Dragon Day

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.

I’m guessing it was added on, even with the aged grey on the outside wall. Plenty of places that got knocked down in these neighborhoods to salvage it from. Little lights in the ceiling cast yellowish circles on the worn stones. There’s a door made of wood and frosted glass at the end.

Just as I get there, the door’s flung open. I jump. Out comes a woman, one of the thirty-, forty-somethings, in a black sheath dress and fancy heels. Louboutins, which I know only because of Lucy Wu. Polished more than pretty, with a designer bobbed haircut. Her face is redder than the soles of her shoes. I can’t tell if she’s been crying, is furious, or has been slapped.

“Duibuqi,” I say. Excuse me.

She looks at me like, What the fuck are you doing here?

Good question.

With barely a nod, she storms down the hall, her heels clicking on the stone like taps from a hammer.

I go into the bathroom-fancy, of course, more stone and rustic wood, with a shower off to one side. Do my business. There’s another door on the other side, and I decide to go out that way, just because. I’m thinking about a Percocet. I’m thinking about a beer. I’m thinking, What do I have to do here before I can leave?

Find Tiantian, I guess. He wasn’t in the first hall, so maybe he’s in this one up ahead: the north hall, the main house. I mean, that’s where the lord of the manor is likely to hang out, right?

The second door opens onto the side courtyard, a narrow rectangle between the west house and the north house. The smaller wing of the north house is closed up, though I can see lights inside. I’ll have to go over to the main entrance if I want to go in and check it out.

“Hello!”

I flinch a little, but everything has me jumpy tonight. A young woman with pigtails, wearing a sort of designer baby-doll outfit. She looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her.

“From Gugu’s party,” she supplies. “I am Celine.”

“Right. You have a website.” The one she said I should read to learn something about modern Chinese culture. I think she was giving me shit, but I’d actually meant to check it out.

“Yes. And I hear some things about you.” She gives me a look. I think she’s amused, but I’m not sure why. Just ’cause I’m funny, I guess. “I hear you work with artists,” she says. “Some interesting ones.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Are you interested in art?”

“Recently I become more and more interested. I even work in a gallery sometimes. Artists say fascinating things about society. Don’t you think?”

“I do,” I say. I have to admit, not what I expected from a twenty-something club kid. Is she talking about Lao Zhang?

I try to think of something to say, something to ask about what artists she finds particularly fascinating, but she beats me to the next question.

“Do you like this house?” she asks.

“Sure. It’s pretty. I mean, it’s traditional Chinese, right?”

“Yes. Tiantian likes such styles. He always says China culture is over five thousand years old-what does rest of the world have to compare?” She giggles. “But he likes some modern things, too.”

Am I supposed to ask? Ever since I started hanging out around the younger Caos, I feel like everyone’s speaking in some kind of code all the time and I’m not really deciphering it.

“Like what?” I ask. “Fancy cars? New plumbing?”

She leans forward. “Modern girls,” she says, peering at me through her eyelashes. “Did you see Mrs. Cao just now?”

“Tiantian’s wife?” I think about it. The only person I’ve seen just now was the angry and/or crying woman in the bathroom. “Maybe.”

“She is unhappy with Tiantian, because he has this modern taste,” she says, fumbling a cigarette pack out of her tiny purse. “And she is hong er dai, so it is better if she is happy.”

Hong er dai. Second-generation red. The sons and daughters of the revolution, born into privilege.

She taps out a cigarette. “Smoke?”

I shake my head. I haven’t smoked since the Sandbox. Though I still get the itch sometimes.

“They are Panda.” She shows me the pack. Two pandas on a sea-foam green background. “Deng Xiaoping’s favorite.”

“Is that why you smoke them?”

“No. It’s because I like pandas. Zhen ke ai.” She flicks her lighter and inhales, then blows out a dainty cloud. “Very cute.”

I don’t really want to make small talk with this girl, but it’s not clear to me what else I should be doing, other than organizing a museum or something.

“You’re here with Gugu?” I ask.

She lifts one shoulder. “He is here, and I am here.”

“Oh. I haven’t seen him yet.”

“So is Betty. My friend you meet before.”

Rhinestone baseball cap. “Right.”

Then it occurs to me that I could actually do something productive. “And Marsh is here.”

She chuckles, a little belly laugh bottled up behind her closed lips. “Yes. I saw you talk to him.”

“Yeah. He’s… I don’t know. Interesting.”

“Yes. Interesting.” She takes a draw on her cigarette. “Sexy, I think. Don’t you?”

