Dragon Day

Chapter Twelve

★

Dinner with the Caos is at a place called Tea.

I checked it out online. From the photos the place looks so perfectly elegant and minimal that it makes my teeth hurt. And according to an article on CNN, it’s one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.

“You sure you want to go, John? What if you end up with the bill? They give you that kind of expense account?”

John pauses in the middle of straightening his tie and shoots me a glare.

We’re in my apartment. John’s in the bathroom, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. He’s wearing a suit-something I’ve never seen him wear before-and though I’m no expert, I’m pretty sure he, or somebody, spent some money on it: a kind of silvery grey that drapes just so over a perfect white shirt. He’s put a styling gel in his hair that makes him look like some kind of movie star for the teen-idol set. I have to say he looks pretty good. Way better than a guy who’s hanging out with me should look. I mean, shouldn’t he be with some cute, perfect, dainty Chinese girl? What’s he doing with a train wreck like me?

Probably spying, I remind myself.

Mimi sits there half on his feet, staring up at him with a look of utter adoration. She’s always loved John.

I thought dogs were supposed to be loyal.

John smoothes his coat and turns to me. Looks me up and down. I’m wearing one of my Vicky Huang outfits.

“That is nice,” he says. “Though why do you never wear a dress? I think you will look pretty.”

I want to smack him. Instead I shrug. “Busted-up leg, not so pretty. Look, can we just get out of here and go to this fucking dinner?”

Mimi thumps her tail. Like she thinks we’re going for a walk. I lean over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Sorry, pup. I know you’re not getting enough walks. Tomorrow, I promise.”

Assuming I don’t get arrested.

Tea is in a hutong area just north of the Forbidden City, close to the National Art Museum and Jingshan Park. Not all that far from where I live, but the traffic sucked, and there was an accident on Di’anmen, and by the time we get close, my leg’s hurting and I’m twitching like a meth head, feeling like the longer we sit in this car, the more of a big fat target I am, and even though I tell myself, That’s stupid-it’s not getting blown up you need to worry about right now, I can’t help it.

I thought I was getting better.

“Are you feeling sick?” John asks.

I shake my head. “No. Just don’t like sitting in a car in traffic, that’s all.”

“Almost there.”

We get off the main street finally. Turn down a little lane lined by old grey walls with red doors, peaked roofs coyly hiding behind them, revealing just a glance, and I catch a glimpse of the bright moon through a tree-I don’t know what it’s called, one of those trees you see everywhere here with the narrow limbs and tangles of thin twigs that stretch toward the sky, like they’re trying to break through the smog and the bullshit to nourish themselves somehow-and it hits me like a wave, how in spite of how ugly this city is, sometimes it’s still beautiful.

We pull up in front of a grey wall. A uniformed valet swoops in and takes John’s keys.

I heave myself out of the car. Pain arcs up my wobbling leg, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I stare up at the sky, blinking, looking for the moon through the smog. The streetlamps light up the dust, making the air seem to sparkle, like somebody threw yellow glitter into the sky.

“Are you all right?” I feel John’s steadying hand on my arm. And I’m remembering the night we met, how he tricked me. I was dizzy that night, too, walking with him. I remind myself why that was. What he did.

I pull my arm away. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Yili…”

I turn to face him. He looks confused, he looks concerned, he looks like he actually gives a shit. But hey, I’ve been wrong about that before.

“What?”

“We can just go home if you like.” He sounds so earnest saying this. So honest.

“Yeah? And then what? I get arrested for killing some girl I don’t think I ever even met?”

“I can take care of it. You don’t need to-”

“I do need to,” I snap. “I need to take care of myself. I need to…” I get hit by another wave of dizziness. Swamped. I steady myself against the wall. “Let’s just go to this dinner, okay?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A panic attack. It’s like I used to get, when I wouldn’t leave the house, when I’d freak out in the supermarket, or in a car, or… well, anyplace. But I’m better. I’ve been handling things. Look at what I’ve done the last two years. Look at the shit that got thrown at me. I survived it, right?

Why is this happening now?

There’s a double red door with brass studs. A red wood beam threshold. We step across it. On the other side is a broad courtyard and, across it, what looks like a small, Tibetan-style temple: ornate upturned roof with scalloped yellow tiles, red screens and walls and columns. Pillars of light rise at even intervals, like they’re another row of columns holding the place up.

It’s your head that’s doing this, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong right now. I’m not going to get blown up. It’s just a feeling. Like what the army shrink used to say: Feelings are transient. You let yourself feel them, observe what they are, let them go.

“Just because I feel this way now doesn’t mean I’ll always feel this way,” I mutter.

“Ni shuo?”

“Nothing,” I tell John. “Nothing important.”

There’s a flagstone path leading up to the temple, lit here and there by lanterns on iron posts. A little stone bridge that arches over an artificial stream. And finally, as we walk up a couple of broad steps that lead to the entrance, a bronze sign with a cutout character lit from behind: 茶.

Tea.

I sure hope they have booze.

Yeah, the whole place is gorgeous and expensive: ancient wood, hand-crafted furniture, mood lighting, a Buddha statue here and there, perfectly placed paintings-calligraphy mostly. The patrons also look like money. It’s quiet, unlike most Chinese restaurants, the kind I go to anyway, with some traditional music plinking in the background.

The hostess leads us to a private room.

