Dragon Day (16 page)

“Perhaps some
dianxin
,” Uncle Yang murmurs. Which is Mandarin for dim sum.

Tiantian's hand thrusts up.
“Fuwuyuan,”
he calls out.

It's Uncle Yang who's the big dog here, I'm pretty sure.

Halfway through our appetizers, Gugu stumbles in. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's blasted. Marsh is at his side, a steadying hand on his back.

“Sorry I came late,” Gugu mutters, landing on the chair next to John.

Tiantian's mouth tightens; he sits up in his chair, and I think he's going to start something with Gugu.

Instead he pulls back and says, “We are just about to order dinner.”

Gugu's eyes are swollen, and he leans back in his chair like it's the only thing holding him up. “Let's get some wine.” He raises his hand.
“Fuwuyuan!”

The waitress rushes over.

“A couple bottles of Bordeaux.”

“What kind?”

“I don't care,” Gugu snaps. “Something good. Just bring it.” He closes his eyes.

John bobs his head. “
Ni hao.
I'm Zhou Zheng'an.
I am Yili's friend
.
”

Gugu forces his eyes open to look at John. He manages a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Marsh is still standing behind Gugu. John's focus shifts to him, his eyes sharp, before he softens the predator look with a friendly smile. “And you are?”

“Marsh Brody.” He slides into the chair next to Gugu. “I'm a friend of the family.”

★ ★ ★

I have to say it's a little weird when I'm one of the more sober people at a gathering like this. Everybody's slugging down this crazy-expensive wine like it's Yanjing Draft, everybody except for maybe John, who's really good at taking a gulp when everyone's watching and taking minimal sips when they're not.

Normally I'd be all over keeping up with the Caos in the drinking department, but this whole evening has me spooked. Nothing bad's happened yet, not that I know of anyway, but I feel like something bad's hovering just overhead, like one of those dreams I have sometimes when a jet drops out of the sky and comes crashing down on top of me.

I'm sitting there thinking this when Meimei leans over and refills my wine.

“Thank you,” I say.

She puts down the bottle and rests her elbow on the table, her head on her hand, posed like a model in one of those old Hong Kong cigarette ads. “So is this your lover? He's pretty good-looking.”

“I . . . uh, he's a friend.”

She laughs. “I see. Of course, friendship can take many forms.” Her hand stretches out in my direction. She picks up her wineglass, fingers closing gently around the stem, all the while smiling at me.

Is this some kind of come-on?

I take a gulp of wine.

Maybe Meimei's just plastered. She's been giggling a lot, which at least would make her a happy drunk. Unlike Tiantian, who has this pissy expression on his face as he wags his finger in Gugu's general direction, and Gugu, who's doing his best sullen-teenager impression. Meanwhile Dao Ming looks like she's wound herself up a few notches tighter, which can't be good—I can see the tendons in her neck standing out from here.

As for Marsh, he just leans back in his chair smirking, at one point wiping wine from his lips with his fingers.

I can't quite get a read on Uncle Yang. He's flushed and sweating, the only real giveaway that he might be drunk. Smiling tightly, occasionally nodding or chortling as Gugu and Tiantian argue about something—I can't hear it well enough to figure out what. I just catch phrases here and there. Tiantian saying, “Why do you want to make something so common? Copy Western trash?”

Gugu laughs. “So I make a film and it's common. We should serve the people, right? Chairman Mao said that. The people
like
common things. Stupid entertainments. Why not give them what they want?”

Tiantian catches me watching them. He forces a laugh. “Maybe you can see our problem,” he says to me. “We have different tastes. So how can we work together for this museum?”

Meimei lifts up a hand. “Don't forget about me.”

“It's not possible to forget you, Meimei,” Uncle Yang says, sounding maybe a little too jovial.

“Women xuyao yige . . . yige dongshihui
. . .
danshi
. . .
”
I switch to English. Easier. “We'll have a board. You'll vote on things. But you'll hire a professional director and staff to actually run the place.”

“And we tell them what to do?” Tiantian asks. I get the feeling he likes the idea of telling people what to do.

“Well
. . .
it's better if they tell you. I mean
. . .
” I think about the nonprofit that Harrison set up, the one that I supposedly run. Ha, ha. “We need to have a mission statement. That's something you guys have to agree on. And then you let the people you hire do their job. You kind of guide each other.”

“Democratic centralism,” Gugu pronounces with a snort, falling back in his chair. Oh, yeah. He's really loaded.

