Dragon Day (8 page)

I mean, I don't particularly want to meet Tiantian. I don't
want to work on Sidney's museum project. I especially don't want
to spend any more time evaluating Marsh for his moral character. Yet for some reason, I need to do all these things to fulfill my obligations to Sidney Cao. Who, okay, it must be said, did save my life, or his people did anyway. But with Lao Zhang coming back to Beijing, my life just torqued into another level of complicated.

I'm thinking all this the next morning while I'm taking Mimi out for a walk. We're doing our usual thing, wandering through the
hutongs
around the Drum Tower and the Bell Tower, and on top of everything else I'm feeling all kinds of guilty for not taking very good care of my dog. I mean, I'm not terrible. She gets her walks. She gets as good dog food as I can find here, and lots of people food for treats. But it's not like I take her out for a long time or she gets to run around much. My mom and Andy probably spend more time with her than I do.

Face it, I'm not very good at taking care of much of anything.

I'm thinking this as she trots ahead of me down a narrow, grey-walled alley, then stops to sniff what must be a really interesting lamp pole from the attention she's paying to it.

I stare at a tangled nest of wire hanging under the eaves of a grey-washed
siheyuan
, one of the traditional Beijing courtyard houses that are almost all gone now, bulldozed for high-rises and subways. A couple strands of the wire nest are plugged into some kind of power box, but what are the rest of them for? I seem to wonder about this kind of shit a lot. But I hardly ever get answers.

Mimi tugs at the leash. I look up and see her tail wagging. And then I see why.

“Yili.”

“John.”

He stands there in his black jeans and black T-shirt and leather jacket, weight on the balls of his feet, fists loosely clenched. It looks like he hasn't shaved today. His beard's not that heavy. Just a light black shadow that outlines the hollows under his cheeks, the circle of his chin.

I admit, I'm kind of a sucker for that.

Mimi noses his thigh, then his crotch before she rises up on her hind legs and puts her front paws on his hips. He scratches behind her ears as her tail swishes back and forth.

“Can we talk?” he asks, except it's barely a request.

I shrug. “Sure. Fine.”

We go to a bar/café tucked back in the
hutongs
that's nearly empty and big enough to find a private space. I mean, someone could be watching, I guess. There are surveillance cameras all over Beijing, and you never know. I see the black dome of one when we enter. But John takes a look around the newly remodeled, faux-industrial space and nods. Apparently Mimi's no problem either. She trots by my side, hugging my hip, and no one says a thing.

We sit at a table in the back, underneath the factory-style staircase done with galvanized metal, black rubber treads, and thick cable railings. John orders tea. I order a Mexican coffee. The waiter, your typical slender young guy with lank hair drifting over his collar, knows what that is, but I'm kind of hoping John doesn't.

Though why should he give a fuck, really?

The waiter brings us our drinks. John waits for him to retreat to the bar. Then:

“What are you doing with the Cao family?”

I shrug again. “Consulting on a museum project.”

“I told you to stay away from trouble.” I swear, his jaw's clenched so tight that a muscle's doing a little tap dance. “Yet you have dinner with Cao Meimei.”

I take a slug of my tequila-infused coffee. “Yeah, well, she's part of the project.”

“The Caos are completely corrupt! Rich people like them are parasites!”

“True, but they're the ones with money for museum projects.”

“Parasites,” he repeats, as though he didn't hear me. “Especially the
fu er dai
. They don't work themselves, just get everything from their parents. And they all profit off the backs of the workers.”

“Spoken like a true Communist,” I mutter. But it's not like I disagree. “So you've been spying on me?” Which is not a huge surprise either. It's what John does, right? The dude's a professional stalker.

John stares at me with that black-eyed intensity that's either creepy or sexy—I can't decide. Which pretty much sums us up.

“I only look out for you, and you already know why,” he says.

I wish I did. I wish I could be sure. But no matter what John says, no matter how much he claims to care, I still don't know what his game really is. I mean, he's a Chinese secret service agent Taoist sex freak who may or may not support antigovernment dissidents and who really seems to enjoy fucking me. Or with me. Another thing I can't decide.

“Besides, Cao Meimei may be lesbian,” he adds darkly.

“Wow, that would be shocking. Your point?”

“Just what I told you.” He's wearing his concerned face. “You must be careful with people like these.”

Chapter Eight

★

Another night, another
party. I think about buying myself a new shirt.

This time Tiantian's the host.

Meimei called me herself to give me the invitation, the afternoon following our dinner. It's going to be at a house Tiantian owns. And it's happening tomorrow. “Oh, yes,” she said with a laugh. “As soon as Tiantian heard that you meet with our father, Gugu, and me already, then of course he couldn't be left out.”

Great. The last thing I need is to get involved in some kind of weird Cao-family sibling rivalry.

But does that mean I need a new shirt? Because the new black one is too dirty to go a third night, and the white one I got in Xingfu Cun I wadded up and threw in the hamper after karaoke with Sidney in Shanghai.

“That's a lot of late nights for you,” my mom says when I tell her about my plans tomorrow night. She's distracted. She's experimenting with making tortillas again.