“Not really my type.” Which is true and not true. He’s nobody I want to get anywhere near, but he’s got that kind of creepy charisma that some bad boys have, in part because you don’t know what they’ll do. It’s the kind of thrill you get in your gut going up a roller coaster that might actually be nausea.

“He likes to think he is dangerous,” Celine says suddenly.

“Oh, yeah?”

Come up with something smart to say, dipshit, I tell myself.

“So is he?” I manage.

She blows a few smoke rings into the dark. “I think he is just acting. But maybe he forgets this sometimes.”

Okay, I tell myself. You need to go meet Tiantian. Pitch the museum or whatever and then get out. No reason to waste a lot of time. Because it’s not actually going to happen, right?-the kids all getting together to support Dad’s ego monument.

I’m here to evaluate Marsh, download to Sidney, and di di mao the fuck out. I tell myself this as I limp up the shallow, broad steps that lead to the entrance of the main house.

Two qipao-wearing serving girls stand by the entrance with trays holding glasses of wine. I take a red. One Moutai, one glass of wine. Doing okay, I tell myself. Even though my leg’s throbbing, this pulsing nerve in the middle of my thigh that feels like an electrical fire, and I really want a Percocet.

After I meet Tiantian, I tell myself.

It’s going to suck when I run out of Percocet.

Another lacquer screen. I walk around it and through the little entry and then into the main room.

There’s this low, almost yellow light. More carved Chinese furniture, antique urns and scrolls, black lacquer chests, red silk hangings, chunks of pale green jade. It kind of looks like Crouching Tiger exploded.

I pick my way through the Chinascape. Knots of guests watch me pass, or maybe it’s my imagination. But there aren’t a lot of foreigners here. There’s Marsh, and there’s me.

“So you came.”

I turn and see Meimei, lounging on one of those carved wooden bed things with the little table, smoking a Chinese brass water pipe, the kind with the chamber that fits in your hand and a long curved stem. She’s wearing a take on a men’s silk jacket with a mandarin collar, her hair slicked back like last time, and a pair of antique-looking round gold-framed spectacles with the lenses flipped up. China steampunk.

She extends the hand with the pipe. “Care to try?”

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know, maybe just some tobacco.”

“No thanks.”

“You can always have something else if you’d like.”

I don’t know what she means, but man, am I tempted to ask.

Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. “I’m good,” I say. “Got my wine here.”

“Have you met Tiantian yet?”

“Not yet.”

She swings her legs off the side of the bed and hops to her feet in one nimble move. “I will introduce you.”

I limp after her.

We walk to the back of the main hall. There’s an exit that leads to a narrow courtyard and, like I thought, a two-story hall behind that. As we step up the three stairs that lead to the entrance, this random factoid flashes into my head, that the back house was where the unmarried daughters used to live. I don’t know if that’s true or something I’m just making up.

Whatever the truth is, this doesn’t look like a home for cloistered daughters. It’s more like an upscale man cave. Leather, glass, and chrome furniture. The biggest TV I’ve ever seen embedded in one wall. A living room, I guess. There are a bunch of men sitting around, some obvious rich guys but also a few who remind me of Pompadour Bureaucrat, wearing polo shirts and ugly designer belts, others dressed in subdued black suits. The women who are here are mostly younger than the men. Of course they’re cute. Of course they’re wearing expensive outfits with short skirts and high heels and carrying rhinestone-studded designer purses. They perch on the arms of the couches, hanging around the edges.

“Hello!” Meimei calls out in English.

Everyone turns and stares. It’s like one of those scenes in an old western, where the gunfighter walks into the saloon. The music doesn’t stop playing, though. Too bad, as it’s this cheesy Mandopop, and I have a low tolerance for that shit.

One of the men stands abruptly. The girl hovering next to him has to step aside, and she totters on her candy-red heels, and for a moment I think she’s going to fall back on her ass. But she grabs the arm of the couch and steadies herself.

The guy has to be Tiantian. In his thirties, a little heavy through the hips and gut. He’s wearing a black jacket, a grey shirt, and black slacks, and even from across the room I can tell that the clothes are expensive, but for some reason they still don’t fit him quite right, like his sort of dumpy build defies all the custom tailoring.

“I’ve brought Father’s friend Yili,” Meimei says.

“Ah.” Tiantian smiles briefly and bobs his head. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says to me in English. He doesn’t speak it as well as Meimei or Gugu.

“Hen gaoxing renshi ni,” I offer back. Nice to meet you, too. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He waves that off. “You’re my father’s friend.”