“I don't know, maybe?” I say. “It's more like unless you want to be running the thing day to day, you need to tell the staff what the mission's about, and then you have to step back a little. Make sure they're doing it, but let them do it. If that makes sense.”

“You know what else Chairman Mao said,” Gugu says abruptly. He wags a finger. “That the superior man should help the common people. Unless there are too many common people. Then common people just become a burden on the superior man.” He giggles.

Uncle Yang is listening to this really hard. I'm not sure how much English he speaks. Gugu catches his look and repeats in Mandarin what he said about Mao and superior men and the little people.

“Ah, wo mingbai,”
Uncle Yang says. I get it. “But Chairman Mao was very young when he said that. Of course, his thinking evolved and deepened. He said we should be guided by the wisdom of the common people.”

“What is the wisdom of the common people? Make money, that's all. That's all anyone cares about in this country, right?”

“Some of us care about higher things,” Tiantian snaps. “About China's culture and place in the world.”

“China's culture.” Gugu snorts. “What culture?
This?
This is fake. All fake. Just something you can buy if you have the money. Anyway, what do common people know about this or care? All they want is someone to fuck and an indoor toilet to take a shit.”

“Gugu,” Uncle Yang begins, and I hear the warning in his voice.

“Don't you start,” Gugu says. “Like
you
listen to little people. You just want them to shut up and do what they're told.” He turns to the rest of the table and flings his hand in Uncle Yang's direction. “Our wise leaders know better.”

“Ah, so tiresome,” Meimei mutters next to me. She's smiling, though. Watching the show.

“Okay, buddy,” Marsh says in English, clapping Gugu on the shoulder. “Why don't we take this down a couple of notches? Sorry, everybody,” he says to the table. “
Duibuqi.
We had a . . . a meeting with some investors before this. Lots of toasts. You know how it goes.”

“Sorry,” Gugu mumbles. “Sorry. I was speaking nonsense.
Wo jiu qiu niubi.
”

And for a minute I think everything's going to be okay.

“I am curious,” John says out of nowhere. “How do you all know about what common people want? Your circumstances are not
. . .
not common.” He, too, is smiling. He repeats this in Mandarin for Uncle Yang's benefit.

“My parents were peasants from Anhui,” Uncle Yang says. “So of course I know.” There's an edge to his voice that sounds like trouble.

“But this”—John gestures, palms out, at our pricey private room—“this is very far from a village in Anhui.” John smiles at him. He sounds so polite. “So I think you have done very well.”

“Our country has done very well,” Uncle Yang says between clenched teeth, with the kind of smile that looks more like a grimace. He seems to catch himself then and continues, in a friendlier tone, “Of course, we still have much progress to make, so that all Chinese can benefit more.”

“So I'll make my movies, then.” Gugu leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “They will be stupid, and common, for the common people. I entertain myself, and they are entertained. Everyone knows his place. Everyone should be happy.”

John stares at him. I can see a nerve twitch in his jaw, and I think, There's a high potential for this all to go to shit, right about now.

“I wonder sometimes how much common people's lives are worth,” John says. Very evenly. Like he's talking about the prices of . . . I don't know, cell phones, or purses, or cooking oil. “Just recently I hear about a poor girl, killed and dumped in trash like she is worth nothing. Do we really have respect for that common person?”

For a moment there's a silence that's as heavy as an explosion. I see their faces, all of them frozen in mid-expression, like somebody hit
pause
in the middle of the scene.

Yeah, John just dropped the bomb.

“You are all disgusting,” Dao Ming hisses.

Chapter Thirteen

★

“What the
fuck
,
John? What the
fuck
was that? And don't tell me it's
. . .
it's killing the monkey to frighten the snake or something.”

“Something like that.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Oh, wait. You totally are.”

I'm sitting in John's car, and I'm shaking. With anger, with fear, with whatever's left after an adrenaline rush. My leg has started to throb.

I don't like being blown up.

“I cannot fucking believe you did that. Do you know who's going to get shit for this? Me. Not you. They don't even know who you really are!”

“They have my card,” John says. He's keeping his eyes on the road as we head back to Gulou. Doing that overly calm thing that pisses me off.

“Oh, yeah, your fake card with your fake name and fake business on it!”

Now he does look over at me.

“You want to catch them, right? Get justice for this girl?”

I have a flash again, of the picture Inspector Zou showed me, of that bruised, swollen face. And the thing is, I do. I want someone to answer for what was done.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want some justice. But
. . .
these people—do you understand who we're dealing with here?”