A low, round table. Seated at its head are Tiantian and Mrs. Tiantian, Dao Ming. Tiantian’s wearing another expensive jacket with a mandarin collar that doesn’t quite fit right over his dumpy frame, Dao Ming some Gucci/Pucci/whatever dress. She smiles tightly in my general direction, which I guess is an improvement over calling me a bitch. To their left sits the older guy from the party with the sad eyes and the sharp suit, the one who led Dao Ming out when she had her little meltdown. I can’t remember his name. She called him “Uncle,” I think.

To the right, Meimei. Tonight her hair is loose instead of slicked back, and she’s wearing a silk outfit, an embroidered red robe and flowing pants, that looks like something from a Chinese historical soap opera. “Oh,” she says, “you’ve brought a friend.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I… uh, mentioned it to Vicky when she called to set this up. That John would be coming. This is John. Zhou Zheng’an.”

John steps forward. “Hen gaoxing renshi nimen.” Very pleased to meet you all. Which I’m pretty sure he’s not.

I look at him, and he has a smile on his face and a sort of glitter in his dark eyes.

Strike that, he’s probably really looking forward to opening up a whole can of whoop-ass on one or more Caos.

Speaking of, no sign of Gugu.

Tiantian makes a sweeping gesture at the empty chairs across from him. “Qing zuo.” Please sit. “I have ordered some special tea to start our dinner.”

Oh, great. Fucking tea.

We sit. I try to turn the grimace on my face that comes from the pain in my leg as I get down on that low chair into a smile.

I’m next to Meimei. John’s next to me. There are two more empty chairs to his left.

Introductions are made. John smiles and nods politely. The last to introduce himself is Uncle.

“Yang Junmin,” he says.

There’s the slightest flicker of recognition on John’s face, quickly covered up by a polite smile.

“John’s a consultant,” I say.

John nods vigorously. “Yes.”

“Really?” Meimei says. “On what kinds of projects?” She seems amused.

“Various kinds. I work with relevant government departments. To help obtain necessary permissions.”

At that, Uncle Yang’s eyes narrow, and I hear this tiny snort. And I get this sudden flash: Celine at the party, telling me how Dao Ming is hong er dai, “second-generation red.”

And this guy is her “uncle.”

There were all kinds of government officials at that party, I’m pretty sure.

I get that creepy-crawly feeling, like a spider’s walking up my spine.

What are the odds that this guy’s someone pretty high up?

Meanwhile John’s continuing his earnest, slightly clueless routine. It doesn’t fool me anymore, but objectively it’s a pretty good act.

“I think this project, it is very exciting,” he says. “And a way to make China shine on the world stage.”

Tiantian leans forward. He likes this idea, I can tell. “In what way?”

“There are many valuable and important works in your father’s collection. If you can build a first-class museum for them, it can help show China is a world cultural power.”

Tiantian slowly nods. “Though it is better to emphasize Chinese works. Chinese traditions. Create a showcase for our own culture.”

So is Tiantian actually interested in the museum project? And is that a good thing? Because it’s not like I actually want to do any of this.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “But first we need to deal with the collection that’s already there. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Is the tea coming?” Dao Ming asks abruptly.

Dao Ming has her forehead resting on three tense fingers, her thumb tucked under her cheekbone. Her fingers are long and skinny and white, like ivory.

Uncle Yang nods. “Yes. Just wait a moment.” He lifts a hand. “Fuwuyuan.” It’s funny, he hardly raises his voice. But immediately a waitress hustles into our private room. “Women xianzai yao he cha.”

We want to drink our tea now.

The tea is all fancy. It’s Tieguanyin, which I’m pretty sure is Chinese for “really fucking expensive.”

“Name means ‘Iron Goddess of Mercy,’” the waitress explains to me in English. “Is one of very best oolong tea.”

She goes through this whole big production: First we have to look at the tea and say how pretty it is and how nice it smells. I mostly nod and leave that to the others. Then she puts the tea in a pot and “rinses” it with hot water that she pours out of a brass kettle with a long, skinny spout. She pours from a couple feet off the table, so the water splashes everywhere. This is normal, I guess. Then she pours it into our cups, but we’re not supposed to drink that. She pours more hot water into the teapot, this time from a normal height. Our cups get emptied onto the outside of the teapot. Finally she pours the tea into these tiny porcelain cups: not to drink, to smell. And you’re supposed to put your larger, drinking teacup over that to capture the smell.

“Long feng cheng xiang,” Tiantian says, intoning this with his eyes half closed like it’s some kind of blessing.

“This means ‘dragon and phoenix in fortunate union,’” the waitress explains.

Somebody bring me a beer.

Well, okay, for tea it tastes pretty good. Kind of smoky and smooth in a way that rolls off my tongue and slides down my throat.

“The purpose of tea ceremony is to encourage relaxation. And pleasant discussion.” Tiantian wags his finger at me. “It does not matter in a teahouse who is rich and who is poor. All can speak frankly together.”

I’d be on the “poor” end of this equation. Thanks for rubbing my nose in it, asshole.

“Huh,” I say. “That’s very interesting.”

A sudden movement from Dao Ming catches my eye. She’s tossing back her cup of tea like it’s a shot of tequila. “We should order,” she says in Tiantian’s general direction. “Otherwise we could wait for Gugu all night.”

“We can wait a while longer. The Tieguanyin is good for several more pots.”

“Our guests are hungry,” she hisses.

“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.