I can see the resemblance to Sidney-like Gugu, Tiantian got dad’s bony nose and high cheeks. His face is broader, more like Meimei’s. Maybe they got that from Mrs. Cao, whoever and wherever she is. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen Mrs. Cao, never even seen a photo, never heard Sidney or Vicky or anyone say a word about her.

Tiantian gestures at the chair to his left. “Please, sit. So we can have a talk.”

I hobble over and sink into the chair. The leather is as soft as velvet. Meimei perches on the arm of it, rests one dainty ankle on the other knee.

Tiantian sits in his chair. Jerks his head to one side and snaps his fingers. One of the serving girls rushes over. The same one I bumped into earlier, I think, or maybe she just looks like her. I mean, they’re all pretty. All in qipaos. All with their smiles in place, anxious to serve.

“What will you like?” Tiantian asks, his lips curving up as if they’re being lifted by tiny hooks.

It’s a good question. What will I like? I mean, how do I even know until I’ve tried it?

“Uh… wine. Thanks.”

“That wine you have now, we can do better.” He raises his hand to his mouth and mutters something to the xiaojie. Something about “tebie hong putaojiu.” Special red wine.

I sip the one I’ve got. Tiantian watches me, that fake smile frozen in place. Am I supposed to say something? Make small talk? I suck at small talk. But one thing you don’t tend to do in China is get right to the point.

Plus, I’m not even sure what the point is. The museum project I made up to save my ass? Marsh Brody?

I settle on, “This is a great house.”

“A traditional Beijing siheyuan. You know this kind of house, I think.” He’s proud of this place, I can tell. Well, who wouldn’t be? It’s a fucking expensive piece of real estate, for one thing.

“Yes. I’ve lived in Beijing for a few years. Not too far from here.”

“By Gulou, I think, yes?”

Great. Well, it’s no surprise that he could find out where I live.

“Right.”

Sidney’s family is from Anhui Province, and when Tiantian speaks, unlike Meimei and Gugu, I can still hear the Anhui in his accent. He’s older than the other two by nearly a decade, I’m guessing. I figure Tiantian, being the eldest, was probably raised in Anhui, way before Sidney built his ghost city, Xingfu Cun, maybe even before Sidney made his billions.

What’s the draw for Tiantian in Beijing, aside from traditional courtyard architecture?

I look around the room, at the guys in polo shirts and plain dark suits, and think, Party members. Officials. Somebody has to be in the capital to represent the family. Tiantian’s the eldest. Of course that would fall to him.

“I like it a lot,” I say, remembering that I should be making small talk.

“Yes. Beijing is still a culture center. Traditional Chinese culture.” He shoots an unsubtle look at Meimei. “Not like Shanghai.”

Meimei chuckles. “Shanghai is more modern. And clean.” She looks around the room, at all the guys in suits and polo shirts, and smiles. “It’s too dirty here.”

The xiaojie has returned with the special red wine and some glasses on a tray. Tiantian nods and points at me. She trots over and holds out the bottle, like she’s highlighting a product in a commercial. I’m supposed to pay attention to it, I guess.

So I do. Make a show of studying the label, which looks like your typical snooty French wine label, with a little castle engraving on it and a name that starts with “Château.” Except it’s from Ningxia.

“Wow, Chinese,” I say.

“Yes. It is good quality. We can do this as well as France.”

Meimei rolls her eyes. “Not yet. Maybe someday.”

“Zhen, zhen!” Tiantian snaps at the serving girl.

She hastily hands me a glass and pours me a taste.

I do the sniff-and-swirl because I’ve seen Harrison do it enough times, and I’m trying to be polite, though about all I usually get out of it is, “Hey, smells like wine.”

I taste, and it’s not bad. But I’ve drunk enough of the good stuff thanks to Harrison and Sidney that I’ve had better.

“Very good,” I say.

“You see?” Tiantian shoots a glare at Meimei. “You just prefer Western things because they are Western.”

“And you just prefer Chinese things because they are Chinese.” With that, Meimei slips off the arm of the couch and springs to her feet, like some androgynous little ninja. “I will go find Gugu. So we can discuss this museum.”

“Great,” I say. “Looking forward to it.” I take a gulp of wine, in the interest of further politeness.

Tiantian leans forward. His face is flushed, probably from the wine. “So you have seen my father’s collection.”

“Yes. It’s amazing.” Which is one response that I don’t have to fake. I mean, the dude has van Goghs in his basement.