“Yeah. Can't be helped.”

Maybe I'll resurrect my old T-shirt with the weeping black-and-white cartoon cat that has the caption
black cat, white cat, if it catches mice, it's a good cat.
It's a Deng Xiaoping reference. But maybe that wouldn't go over well with Tiantian. Now, if it were Gugu's party, it would probably be okay. He might not like contemporary art, but he sure seems to be into the hipster aspect of it all.

“Do you think I could get one of those
jianbing
grills?” my mom suddenly asks.

“What?”

A
jianbing
is like a Beijing breakfast burrito—these egg-crepe things with chives and sort of a crunchy fried skeleton of a savory waffle, spread with hot sauce and folded up into a little bag that you can take with you to keep your hands warm in the winter.

“You know, those round, stone . . . I don't know, griddles? The things they cook them on. Where they spread out the crepe.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I mean, I'm sure you could find one. Andy would know.”

“Because I'm wondering if I could use it to make tortillas.”

“Yeah, I mean, why not?” I'm still thinking about the whole shirt issue. I decide against the T-shirt. Too risky.

The weird thing is, Tiantian's place isn't far from me, just a subway stop over off Guozijian, where the Imperial University is, right next door to the Confucius Temple. Both of them are museums now. I went to the Confucius Temple once, in the dead of winter, with my ex, Trey. We wandered through these ranks of white stone tablets with engraved calligraphy on them that looked like stretched-out tombstones, freezing our asses off in the bitter winds that were blowing down from Mongolia. We were holding hands with our gloves on, and I remember the texture of the scratchy cable-knit yarn pressing against the skin where Trey's fingers circled mine. I don't know why I remember those details so specifically. It's not like I care about the guy anymore.

Now it's spring, and the weather changes from day to day. A warm night tonight. I'm already sweating into my black Sidney shirt (I had it cleaned) as I limp through the
shanzhai
Ming-dynasty gate that frames the entrance to Guozijian.

They've restored this street, added some polished granite markers and wall plaques explaining the history of the street, and spiffed up some of the surrounding
hutongs
. Just past the expensive but historic teahouse from the Ming or Qing dynasty (as usual, I forget), I take a turn down an alley and then down another one that breaks off at a sharp angle. Easier to find it myself than to ask a cabdriver. I wander a bit farther until I see the fancy stone lion dogs with one paw resting on a drum. A red gate with brass fittings. A murmur of
erhu
music from the other side.

Tiantian's place.

The real giveaway's the guys in black suits wearing earpieces standing on either side of the door. The Caos tend to travel with a security detail.

They check my name against an iPhone app that has my photo on it—shit, for all I know, it takes a retinal scan. I pass, apparently, because one of them tugs on the thick brass ring to open the heavy red gate.

Well, okay, it's a Chinese palace. Of course it is. Not a huge one, just your basic Chinese minor-prince kind of size. Behind the gate is an entry hall open at the back. I jog left then right, toward the main gate that faces north. Limp up the two granite steps that lead to the entrance to the courtyard I know is on the other side and step over the red wood that cuts across the bottom of the double doors. There's a huge black-lacquered
screen with gold calligraphy on it that's almost as wide as the entrance and as tall as the ceiling. You have to go around the screen; you can't just walk right into the place. I think it's
maybe supposed to stop bad spirits, because they can only move in a straight line.

I walk around the screen. Before I even turn the corner, there are young women in
qipaos
, and not cheap restaurant polyester ones either. These are beautiful, form-fitting dresses, red with silk embroidery. One of the women holds a lacquer tray bearing tiny crystal flutes. The other makes a polite little bow and hands me one.

Moutai. Of course.

I smile and nod and hold it up to my mouth, because it would be rude not to, and I'm actually almost getting a taste for Moutai, you know, if I drink it quick enough.

On the other side of the entry hall is a courtyard with three more halls in a U shape around it—your classic Beijing
siheyuan
built for a wealthy owner. In the center of the courtyard, there's a big granite boulder, all jagged and knobby, a dozen or so feet high. I've heard these things called “strange stones.” Usually there's some calligraphy on them, some proverb about wisdom or changing seasons or whatever. Spaced around that are small twisted pines in marble planters, party guests, and more serving girls in
qipaos
. All the girls are pretty, I notice. That's not surprising either. China has a lot of pretty girls, and guys like Tiantian can afford to pay for them.

There are halls left, right, and center, single- or two-story at most, grey stone and red wood and glazed curved roof tiles. I spot the source of the
erhu
music, now mingling with a
pipa
, a
yanqin
, and the occasional slap of percussion: a quartet set up on the other side of the strange stone. While it's true that your basic subway
erhu
player often sounds like he's strangling a cat, a badass player can shred with that bow and two strings. I've also heard some amazing stuff on a
pipa
, which is sort of like a medieval guitar—a lute or whatever. These guys sounds pretty good, if you like that traditional stuff. I swear I've seen the
erhu
player jamming with a punk-rock band at Mao Live House. Maybe the
pipa
player, too.

“Oh, so you came.”

