Dragon Day

Chapter Seven

★

Fuck, fuck the fucking fuck.

I walk out of the coffee bar, and my head’s spinning.

Sure I’m being watched. By my very own personal spy.

Do I tell John about this?

I know Lao Zhang, I say to myself. Whatever it is he’s planning on doing-his final “piece,” I mean-he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s not going to try to blow something up or anything like that, right?

He wouldn’t. That’s not who he is.

Not who he was, anyway. I haven’t seen him in over a year. I don’t know what he’s been doing, what he’s been going through.

How well did I really know him before, for that matter?

Don’t go there.

If I can’t believe that Lao Zhang’s the man I thought he was, what has the last year of my life been about?

I pass the rows of little shops selling incense and Tibetan Buddhist tchotchkes: gilt statuettes, sandalwood beads, prayer flags, and cards. I bet at least a couple of them have postcards of the Dalai Lama behind the counter.

Whatever it is that Lao Zhang plans on doing, it’s got to be some big, stupid gesture that gets him into trouble. I mean, he’s already in trouble, right? By coming back, it’s like he’s giving up. He knows what’s going to happen. Maybe not the details, but that it’s nothing good.

I’m getting teary-eyed, which I really hate.

And for all he said it was about taking the pressure off me, well, I know one thing about so-called superpowers-they hate being embarrassed. There’s no way I’m not going be on the receiving end of some blowback from this.

By the time I’m on the escalator heading down to the Number 2 subway, I’m really pissed off.

All this time I’ve been doing what Lao Zhang wanted me to do. First, going on that crazy hunt through China last year, following clues he’d laid down for me, getting my ass kicked from one end of the country to the other. Then managing his art. I’m still not sure why he picked me for that.

Yeah, he told me he thought it was good for me. That I needed something to do. Which, okay, was true. I needed a mission. Something to take my mind off the Great Wall of Bullshit that had been my life to date.

But how is this going to help me? Being the front woman for a dissident artist determined to get himself in deeper shit than he already is.

So he thinks he’s going to make some big gesture and that it’s going to mean something. Like those Tibetans lighting themselves on fire to protest the regime. Does any of that help? Does it change anything?

And fuck it, I’m not Chinese. This isn’t my country. It’s not my business trying to change it.

And further, I’m sick of being a good soldier on someone else’s mission.

You know what I could really use? A guy who’s actually there for me when it counts. Not some flaky artist who-okay, I know he cares about me, at least I think he does, but I’m never going to be first. Or even close to it.

I swipe my card at the turnstile and take the escalator down to the platform. Stand there and feel a wash of stale air from the tunnel. It’s not too crowded at least. Middle-school kids in tracksuits, a couple of European tourists examining the map enclosed in Lucite that details the exits, a cluster of PLA soldiers in square-cut, baggy fatigues who don’t look much older than the middle-school kids. A subway worker, an older woman in a blue uniform with gaudy gold buttons, sweeps the tiles with a straw broom.

Too fucking late, I think. I already signed up for this.

I swear, if I make it through, this is the last time I go out on someone else’s mission. Next time I’m working my own.

Like I have a clue what kind of mission that might be.

I’m pretty sure that my mission of choice would not be meeting Cao Meimei for dinner at a pretentious restaurant on the top floor of a five-star hotel in the Central Business District.

The name of the restaurant is Estasi. Italian, maybe? I can’t tell from the decor. It’s just a lot of bullshit marble, fancy lighting, dark wooden alcoves with carvings of grapes and vines.

Just going into the hotel lobby made me want to run the other way. Marble everywhere, more gold trim than the Lama Temple, perfectly conditioned air, and the faint hum of Muzak. There’s an atrium that goes up a few stories with a giant fountain in the middle puking illuminated sprays of water. Rich people hanging out in the lobby, checking in, meeting for drinks in the downstairs bar, wearing well-cut suits and cute little dresses and hundred-dollar T-shirts, branding themselves with Gucci and Vuitton and Coach.

I’m hoping that Meimei beat me to Estasi. She has a reservation, and I’m supposed to join her. Otherwise I guess I’ll sit at the bar and nurse an overpriced glass of wine, because it’s not like this kind of place serves the local Yanjing Beer.

I approach the hostess station. A marble desk surrounded by a carved wooden screen depicting cherubs toting bunches of painted grapes.

“Ni hao,” I say to the hostess, your basic young, elegant, gorgeous Chinese woman. “I’m meeting a friend who has a reservation. Cao Meimei.”

It’s funny to watch. The hostess, already a paragon of good posture and polite attitude, still manages to straighten up, put a brighter smile on her perfect face.

“Welcome,” she says. “Please, follow me.”

We weave our way through the restaurant. Past plush wooden booths and more public tables that are covered in linen and decorated with silver candles and delicate sprays of fresh flowers. I’m wearing my designer duds from Sidney, last night’s shirt still wrinkled and smelling like cigarette butts. Maybe it’s dark enough so no one will notice.

Finally we reach what has to be the best table in the house. A table for two against a huge expanse of window looking out over the lights of the CBD.

The hostess clasps her hands and does a little bow to the figure sitting at one end. “Cao xiaojie, ninde keren laile.” Your guest has arrived.

If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought Meimei was a teenage boy, a pretty one, like a Korean pop star. She wears a white silk suit with a silky sky blue T-shirt beneath it, her short hair slicked back from her face.

She smiles and gestures at the seat opposite.