“Huh.” Tiantian tosses back a gulp of his special wine. The serving girl hastily refills his glass. “Some of it I like. Some of it I think is nonsense.”

“Well, you know, it’s… um, all about how you respond to a piece. If you don’t like it, that’s okay.”

Tiantian frowns. “I don’t like it because it is nonsense,” he says, jabbing a finger at me.

I don’t think he’s loaded, not the way Gugu was at the club, but he’s had enough to drink where maybe he’s letting his inner asshole off the leash. Or maybe he’s always like this.

“Okay, but by international standards everything he has is, uh…”

I can’t think of how to put it without sounding insulting, not in Chinese, not in English.

“Significant,” I finally manage.

“Significant.” Tiantian snorts. “It’s nonsense. My opinion is this modern Chinese so-called art is worst of all.”

“Oh. What makes you say that?” Because contemporary Chinese art is fetching a metric crap ton of money in the international market, and increasingly in the domestic one, too. I figure if nothing else, Tiantian would appreciate a good investment.

“It simply copies decadent Western notions. It ignores Chinese traditions, or it mocks them.”

“You don’t think maybe some of them use Chinese traditions to comment on modern circumstances?”

Hey, I’ve learned something after doing this art gig for over a year.

Tiantian stares at me, and for a moment I have the weirdest feeling, like he’s just going to lose his shit right there, spring out of the chair and try to beat the crap out of me.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead he leans back, and it’s like somebody’s flipped a switch-he’s all relaxed and jolly, the good host.

Maybe I was just imagining it.

“Perhaps. Perhaps my problem is simply that I prefer China’s traditions to the modern circumstances.” He turns to the serving girl. “Kuai nalai hai yi bei putaojiu.” Quick, fetch another bottle of wine.

Yeah, and if it weren’t for China’s “modern circumstances,” you wouldn’t be a fu er dai sitting here in however many million dollars’ worth of Beijing real estate, asshat, I think, but I figure I’d better not say that.

Instead I sip the wine I’ve got and wonder when I can get the fuck out of here. Go home and pet my dog.

That’s when the pissed-off woman from the restroom strides in, the one in the black sheath dress and designer heels. Her head swivels around, and she takes me in, sitting at Tiantian’s left.

“Is this another one of your biaozi?” she says in a low, cold voice.

“Hey,” I say, because though I may be a bitch, I’m sure as shit not Tiantian’s bitch.

“Ta shi wo babade huoban,” he snaps at her. My father’s business associate.

“Really.” She takes a step back from him and turns to me. Stares me up and down, her eyes glittering. “You don’t look like a businesswoman.”

“I represent artists,” I say. I wonder if she’s on something, or ill. Aside from the crazy eyes and weird paranoid hostility, she’s pale and sweaty, and one of her hands is trembling.

“Artists.” A snort. “I won’t put up with this anymore,” she says, in a voice loud enough to catch the attention of a man in a dark suit chatting up one of the polo-shirt guys. He turns and stares. Sixtyish, with hound-dog cheeks, baggy eyes, and a frozen smile.

“Bie xiashuo,” Tiantian says in a low voice, with a forced smile of his own. Stop speaking nonsense.

The man in the dark suit takes a few easy steps toward our circle. In control. “Dao Ming, are you feeling all right?” he asks. “You look a little uncomfortable.”

Crazy Lady, Dao Ming-Mrs. Tiantian, I presume-stops in her tracks. Blinks a few times. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m not feeling well, Uncle Yang. Forgive me.”

Uncle Yang offers Dao Ming his arm. “Let’s go, so you can have a rest. Xiuxi yixia.”

Dao Ming nods, the glittery fury in her eyes giving way to clouds of exhaustion. She rests her hand on his and allows herself to be led off.

“My wife has an illness,” Tiantian says after she’s out of sight. “Please don’t take any of her nonsense to heart.”

“No worries,” I say. I sip from my glass. “This is great wine.” Because that’s the only thing I can think of to say. It’s like I’m in this beautiful house, surrounded by all this money and all this nice stuff, and I have this weird sense that there’s some kind of black hole in the center of it all, pulling us toward it.

“I can’t find Gugu.” Meimei has returned, her steampunk lenses flipped down.

“You called him?” Tiantian snaps.

“Dangran.” Of course.

“Did you ask Marsh?” I say. “His American friend?”

Because I might as well work the mission, right? The real mission. Find out what I can about Marsh Brody. Even though I don’t know what I should do about what I might find out.

