After a minute, a text box pops up, framed in gold, containing the Chinese characters for ‘Da Tong’ and, in English, ‘Message From the Great Community.’
The characters are a live link. I click on it.
‘Changqing Shan. The Taoist Scholar Cave. Tomorrow. 3 P.M.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Changqing Shan, ‘Evergreen Mountain,’ is a Taoist sacred site, a mountain honeycombed with temples, sixty or seventy of them, connected by steep stone paths that wind over and around the peaks. The entrance to the mountain is the front gate and galleries of a temple – carved peaked roofs rising to points, painted dragons perching on the roof tiles, surrounded by a riot of ginkgos and palms and plum trees. Behind it, the low mountain rises, swaddled in green and mist.
I get there early, catching a ride from the hostel’s mini-bus.
I pay my entrance fee and go inside.
Walking through the first temple, I think: that Chinese guy kneeling in front of the Guanyin altar with his incense sticks – he could be part of the Game. Or that European woman in cargo shorts and a camera vest taking photos of an ornate bronze caldron. The worker sweeping the temple courtyard.
Any of them. None of them.
I walk up a slate path that is slick from the drizzle, my sneakers squeaking as I step. Changqing Shan isn’t as crowded as a lot of Chinese tourist traps. I don’t know if it’s because of the weather, or if the complex is so big, with so many temples and galleries, that it somehow absorbs the visitors, renders them nearly invisible, like they’re a part of the landscape.
Maybe it’s the mist. I feel like I’m walking through a cloud. I turn my head and see a little shrine tucked into the rocks. In another direction, a pavilion, with two women and two men dressed in traditional costumes – musicians with stringed instruments and hand drums. Poised as if they’re about to start singing, but they don’t: they just stand there like a freeze-frame in some movie.
Above them, nestled in the rafters of the pavilion, is a surveillance camera.
I keep walking. Behind me, I hear the echo of strings and the quaver of a woman’s voice.
I have over two hours before I’m supposed to go to the Taoist Scholar’s Cave. I have to do something, so I keep moving. I take the chairlift, just a raw wood-and-iron bench painted a thick, peeling green, to the top of the mountain. My feet seem to skim the tops of the trees. This little chant goes through my head, something I learned in a Chinese class: ‘Ren fa di, di fa tian, tian fa dao, dao fa ziran.’
Man follows Earth, Earth follows Heaven, Heaven follows the Way, the Way follows Nature.
I’m not really clear on what that means, because, as it was explained to me, all things arise from the Tao, from the Way, the union of opposites, and that would have to include nature, wouldn’t it? So maybe it’s all one big circle. Big wheel keeps on turning, right? The Tao keeps rolling along.
Yeah, I think. Yeah. Who cares about all the rest of it, all the details? I listen to the silence, the occasional creak of the iron cable that hauls me up the mountain, the crows that ruffle the treetops.
At the summit is a teahouse. I sit by the window, near a family playing cards and a young couple holding hands across the table, and have a pot of tea and a bowl of spiced melon seeds. I look out the window, staring down at the clouds.
Finally, I go looking for the Cave of the Taoist Scholar.
I pick my way down the slippery path, following the carved wooden signboards. There’s a Temple of Utmost Purity, a Palace of the Creation of Good Fortune.
And here’s the Cave of the Taoist Scholar.
I walk inside. It’s simple, with unfinished earthen walls that recede into darkness. A young woman and her five-year-old daughter hang out behind a low wooden counter at the entrance. A snack bar in the sacred site. There’s a little TV at the end of the bar, playing cartoons at low volume, and they’re half-watching it as mom braids her daughter’s hair.
I go further into the cave. The walls narrow, then widen into a small chamber. I see what looks like an altar, with this twisted brass candle-holder with many branches, like a bare tree, surrounded by red strips of paper with black writing on them fluttering in the dim candlelight.
There’s a plain wood table in front of it. On that is a carved wooden cylinder, with the patina of age. It’s filled with flat bamboo sticks, tipped in red.