I sit, trying to do it gracefully, trying not to groan. I manage with a wince and a grunt.

“What would you like to drink?” Meimei asks.

I stretch out my leg. She has a wineglass to her right, half full of something white. Next to the table is a silver ice bucket on a stand with a partly submerged bottle inside.

“Whatever you’re having would be great.”

Meimei turns to the hostess. “Zai lai yige jiubei.”

The hostess nods and quickly retreats. I swear it’s less than a minute before a waitress hustles over with a wineglass and pours me some of whatever Meimei’s drinking.

Meimei lifts her glass. She’s lounging in her chair with one arm draped on the chair back. I lift my glass in return. Sip.

It’s wine. White. Tastes great. That’s all I need to know.

“I hear you are a soldier,” Meimei says.

This is not what I was expecting.

“I was in the National Guard.”

“Is this not a soldier?”

I shrug. Take another sip of wine. A large one. “We’re supposed to defend the home front. Bunch of us ended up in a war instead.”

“Ah.” She sips her wine. “So you were in combat?”

I’m twitching like I’m hooked up to a live current. I hate talking about those times. “I was a medic.”

“But you got hurt. How did that happen?”

“Mortar.”

“I see.” She looks a little disappointed. Why? Because I wasn’t out killing bad guys when I got blown up?

“I was outside the wire plenty of times,” I mumble. Like that matters. Like that makes me some badass.

Outside the wire wasn’t where the worst shit happened anyway.

“I envy you this experience.”

I feel this rush of anger so strong that I’m sure it shows on my face. I swallow hard. Don’t fuck this up, McEnroe, I tell myself.

“There’s nothing about it to envy,” I say. And I drink.

She leans forward, her face lit up with a weird enthusiasm. “But you serve your country. You prove yourself in challenging situation, like a man. I think this is admirable.”

If she knew what I did during the war…

“It’s not what people think it’s like,” I finally mutter.

I glance to my right, at the view of the CBD and the night sky. Lights and neon, giant characters and logos, skyscrapers like ghosts, softened by smog. For a moment I feel like I’m floating in space.

“I fly small planes,” she says. “In fact, I have thought about applying to China’s air force.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Flying is wonderful.” She pauses abruptly. “Shall we order appetizers?”

“Sure.”

What I want is another drink. I’m feeling rattled. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she knows something about my history. Sidney’s got the money to hire any kind of private detective or private spy he wants. So does Meimei, I’m guessing. She would’ve had to have worked fast, but with all the information that’s out there on the Internet? It wouldn’t take much time.

I let Meimei order the appetizers. I’m not hungry, and I don’t know what half the stuff is anyway. (“Duck Liver Terrine with Sweet Kaffir Lime Liqueur.” “Truffled Capicola with Lenticchie di Montagna and Chopped Preboggion.” “Crispy Sweetbread and Lobster Ragu.”) It all tastes good, but mostly I just want to drink.

Except not too much. I can’t afford to lose it.

“So you help my father with his museum project,” Meimei says after doing the swirl-sniff-taste of a new wine, a red one this time. She nods at the waitress, who pours fresh glasses for both of us.

“I’m… consulting.” Which seems as good a way as any to put it.

“Interesting. I know that you represent some modern Chinese artists here in Beijing.”

I nod. I’ve got this hollow feeling in my gut, like she knows all about Lao Zhang and the trouble he’s in. If she had me checked out, she’d have to know something. There’ve been a few articles, here and there, about the “disappeared” Chinese artist, the rumors surrounding that, and I’ve sure been asked about it enough times. Is he in jail? Is he in hiding? Is he in trouble? Do you know where he is?

Meimei holds her wine up to the table light, tilting it and watching the rivulets of wine run down the inside of the glass. “The legs,” Harrison explained to me once. Though he never did explain why anyone was supposed to care about this.

“Art is not really an interest of mine,” she says. “Of course I like to have nice things. But my father is really obsessed about this. Don’t you think?”

“He’s… uh, an enthusiastic collector.”

For the first time, she smiles in a way that suggests she might actually be amused. “Yes. I think he always hoped Gugu would take an interest in this, too. Art is not for Tiantian. And it is not for me. But Gugu, he has this artistic temperament.”

And here’s where I need to think fast. Because this whole thing started as a pretext for me to evaluate Gugu’s creepy American friend, Marsh, and now, somehow, the whole crazy family’s involved in a museum project that I pretty much pulled out of my ass.

“I think your father would just like to see the three of you work together on this, a little. I mean, it’s his life’s work, and it’s not like it needs to be yours. But he sees it as… you know, his legacy, and you’re his children, and…”

Which is where I totally run out of things to say.

“Yes, yes,” she says with a dismissive wave. “I can call Tiantian. Even though he does not approve of me. Shall we order our primo?”

“Sounds good.” Whatever it is.

Meimei pays for dinner. No big surprise there. I thank her as enthusiastically as I can fake.

“It was my pleasure,” she says, taking my hand. “You are an interesting person, with interesting experiences.”

“Not really,” I manage. “That’s nice of you to say.”

She lets go. I reach into my little black leather messenger bag, another gift from Sidney (Vicky didn’t dig the old canvas one I usually travel with) and pull out a card case, extract a card. “In case you need to get a hold of me,” I say, doing the two-handed handover.

She studies it politely. “I think I will. For our meeting with Tiantian.”

What a fucking waste of time.

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.”