Meimei shakes her head. “Didn’t see him either.” She’s not giving me anything. No real reaction. I can’t tell if she’s acting or if she just doesn’t have an opinion.

“Oh. Maybe they went someplace else. The two of them.”

“Maybe.” She turns to Tiantian. “Why don’t we have this meeting later? When it’s more convenient. Maybe go out for dinner, just the four of us.” She turns to me. “What do you think?”

“I think… that sounds great.” Because if it means I can go home now, I’m all for it. I’m getting that twitchy feeling again, like I did when I went out to the club for Gugu’s party, like something bad is going to happen, and I don’t want to be here when it does.

“Okay.” Meimei pulls out her iPhone. “I will arrange something.”

“Great.” I take a last slug of wine. “Thanks so much for your hospitality,” I say to Tiantian. “I really appreciate it.”

He nods, not looking at me, distracted. I guess I would be, too, if I were him.

“Okay, then.” I brace myself on the arm of the chair and push myself to my feet. My bad leg cramps up, and the pain that shoots through it is enough to make me gasp. I hide that as best I can. I don’t want to show weakness in front of these people. That’s how I’ve tried to operate since I got blown up. Don’t show them the soft spot where they can hurt you.

Though who knows? Maybe I’m better off if they think I’m weak. Harmless. Because it doesn’t matter how strong I might be. These guys still have all the power.

I get a business card from my little card case and hold it out to Tiantian. “My card,” I say.

Now he does look up. Takes my card with both hands and pretends to study it.

“I hope we keep in touch,” I say.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “That will be a pleasure.” He manages that fishhook smile and lays my card on the end table.

It’s still too warm out in the courtyard, but there’s a breeze and it’s outside, away from all that weird-ass shit. I stand there by the erhu combo for a minute, take a few deep breaths, and sip the remains of my wine, thinking, What the fuck was all that, and do I really want to know?

Much as I hate to admit it, I’m feeling like John was right-I don’t want to be anywhere near any of these people. But what are my options for getting away from them? How do I tell Sidney Cao that I don’t want to have anything to do with him, his kids, or his museum? I mean, I tried saying no to Sidney before and ended up with his hired killers stalking me. Though I also did get a few free rides in his fancy private jet. I kind of liked that part.

You can’t think that way, McEnroe, I tell myself. You gotta figure out how to disentangle yourself from this guy. Without totally pissing him off.

“Still here.”

I flinch and try to cover it. Marsh. He stands too close to me, as usual, close enough so that I catch the scent of scotch on his breath.

“Yeah,” I say. “I was waiting on Gugu. We were supposed to have a meeting, but he never showed.” I shrug and take the last slug of my wine. “I’m heading out now.”

“He’s around.” Marsh gestures toward the east house. “I’ll take you.”

“That’s okay,” I say, maybe too quickly. “We’re going to reschedule.”

“You don’t want to pay your respects? Wouldn’t be too polite, to come to the party and not say hello.”

He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face, and I know this is some kind of setup, some kind of joke he wants to play on me, or worse.

I shrug again. “Yeah, well, sometimes that’s just the way it goes. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

I start to pull away. Marsh taps my shoulder. Lightly.

“Hey,” he says.

I turn. He’s staring at me with a kind of confounded expression. “Are you afraid of me?” he asks. Like it’s a real question.

“No,” I say. It’s possible I sound defensive. “I just… uh, I need to get home.”

He lifts his hands. “Look, I’m not gonna rape you or whatever it is you’re worried about. I just thought you wanted to see Gugu, and he’d probably like to say hello to you, too. But if that’s not something you want to do, hey, fine with me.”

He might as well have said, I double-dare you.

I hesitate, but only for a moment. Because I don’t want this guy to think he has any power over me.

“Okay,” I say. “I just can’t take too long. It’s getting late, and my dog needs a walk.”

I figure we’re only walking over to the east house. There’s a limited amount of trouble I can get into between here and there, right? I’ll just keep him ahead of me, and watch my back.

We walk past the strange stone, through a little garden with more weird-looking rocks and water fountains. Not as many guests over here, no serving girls in qipaos. Not a lot of light.

Stay frosty, I tell myself. It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, and given my experiences of the recent past, I’m probably not paranoid enough.

“So… movies?” I ask.

“What?”

“Movies. You said you work in Hollywood. And Gugu’s into the movie thing, right?”