I’ve seen this before. It’s for fortune-telling, I think. They have it in front of temples sometimes.
‘Do you want to try?’
Standing there is a monk. He’s wearing plain blue robes and a round hat that has a red knob on top, like some kind of spiritual bellhop. He’s middle-aged, the lines of his face softened by the candlelight.
I shrug. ‘Sure.’
He picks up the canister and hands it to me. ‘You just shake,’ he says in English. ‘Like playing dice.’
I’ve never played dice. ‘Right.’
I shake the canister, thinking things like: this sounds like bones rattling around, but that’s stupid, because I don’t know what rattling bones would actually sound like; it’s just the kind of thing that you’re supposed to think of when you’re doing some creepy Chinese fortune ritual.
A bunch of the sticks starts to slide out. Slowly. I keep shaking. A couple teeter on the brink. Then, finally, one falls.
The monk picks up the stick. ‘Number forty-eight.’ He smiles a little.
‘So, what does that mean?’
‘Every number has fortune to go with it.’ He lightly touches my forearm. ‘Come, and I get you Taoist fortune.’
I hesitate. The monk smiles at me.
‘Come, Little Tiger. I get you your fortune.’
I follow him.
He leads me through a wooden doorway, into a little room off to one side. One wall is the side of the cave. The others are wooden screens, heavy, blackened cabinets, and bookcases filled with scrolls, books, and stacks of paper. There’s a small traditional scholar’s desk, with ink-stone and calligraphy brushes.
And a computer.
‘Are you Monk of the Jade Forest?’ I ask.
‘No. Just a monk.’
‘Where’s Upright Boar?’
‘Upright Boar could not come. He would like to. But is not safe for him.’
‘What about Cinderfox? Or Water Horse?’
The monk shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I do not know them.’
‘Golden Snake?’
‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘I don’t know.’
So much for my Tao mellow. ‘What do you know, then?’
The monk nods and reaches into the drawer of his scholar’s desk.
‘For you.’
He extracts a rice-paper envelope, so thin that I can see the folded sheet inside.
‘This is from Upright Boar. Instruction to manage his art. He names you to be manager. It says you get money for doing this.’ The monk grins, showing crooked, tea-stained teeth. ‘A percentage.’
I just stand there. ‘I don’t understand,’ I finally say.
I guess I was hoping for something bigger. Like, if the Game is this great conspiracy, shouldn’t we be overthrowing a government or something?
‘He request someone to help him in this way. You take care of his art. You put money aside for him. He put his chop on this paper. So it is legal document.’
‘Why me?’
‘He trusts you. And you are foreigner. So you are protected, a little, from Chinese government.’
The monk lays the envelope on the desk. ‘But still, this can be a little dangerous for you, I think. People maybe can ask you, where is Upright Boar? Of course, you don’t know. But you are still in charge of his art and his money. So maybe they will bother you about this.’
‘Can’t they just freeze the funds?’ I ask. ‘If Upright Boar is some kind of criminal?’
‘Not a criminal. No one says that he is charged with anything. But, maybe. We don’t know.’ The monk shrugs. ‘Maybe it is not safe for you.�
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A chuckle escapes my throat. I haven’t been safe for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like.
‘I don’t know anything about managing art,’ I say. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘I am just a monk. This is nothing I can tell you. I think, just take care of the art and make money.’
I try to take this in, what it means. Do I say ‘yes’ and get even more tangled up in the Game, or turn around and leave? Just walk out of here and go … somewhere.
Maybe my being a foreigner protects me a little from the Chinese government, but it’s not going to protect me from the Suits.
And then I could hit myself, because I’d almost forgotten about the most important thing.
‘The Uighur. The one who stayed the night at Lao Zhang’s place.’
The monk shakes his head with a placid smile. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Are you sure?’ I insist. ‘Because I’m in some serious shit because of this guy. He’s supposed to be a terrorist or something. That’s why they’re after us. And, I mean …’
Now the thoughts are scrabbling around inside my head again, trying to get out. ‘It’s not like I wish this guy any harm,’ I say. ‘But if you want me to help … I gotta get these spooks off my back.’