“Yes. The Caos, one of richest families in China. And Yang Junmin. He was governor of Hubei, then party chief. Next he was party chief in Zhejiang. Now he is also member of Central Politburo. He is a powerful man. But if he is corrupt, then he needs to be exposed.”

John's on a mission, all right. Straight into the kill box.

Jesus, this is a fucking nightmare.

“How is this gonna expose them? The only people it exposed are you and me. That we know about the dead girl.”

“You saw their faces. They know about her, too.”

I think about that scene. How everything stopped. Try to picture their expressions. Uncle Yang, eyes narrowed, and Tiantian, stunned, both staring at John. Gugu, eyes closed, like he was in pain, or maybe just really loaded. Marsh, patting Gugu on the back, eyes flicking up at me. And Meimei?

“Very sad,” she'd said lightly. “So many bad things can happen to poor girls in the city.”

“It is a problem with modern society,” Tiantian pronounced.

And everyone went back to eating.

Yeah, it seemed like they knew something. But how could anyone be sure? I mean, murdered girls dumped in a pile of garbage isn't exactly polite dinner conversation.

“I will protect you. You must know that,” John says, and he sounds like a freaking Boy Scout, he's so earnest.

“I wouldn't need protecting in the first place if you didn't keep fucking with my life!” I just want to punch him, but he's driving, so I slam my fist into the seat next to me. “I swear to God, I am so done with men. And women. And people! Fuck it, I'm going to live out in the country with my dog.”

“You know the only way to help you is to find out who kill this girl.”

“You could've told me what you were planning, instead of sandbagging me like that! Thanks for making it real clear to me what you really care about.”

I mean, at least I know.

There's a long silence as we turn down the alley to my apartment.

“I am sorry,” he says. “But I did not plan. I just was
. . .
I just was angry.”

“Why? Why does it make you so angry?”

We pull in to the parking lot of my building. John shoves the transmission into park, and the tires squeal.

“People like that
. . .
they take everything. They give back nothing. They use people like . . . like toys. If they break the toy, they just throw it away. They ruin this country. They ruin everything.”

“But it's personal for you. Isn't it?”

That muscle in his jaw works. I think he isn't going to say anything, or say that I'm just imagining it.

He nods. “Yes. Maybe, a little.”

“You gonna tell me about it?”

“Maybe some other time.”

We sit in the car in silence.

He sighs. “Still
. . .
you are right, I should not have said what I said.”

“What do we do now?”

“Wait and see.”

“Wait and see if Uncle Yang sends out a hit man?”

“Someone will stay outside your apartment. You don't have to worry.”

“Oh, because there's nothing that makes me feel safer than some underpaid nark from bumfuck Shanxi or wherever watching over me.”

“Yili
. . .
”
He does that thing where he scrunches up his face, like he's getting a headache, and I think, Good. Because I want him to lose it. I want to make him mad.

Instead he just shakes his head and says, “I'm sorry.”

I let out a long sigh, my anger emptying out like a deflating balloon. I just don't have the energy to be mad anymore.

But I have to do more than just “wait and see.”

“Betty,” I say.

“Who?”

“One of Gugu's friends. She was at the party. I called her after it, just to make sure she wasn't
. . .
you know, dead. I swear she was scared. Maybe she knows something.”

Or maybe it was a total coincidence and she'd just had a fight with her boyfriend.

“Okay. We can talk to her, then. I'll call you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

I shrug and open the car door. “Okay.”

John stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Yili, please
. . .
do not do anything without me.”

“Right. Because it went so well when we did something together.”

When I get upstairs to my apartment, it's dark, even though it's only ten fifteen. There's a note on the fridge from my mom:
“Mimi and I are at Andy's. Come over! The tortillas came out great!”

No way, I think. After that dinner I don't have any appetite left, and though I'd kind of like to be hanging out with the dog, I don't have the energy to make up some story for my mom about how great the evening was.

I crack open a beer and collapse on the couch.

I should change out of these fancy clothes, I think. Instead I just sit there on the couch, my thoughts in a whirl, and I can feel myself spiraling down.

Let's see. DSD on my ass. Check. Lao Zhang coming back to town. Check. PSB looking at me for a murder. Yep. And now I'm in the sights of some Party bigwig, plus Sidney's three kids.

And oh, shit, what about Sidney? Would he know about what happened tonight?

Okay, I tell myself, okay, calm down. If you murdered a girl, would you want your dad to know?

You would if you thought he could fix the problem for you.

Oh, shit.

From inside my fancy little leather bag, my phone makes that bamboo text tone. I don't even want to look.