Marsh nods. “Yeah. We’re putting a deal together. Historical. Easiest thing to do as a coproduction. That and rom-coms. Otherwise you run into all kinds of bullshit politics. No horror, that’s supernatural, and we can’t have superstitions in a modern socialist society. You wanna do a caper film? Well, don’t suggest that crime’s a real problem or that the authorities don’t have a handle on it. You’re better off setting something in the bad old days, before the revolution. Then you can do just about anything you want.”

His face is in shadow, and I can’t see his expression. But it’s the first time he’s talked to me like a normal person and not some supercreep with a chip on his shoulder.

I’m thinking, Okay, maybe he’s not a bad guy, and I can tell Sidney that and be done with this whole mission. Let him and Gugu spend Gugu’s money and make their own money. What’s it going to hurt?

As we approach the entrance, I notice there’s a muscle guy standing there. Yeah, no girls in qipaos. My nerves start pinging again.

I do a kind of stutter step without meaning to. Marsh notices. “Something wrong?”

“No, just got a text.” I reach into my little leather bag and grab my phone, unlocking the screen so it’s lit up like maybe someone texted me. Bring up John’s number. Okay, so he’s in my Favorites. It’s in case of an emergency.

I don’t call him, I don’t text him, I just have his number ready.

Marsh walks past the muscle without a look or a nod.

I hesitate. Think, Okay, if you back out now and this really is just a “Let’s go say hi to Gugu,” you’re going to look like an idiot.

If that’s not what this is…

Hand on my iPhone, I follow Marsh.

This wing has the look of an upscale hotel. Anonymous furniture and dimmed key lights. Quiet. Maybe it’s where Tiantian stashes his guests. We walk through a sitting room with heavy black furniture. No one’s here.

“Look-” I say. Marsh turns and puts a finger to his lips. He heads down a hall at the back, gesturing for me to follow.

“Fuck,” I mutter. Here I am again, doing something that I’m pretty sure is a bad idea. Why do I keep doing this shit?

I follow him anyhow.

We walk down the darkened hallway, past a couple of closed doors. Sconces cast soft fans of light on the walls.

The door at the end of the hall is cracked open. We get closer, and I hear a low moan.

Either someone’s hurt or someone’s having fun.

I’m kind of hoping someone’s hurt. Because I am not in the mood for fun with Gugu.

Marsh pushes the door open a little wider. Peeks inside. Draws his head back and turns to me, his eyes squeezed shut, his expression a grimace. He takes a couple steps back to clear the way and gestures at the door.

I take a step forward. I don’t want to look, but I do. It’s this thing where I have to know, no matter how bad it is.

I’m aware of Marsh standing just behind me, this solid presence radiating heat, and I think that if this is some kind of trap, I need to be ready. Stomp on his foot. Grab his balls and twist.

I take a look inside.

My eyes are already adjusted to the dim light, so I can see that there’s a big bed against the wall to the left. A woman sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard. She’s a little heavy. She’s topless, or maybe naked. Who knows? I don’t get that far. Because there’s Gugu sprawled across her lap, and he’s sucking on her tit. Which is, you know, whatever. Except that her tits are swollen with milk. I see this when Gugu lets go for a moment and milk dribbles down his chin.

The woman stirs, turns her head toward the door. Stares at me for a moment. She’s not that young. Her face seems hard. Then she looks away, back at Gugu, who’s too out of it to notice. I see her hand, going up and down.

Okay, that’s as much as I need to see.

I turn, and there’s Marsh standing in front of me, practically convulsing in silent laughter.

Marsh’s gaze drops down to my own rack. Lingers there.

“Got milk?” he whispers.

I stare at him. “Fucking hilarious,” I mutter, and I walk away.

“Come on, can’t you take a joke?”

I stop in my tracks. We’re in the sitting room of the east house, and I’m heading for the door.

“What kind of friend of his are you anyway?” I spit out. “Showing me that?”

Marsh raises his hands. “Hey, I didn’t know he was gonna be doing… that.”

“Bullshit,” I snap.

“Okay, I thought maybe he was with a girl, not with some… wet nurse from Anhui.” He snickers. “It’s a trending thing, I hear. Supposed to be good for you. The milk, I mean. All the rage in Shenzhen.”

“Good luck on the movie. I’m out of here.” I turn to go.

“Wait.”

He’s standing there, palms out, and even in the dim light I can see that he’s doing a pretty good impression of contrite. “Look, I… I saw it and I thought it was funny. Okay, so I’m an asshole. And I’m kind of drunk. I’m sorry.”

I let out a hard sigh. “Whatever. Tell Gugu I hope to see him soon.”

As I turn to go, the last I see of Marsh he’s still in that same pose, palms open, asking for forgiveness.