‘Spooks?’ the monk asks, with a puzzled frown. ‘Those are … ghosts?’
‘Shit,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Secret officials,’ I say in Chinese, because I don’t know the word for spies. ‘They want the Uighur. And … if he’s really a terrorist, maybe it’s not worth my life or Upright Boar’s to protect him.’
The monk’s expression is sympathetic. Maybe even sad. ‘I am sorry, Little Tiger,’ he says. ‘But this is nothing I know about.’
‘You don’t know?’
I cannot fucking believe this.
‘I come all the way to Sichuan to get some answers, and I almost forgot to ask the fucking question. And you’re telling me you don’t know? Why should I believe you?’
‘Each one of us only knows what we must,’ the monk says gently.
‘Oh, great. That’s just great.’
Like I need this Zen crap right now.
What I need is something – anything – that’s going to get the Suits off my ass. I don’t care what it is any more. Just give me a reason not to give up.
To keep playing.
‘Look. I have to talk to Lao – to Upright Boar.’
The monk shakes his head. ‘He is not online.’
‘But I need – I need some help.’
I try to keep the edge of desperation from my voice, and fail.
‘I can’t help you,’ the monk says.
He sounds so kind, and the wrinkles on his face look like a map of compassion. For all the good that does me.
‘I am so fucked,’ I mumble.
He gestures at the envelope. ‘Maybe, then, this is something you don’t want.’
I stand there, staring at the envelope. The monk picks it up, holds it out to me with both hands.
‘Do you want it?’ he asks.
I don’t have a clue what I want. Instead of too many thoughts racing around my head, my mind suddenly feels empty.
Ren fa di, di fa tian, tian fa dao, dao fa ziran.
I shrug. ‘Okay.’ I take the envelope.
It’s probably a bad idea. But, you know, whatever.
The monk walks me toward the door, then clasps his hands together. ‘Ah. I forget your fortune.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I say, because some corny Chinese fortune is the last thing I care about right now, but the monk has already turned away. He goes to a bookcase that is divided into little cubbyholes filled with scrolls the size of fat cigarettes. He retrieves a scroll tied, like all the others, with a long length of red silk string.
‘Number forty-eight,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘The, the zhegu changes into a luan.’
‘The what?’
‘Zhegu … this is … a small bird. A plain bird. Brown,’ he adds helpfully. ‘The luan, this is … very big.’ He stretches his arms wide above his head. ‘Not real … it is a bird like … like a fenghuang, but even bigger.’
Like a phoenix. ‘Okay, so the zhegu turns into a luan,’ I say. ‘Then what?’
‘The luan flies higher and higher, above the clouds,’ the monk explains. ‘More free than any other bird can be.’
I think about this. ‘So, that’s a good thing, right?’
The monk gives me his I’m-so-spiritual smile again. ‘The meaning is, big changes. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Depends on your actions.’
Given my track record, this isn’t very comforting.
Sitting on my bed at the backpacker’s hotel, I study Lao Zhang’s letter.
The paper is very thin, like the envelope. Just one page. I can understand a few words here and there – Lao Zhang’s name, my name, ‘American,’ ‘art.’ With enough time and a decent dictionary, I could probably work out what it says. For now, I figure it means trouble. Proof that I’ve been in contact with Lao Zhang.
Now that I’ve got it, all I want to do is hide it. Bury it, like a cat covering up a turd in the litter-box.
I’m coming up on Carter’s deadline, and I’ve got nothing. Nothing but a piece of paper that’s going to get me in worse shit than I already am.
Here I go again, I think. Some guy I’m sleeping with asks me to do something, and I’m so pathetic, I just go along with it, no questions asked. Help Upright Boar! He needs you!
When’s Upright Boar going to help me?