I jump a little. Marsh.

He's wearing all black: slouchy black jacket, black jeans, black boots, and a designer black T-shirt. It goes well with his designer stubble.

“Yeah,” I say. “I was invited.”

“I'll bet.” He sips his drink. Whatever it is, it's not Moutai. Something amber, in a tumbler.

I shrug. “You know, it's this museum project.”

One of the waitresses approaches with a platter of appetizers. Tiny designer
jiaozi
nestled in paper cups.

“Dumpling?” she offers. “Pork and black truffle juicy?”

“Sure,” I say. Whatever. I take one and bite into it. This intense, almost buttery mushroom-and-pork-fat flavor explodes in my mouth. I manage not to drip the juice on my shirt. Barely. Only because I don't want to waste it.

I look up, and I see that Marsh is watching me.

“Xiaojie.”
He halts the waitress with a light hand on her elbow and grabs a dumpling off the tray. “Have another,” he says, extending his open palm out to me, the dumpling perched on his fingers.

I so want another one of those dumplings.

“That's okay,” I say. “You should try it.”

He smiles and shrugs. Pops it into his mouth and chews with a satisfied smirk. Flicks a glance to his right. “Interesting crowd.”

“I guess.”

I mean, I guess it is, actually. A weird mix. There are a lot of thirty-, forty-something people dressed in expensive designer gear, the conservative kind, like they came from an after-work function or an awards banquet. Some of them are wearing interpretations of traditional Chinese clothes: silk mandarin-collar jackets, sleek versions of
qipaos
. Tiantian's posse maybe.

Then there's Gugu's group: giggly younger women in sequined T-shirts and denim short-shorts and fuck-me stilettos, guys with wispy goatees, fedoras or sideways ball caps, and visible tattoos.

I'm not sure which Meimei's crowd is. If she even has one. Maybe the athletic twenty-somethings hanging around the edges or the ones wearing high-fashion labels, all that Gucci Pucci crap that looks like money.

Funny thing is, I realize that Marsh and I are dressed almost exactly alike.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“It's okay.” I shrug. “I'm not that into parties.”

“But if they have good drinks and nice food and rich people who might throw a few crumbs your way
. . .
you'll drag yourself here. Right?”

He's got his tumbler in one hand, and he lifts it in a sketch of a toast before he brings it to his reddened lips and tosses the rest down.

“Like I said. It's this museum project.”

He snorts. “Right.” Raises his empty glass.
“Xiaojie,”
he calls out, a little louder this time, so he can get his drink quickly. Then he leans toward me.

“Don't tell me you don't like it,” he says. “I recognize those labels you're wearing. Don't tell me you don't like nice things.”

I stare back. Lock my gaze on his hooded, bloodshot eyes, and I don't look away.

“Yeah, well, it's a recent development.” I toss my head in the direction of the main hall. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to find the head.”

Motherfucker.

Okay, I'm pretty sure this guy is bad news, and I'm not just saying that because he's right about my recently liking nice things.

What do I tell Sidney?

First do no harm. That's been my mantra since I got any leftover gung-ho bullshit blown out of me in the Sandbox.

If I tell Sidney what I think about Marsh, what kinds of consequences am I willing to shoulder?

On the other hand, there's
my
ass to think about. I have to tell Sidney something.

I head toward the hall on my left. Not the main hall, if I remember how places like this are laid out—that would be the one perpendicular, the northern house, and the grounds here look big enough to have additional buildings behind that.

This one's shutter-style wooden doors are flung open, welcoming you inside. Even with the open doors, they're running some kind of air conditioner that feels more like a cool breeze blowing from inside.

A few guests have drifted in here. A big rectangular room with high ceilings, framed in wood and a lot of black and red and lacquer. Worn stone floors dotted with old, expensive-looking woven rugs. Chinese brush paintings and scrolls hang on the walls. Expensive ones, from what I know, not that I'm an expert. Sometimes you can just tell. One of those green-and-yellow Tang-dynasty horse statuettes, which I'm guessing is a real one, sits on a fancy inlaid cabinet. Some classic Chinese furniture and some modern interpretations of it, because you know those Chinese chairs and benches look cool, but they aren't all that comfortable. Hardwood chairs grouped around small square tables and this giant carved wooden bed thing with a little table on top of it. A couple of hipster types lounge on the bed thing, smoking something in long-stemmed pipes, their drinks on the little table. They're not wearing shoes, and I wonder if I should take mine off, too.

I approach one of the servers, who's rearranging the glasses on her tray.

“Xiaojie.”

She starts a bit, rattling the little crystal glasses. Turns toward me, the friendly smile mask already in place. Another pretty one. Big brown eyes and plump painted lips.

“Nimende xishoujian zai nar?”
I continue. Like I told Marsh, I'm looking for a bathroom.

“That way, miss.” She points toward the north end of the hall. “Go out.”

At the back corner of the room, there's a screen, this carved, lacquered thing with white birds painted on it—cranes? I spent some time at a bird sanctuary not very long ago, but I still suck at identifying them.

Behind that a hallway.

I go out.