ‘You’ve never heard him express any political opinions?’

  ‘No. We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.’

  ‘What do you talk about?’ Suit #2 interjects.

  ‘I don’t know … just … stuff. Movies. TV shows. Beijing traffic. He’s not political,’ I repeat. He just likes taking in strays, I want to say. But I don’t say it, because these two already think I’m some kind of psychotic low-life.

  ‘He’s your lover, right?’ Suit #1 asks casually.

  I flinch. I hate that expression, ‘lover.’ Like this is some kind of fucking romance novel. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

  ‘I assume you know he sees other women,’ Suit #1 says.

  I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  ‘So?’ I manage.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure how close you two were.’

  I don’t say anything.

  Suit #1 locks his eyes on mine.

  ‘I’m sure Zhang is a great guy. But he’s gotten himself involved with some questionable people. You’d be doing him a favor if you helped us with this.’

  ‘So, what is it you want me to do?’ I finally ask.

  ‘Are you in touch with him?’

  I shrug. ‘No.’

  ‘But there’s a good chance he’ll contact you, isn’t there?’

  ‘What if he does? You want me to ask him about the Uighur?’

  ‘Well, it depends,’ Suit #1 says. ‘On what kind of relationship the two of you have. On the level of trust.’

  Suit #2 snorts. ‘If Zhang contacts you, the ma
in thing is, you tell us. If you can find out where he is, that’s a bonus.’

  I lean back in my chair, push my fingers through my greasy hair. ‘And what? You’ll get me a Z visa? Up my disability? That’s a promise?’

  ‘We’ll do what we can for you,’ says Suit #1. ‘The more you help us, the easier it is to make the case. Being a pair of eyes for us in places like Mati … that could be very helpful.’

  I gulp down the rest of my beer and stand up. I turn to Trey. ‘Tell Lily I said hi.’

  ‘Ellie –’ Trey begins.

  Suit #2 stops him. ‘Let her go. She doesn’t want to help, it’s her loss.’

  ‘Mrs Cooper.’ It’s Suit #1. ‘If you hear anything, anything at all …’ He holds out a business card. ‘Call us. It’s very important.’

  I stare at his hand, at the white card, the blue logo with the letters GSC.

  Global Security Concepts. The company Trey works for.

  I take the card and stick it in my pants pocket. I’m not going to give him the courtesy of reading it.

  ‘Here,’ Suit #2 says abruptly, thrusting his card at me.

  Whatever. I take his too.

  Then I leave. No way I’m paying for that lunch.

  In the elevator, I lift up my hand to punch the button, and it’s shaking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Outside, the dust has kicked up, filtering the sun through a yellow haze.

  I walk down Jianguomen. There’s a Starbucks around here someplace. I could get a cup of coffee. I fixate on that. A cup of coffee. I’ll get a cup of coffee and try to think. But I can’t remember where the fucking Starbucks is, exactly. It’s around here. I keep walking down the street. I just need to get a cup of coffee, and I’ll be able to sort all this out.

  Tears run down my face. I’ll just blame the dust. Because the other stuff, I can’t think about that. Trey and his little ho’ girlfriend. Loves Jesus, my ass. The stuff he did … How can he talk about love?

  And Lao Zhang. It’s not like I love him. What’s love, right? I thought I loved Trey, and how stupid was that?

  But I like him. Lao Zhang’s a good guy. Maybe the Suits are telling the truth; maybe he’s fucking around, but so what? I never asked him not to. All I ever asked was if I could come over, and he always said yes. I think: all the time we’ve spent together, hanging out, it felt … comfortable. Like belonging somewhere. And now …

  What’s he gotten himself into?

  Then I think: it’s not the Chinese government that’s after Lao Zhang. It’s Global Security Concepts. Trey’s company. Not official. But they might as well be.

  I know how those guys work.

  How did the Suits find out about Lao Zhang?

  I’m slick with sweat, like a fever’s breaking. They’ve been watching me, no matter what they said. They followed me to Mati. To Lao Zhang.

  How long have they been watching?

  Finally, I spot the familiar green-and-white Starbucks logo.

  Inside, the air is perfectly conditioned, and they’re playing their latest retro Brazilian compilation; the baristas are smiling, the espresso machine hisses, and it smells like roasted coffee. They’re advertising Fair Trade beans and selling Starbucks Beijing coffee mugs. There’s a couple of tourists, a student or two, and a few local businessmen with pocket PCs and laptops.

  I feel better already.

  ‘Yi bei benride kafei. Zhong.’

  ‘Room for cream?’ asks the barista. They all know the English for coffee words.

  They give me my coffee of the day, size medium. I put the cup down on an empty table and go into the restroom to wash my face. Under the fluorescent light above the mirror, I can see where my tears have cut through the dust and soot of a Beijing spring day.

  I look like shit.

  I used to be cute. It wasn’t so weird that Trey wanted me, back in the day. I used to be fresh-faced and smooth and round. Nice tits. Good hair. Standard American Attractiveness Template.

  Now? I have circles under my eyes, black ones, as dark as the Uighur’s. Crow’s-feet. Lines running down from my nose to my mouth, deep as slashes. Blemishes and brown spots on my face from the sun. I’m seven years older. And I’m not sure I’m any wiser than I was.

  Fucking Trey. It’s his fault my life’s turned out this way. I was young and dumb, and I would’ve done anything he wanted me to. And he knew that. He knew that, and he crooked his finger at me, and I followed him.

  Then I think: but you went. You didn’t have to. You should’ve known better.