Fuck you, Lao Zhang, I think. It’s all a game, and I’m just a piece in it. More important than a pawn, I guess, but still one that gets sacrificed along the way. A knight, maybe, or what’s the one that looks like a tower?
But he trusts you, another part of me insists. He trusts you with something important. His art. His work. He chose you out of everyone he knows to take care of it.
Big deal, I snap back. It’s still all about him. What he needs. Not about me.
Maybe he doesn’t know, the nice girl pleads. He’s been on the run, in hiding. He could be in Bumfuck Guizhou or Gansu or out of China altogether; he might not know anything about what’s going on, with the Suits, with the Game. He could be on fucking dial-up for all you know.
And he did help you. All those times you went over to his place. The times he came over to yours. He didn’t judge. Didn’t demand. Didn’t treat you like a victim. Like a loser.
I sit cross-legged on the pressboard mattress, staring at the letter, and my butt’s falling asleep because it’s like sitting on Monk of the Jade Forest’s meditation stone.
I think, if I fold the letter in half lengthwise and then in half again, it’s about the same width as my Taoist fortune scroll.
So I fold it. Make a sharp crease with my thumbnail. I unroll the Taoist fortune scroll and I line up Lao Zhang’s letter against that. Then I roll up the whole thing, with Lao Zhang’s letter inside, and tie it up with the scroll’s red silk thread.
After that, I think about where to put it. I take everything out of my little daypack in search of a good hiding place.
Here’s my faithful Beanie Squid.
I stare at the silly thing, at its floppy Day-Glo orange legs, its shiny black eyes.
I take the red silk thread and tie the scroll around my Beanie Squid’s neck.
That’s when I realize I’ve made a decision.
It comes down to this: I like Lao Zhang. And I’m not sure what we are to each other, except that he thinks I’m better than I am, and I’d rather be his version of me than the one living in my own head.
I don’t know exactly what he’s up to, but I know he’s created things. Helped people. Maybe what he’s doing, what he’s done, is more important than what I’m doing. Than what I’ve done.
What have I ever done that meant anything?
Then I think, what I did at Camp Falafel, that meant something all right.
Okay. I’ll be a part of so
mething good this time. I’ll help Lao Zhang. Help him build his post-modern communities, or whatever they are – places where people can live decent lives. Even people like me.
Hey, maybe I’ll even make some money. Didn’t Lucy Wu say we could all profit?
That is, if I don’t get arrested. Or thrown out of the country. Or …
My mind stops there. I don’t know what they’ll do, and I can’t think about it now.
What I do know is that I have to go back to Beijing.
Sure, I could try to run. Chengdu has an international airport. I could go to Singapore or Amsterdam or Bangkok. But what would be the point? They’d find me eventually, and I’d look even guiltier than I already do.
And where would I end up? How would I live? What kind of life would that be, always running from place to place? Until I get caught.
It doesn’t matter where I go. There’s nothing I’m going to learn that will rescue me. No one who can help. I’m not going to find the Uighur, which is just as well, because do I want that guy’s life on my conscience?
No. I’ve had enough of that. I’m not playing that game any more. I’ll tell the Suits I’m done, and what happens happens.
Lao Zhang’s art is in Beijing. If I’m going to take care of it, that’s where I have to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I don’t have enough cash for a plane ticket, and I don’t want to risk using an ATM or a credit card. There’s an express train leaving tomorrow morning, but I don’t want to wait that long. Now that I’ve decided, I want to get back. To go home.
So that’s how I end up on a slow train from Chengdu to Beijing. A thirty-two-hour ride, leaving Chengdu tonight.
This way, I’ll arrive in Beijing early Wednesday evening, ahead of Suit #2’s Friday deadline.
I’ll call him and tell him I’m back. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to tell him after that. A piece of the truth, I guess. That I tried. That I couldn’t find out what they wanted to know. That I’m not going to cause anybody any trouble. What else can I say? I’ll just have to bluff it out.
Maybe it will help that I’m willing to face him. Maybe it won’t.
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