But I do. It's my landlady. She lives someplace near Wenzhou, so almost all our communication is by text. I try to communicate with her as little as possible. Last thing I want to be is the pain-in-the-ass
laowai
.

yili,
ni hao
.
sorry but i must raise rent starting in 1 month. new amount is 10,500 ¥.

Which is, oh, almost double what I'm paying now. More than I can afford, even if I could sell Lao Zhang's art again.

On my craptastic disability pension? I could maybe afford the bathroom.

But hey, at least my landlady isn't trying to kill me or have me arrested, right?

At least not so far as I know.

I have to wonder about the timing here. Uncle Yang or Tiantian couldn't have moved
this
fast to fuck with my life, could they?

It's probably just a coincidence. Rents have been going up like crazy in Beijing.

Still, how much more jacked up could things get?

The Suits could make an appearance, I guess. That would be one awesome FUBAR party.

I take a slug of beer, wishing I had something stronger in the house. Well, I have Percocet. This just might be the time for one.

I thumb back to the list of messages out of habit, just to make sure I didn't miss anything else, because I do that sometimes.

I see Celine's name there, and the message underneath:
LettersFromTheDeepYellowSea.com.
Her website.

Maybe you can learn more about modern Chinese culture.

And she was at the party.

Couldn't hurt to take a look.

Celine's blog is in English. That's interesting, I think. English language blogs don't get as much attention from the censors as Chinese language do. Which would make sense for the kind of China
Sex and the City
stuff I figure she's doing from that “Yellow” in her blog title.

It is so boring sometimes, being a young girl in a city like Beijing. If you are not a member of their class, then you must be more attractive and more clever in your flattery when you are trying to get ahead in this place.

It's best not to settle for a man your own age. They don't usually have good jobs or incomes. Your best bet is to find a local official who is looking for a girlfriend. This has many advantages. For example, a parking place when you want it. Getting your phone and Internet hooked up quickly, making sure you breathe filtered air. Taking you to restaurants you could never afford yourself and ordering an emperor's feast, with fine French wine to wash it down, and you must eat it, you must eat it all. Telling you not every girl deserves this.

This is what it means to taste the new life, in the new society. We must gather it into our mouths, rip into it with our teeth, and taste its raw, warm blood.

Ooh-kay. That was not what I was expecting from Celine. I was thinking more, lots of designer brands, parties, booze, drugs, and hookups. Not all
. . .
whatever this is.

She posted this entry tonight, it looks like.

I scroll down to the one before.

It is so wonderful to have tradition to fall back on. To fall into, into its cold, hard grip. Of course, you can have it your way, soft, fresh, and young, whatever you can afford. You don't have to return it in perfect condition. Tradition is your foundation as well as your excuse.

The time stamp says she posted it two nights ago. Three nights after Tiantian's party.

I feel that prickling on the back of my neck I get when I'm close to something I want to know but that I know is dangerous. And I'm wondering just what Celine saw, that night at Tiantian's place.

So many girls think
they want a rich lover. It is true this is a cruel country to be poor in. But I know a girl who has a
tuhao
boyfriend, and she is not so happy. She can never feel secure. He buys her nice gifts, but he can buy anything, including other girls. He only wants to fuck her now and again, and it is all for his pleasure, not for hers.

But the parties, she likes the parties. She likes the presents he gives her, the designer bags and the jewelry. She likes riding in his Lamborghini, she likes being seen with him. He is important, and if she is with him, then
she
must be important, right? But she knows she is not. She is nothing. She is just another thing he bought, and when he gets tired of her, he can just throw her away.

Tonight I will go to a party with my friend and her rich boyfriend. We can drink the best champagne, we can take
E or K
if we like, and we can dance on our private dance floor for hours and hours, and everyone will admire her for her good fortune. But if I ask her if she is happy, I know how she will answer.

The date on that entry lines up with Gugu's party, the one at Entránce.

I skim a couple of others. Cynical, funny descriptions of Beijing's privileged class, of parties and expensive champagne, of designer clothes and bags, of sex and drugs. But nothing that's quite like those two posts at the end.

I wonder if Betty's the girlfriend and Celine's the observer or if Celine's the girlfriend and she's just describing things like they're happening to someone else. Sometimes it's easier to think about things that way.

There's a place to sign up to receive blog posts by email. I do that, using a Yahoo! address that isn't linked to my real name—at least I don't think it is. You never really know. One thing I've learned is that nothing you do is really private anymore, if someone wants to find out bad enough.

Should I call her? It's after 11:00
p.m.
Probably not late for Celine, given all these late nights with the rich folk she's blogging about.