  But there’s nothing I can do about any of that now.

  I wash my hands, my face. Go out and sit at my table. Sip my coffee and try to think.

  They watch Mati Village, Suit #1 said. Who’s watching? Someone I know? One of the artists? A waitress at the jiaozi place?

  I should call Lao Zhang, let him know these guys are looking for him. I get out my phone, and then I hesitate. The Suits never asked me for his phone number. I sip my coffee and think, they must have it already. And I think: how is that? I stare at my phone and wonder. They probably know my number. Fucking Trey probably gave it to them. Can they tap these things?

  How did they find me earlier at Matrix Arcade? They didn’t follow me from Chuckie’s apartment, did they? So how did they find me?

  Cell phones all have GPS built in. You can find people with GPS – that’s what it’s for, right?

  I switch off my phone. This is crazy. They can’t just do that, can they?

  I laugh in spite of myself. Yeah, right. They can do whatever they want to do.

  Besides, this is China.

  I stare at the iPhone. It was a gift from Trey two years ago: top of the line then, out of date now. He bought it in Hong Kong, unlocked, which is technically illegal, but everyone does it here because you couldn’t get iPhones legally in China until last year, and the legal ones cost a fortune.

  How does this stuff work? If my phone is off, does that mean they can’t find me?

  I almost get up and throw my iPhone in the trash. I want to hurl it across the room. It’s hard for me to stop myself, but the phone was expensive, and it’s got all my numbers and photos and tunes on it.

  I think: it’s off. They can’t find me if it’s off.

  Right about then a couple of students come in, two guys, Americans or Europeans. I can tell they’re students by the backpacks, the counterfeit North Face jackets, the perfectly broken-in T-shirts, the vaguely ethnic bead necklaces.

  I think for a minute while they get in line. Then I stand up and say, ‘Duibuqi.’ Excuse me.

  The two guys look at me. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Sure,’ one of them says. He’s wearing a Bob Marley shirt and a crocheted cap.

  ‘Great,’ I say quickly, ‘because I’m kind of in a bind. I really need to make a call and my phone died.’ I hold up my switched-off iPhone, which I figure looks pretty convincingly dead. ‘Do either of you have a phone? I’ll buy your coffee if I can make a quick call.’

  ‘You can use mine, no big,’ says the second guy, the one in the Bruce Lee shirt. ‘So long as you aren’t calling Mongolia or something.’

  ‘Nah, just Kazakhstan,’ I joke back.

  The kid hands me his phone (a new iPhone, way cooler than mine). I quickly punch in Lao Zhang’s number.

  ‘Wei, ni hao.’ I talk in a low voice, as fast as I can. I’m hoping these guys are beginning Chinese students and won’t be able to understand me if I Beijing it up. ‘It’s me, Yili. I met two foreigners today,’ I continue in Chinese. ‘Americans. They asked a lot of questions about you.’

  Then I’m not sure what to say.

  ‘Take care,’ I finally add. ‘Be careful.’

  I hit the red button and hand the phone back.

  ‘Your accent is really good,’ Bob Marley T-shirt guy says.

  They’re students, like I thought, just finishing their first semester at Beijing Language and Culture University. Mark and Jayson. ‘Ho
w long you been here?’ they want to know. ‘Where did you study Chinese?’ Before I know it, they’ve invited me to their dorm for a party tonight. What the hell, I think. Maybe I’ll go. It’s close to home, and I don’t know what else I’m going to do with myself.

  We say our ‘nice meeting you’s’ and ‘later, dude’s,’ and I exit onto Jianguomen Road, heading toward the subway station. Maybe I’ll go to the Ancient Observatory. Climb up to the flat roof, pretend I can’t see the gaudy high-rises and ugly apart-ment blocks, and try to imagine what it was like when the Ancient Observatory was the tallest building around, looking out over a sea of peaked gray tile roofs. When you’d hear donkey bells and peddlers’ cries instead of car horns and screeching brakes.

  I try to imagine it, but I can’t.

  Jayson and Bob Marley T-Shirt guy’s party is pretty standard for a party in a foreign students’ dorm: loud music, tubs of Yanjing beer, people spilling out of one room into the hall and flowing into another. I catch the scent of hash, no doubt supplied by the local Kazak dealers, and over the din of the music make out English, Korean, German, and attempts at Chinese. I see a few people here close to my age, grad-student types, and I tell myself I don’t look that out of place.

  I’m bored the moment I arrive.

  I grab a beer, open it, find a clear space along the wall, and lean against it, wondering if I could find some of that hash I’m smelling. Kids bump past me, laughing, stumbling. I don’t even see Jayson or Marley T-shirt guy.

  This is stupid, I think. Why did I come? No one’s going to talk to me, and I don’t feel like talking to anyone. It’s like there are these black waves rolling out from me, warning everybody off. Stay away. Don’t fucking talk to me.

  ‘Hello!’

  I look up. Standing in front of me is a Chinese guy, thirtyish, wearing a cheap leather jacket and a faded Beijing Olympics T-shirt, the one with the slogan ‘One World, One Dream.’

  ‘So sorry to bother,’ he continues. ‘You are American, right?’

  ‘No. I’m Icelandic.’

  ‘Ice … ?’ he stammers.

  For whatever reason, I suddenly feel sorry for the guy. He’s not bad-looking; he’s got that near-babyfaced handsomeness like Chow Yun Fat did when he was young, but he also has a slight stutter and this sort of clueless vibe, like he doesn’t know what to make of me messing with him.