Rock Paper Tiger

CHAPTER TEN

AFTER LUCY WU leaves, I make myself another espresso. I’m stiff and sore and have a pounding headache from my night on the couch and all those beers, so I take a Percocet as well.

After that, I pace around the living room and stare at Lao Zhang’s paintings, propped against the walls, against the TV, against the couch. Is Lucy Wu for real? Are these paintings brilliant? How can I be sure? What do I know about art?

Okay, I think. Okay. I need to do something. I don’t know what.

Breakfast, maybe.

Mati Village has a cool coffeehouse that serves Western and Chinese pastries along with passable mochas. They’ve got Internet too. Not that I expect their Internet connection to be safe, exactly, but maybe it’s slightly safer than Lao Zhang’s.

This place is called Comrade Lei Feng’s, which is pretty funny, Lei Feng being this low-ranking Peoples’ Liberation Army soldier who fell off a truck or something and died in the early 1960s and became a Cultural Revolution icon because he left this diary praising Chairman Mao and serving the people and helping little old ladies across the commune. The coffeehouse has a nice side business selling coffee mugs and T-shirts with the famous picture of Lei Feng looking resolute in his PLA Snoopy hat on them, except he’s holding up a steaming mug of coffee.

I order up a large redeye and a limp croissant, and I park myself in front of a computer.

My inbox is full of the usual stuff. Here’s an e-mail from my mom-animated kittens and puppies chasing each other, interspersed with the following text:

“Happiness keeps you sweet, Trials keep you strong, Sorrows keep you human, Failures keep you humble, Success keeps you glowing, But only God keeps you going!”

“One good thing about taking the bus to work,” my mom adds in a P.S.: “I’m doing so much walking that I’ve lost seven pounds! You never know what might turn out to be a blessing.”

Here’s Trey again. “Ellie, you and I have got to talk. It’s wrong for you to just keep running away this way. It’s not going to help you. Call me on my cell. Love, Trey.”

Asshole.

And here’s an Evite from Ms. Lucy Wu-A Great Occasion-inviting me to a party at Simatai Great Wall.

That was fast.

There’s nothing from Cinderfox or the Great Community.

I log on to the game and go to the Yellow Mountain Monastery.

My avatar looks different now. She-I-carries a shield that looks like a giant tortoise shell with the characters for “Great Community” blazoned upon it and a sturdy walking staff taller than she is. I check my character inventory, and I’ve gotten stronger than I was the last time I played; smarter too; and the staff and shield have some major kill-and-protect power. Thank you, Cinderfox. Poor Chuckie. If only he knew what he missed out on by running back to Shanxi.

I’m walking up that steep mountain path again, bootheels crunching on round stones. I look up, and in one of the twisted pines there’s a dragon twined around the branches, holding a black pearl between its front claws.

Then I remember I’m supposed to be anonymous. I type in the command.

The dragon opens its alligator snout and spits flame. Another non-player character, I think. Or, in any case, not one of my new buddies from the Great Community. The pearl is probably worth something, some big prize, but I don’t care about that. I’m on a different quest.

I continue up the path, which twists and turns, disappearing into fog as it crawls up the mountain.

Here’s a monk, sitting cross-legged on a huge boulder, eyes closed, hands resting on his thighs, palms up, thumb and index finger forming a circle. Meditating, I guess.

Monk of the Jade Forest.

I take a few steps closer. A couple of big black crows fly past, cawing like Edgar Allen Poe refugees.

The monk lifts up his head and opens his eyes.

“I went and ate jiaozi,” I type. “Now what?”

Monk of the Jade Forest doesn’t reply. He just sits crosslegged on his rock, blinking occasionally. I’m pretty sure my avatar can’t blink. He probably paid extra for that.

I’m starting to get impatient. “I have to go,” I type. “What do you want me to do?”

Finally, Monk of the Jade Forest rises from his granite meditation seat. “If someone invites you on a quest, you should accept,” he says.

“I already accepted this quest,” I type. “What’s it about? Can you tell me?”

“You’ll see. If you go further.”

With that, he makes a sudden pass with his hands and disappears in a swirl of green mist.

I stand there for a moment, and then I log out.

I’m pretty close to thinking this whole game is bullshit: some weird, twisted joke, like one of those performance-art pieces I never understand.

How do I know Cinderfox and Monk of the Jade Forest aren’t yanking my chain, having me run around for nothing? How do I know they aren’t the same person using different avatars?

And, if I’m going to indulge in paranoia, how do I know that they’re not steering me someplace I don’t want to go at all?

A quest. Great. The only invitation I’ve gotten lately is to Lucy Wu’s party at the Great Wall. I’m just supposed to go to her party and see what happens?

I track down Sloppy Song at the jiaozi place around dinnertime.

“So, Sloppy,” I say, filling up her plastic mug with Yanjing’s finest, “what do you know about Lucy Wu?”

Sloppy shrugs and spears a jiaozi. “Art dealer in Shanghai. Has a nice place near Xintiandi.”

“Do you know that for sure? I mean, have you seen it?”

“I haven’t been there. But I hear of her before.”

“Who told you about her?”

Sloppy frowns a little. “I forget. You know, everybody around here always talking about something.”

“She says she’s a friend of Lao Zhang’s from Suojiacun Art Camp.”

“Could be. Maybe he told me about her.”

We sit in silence and eat jiaozi.

“Did you hear about the party at Simatai Great Wall?” Sloppy asks suddenly.

“She invited me.”

“Me too.” Sloppy refills my beer. “Maybe we should share taxi,” she says casually.

I have no idea how to dress for “A Great Occasion” at the Simatai Great Wall. It sounds fancy, but Simatai is pretty rugged in places. I settle for basic black-black jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket, and my best counterfeit Pumas-and hope I’m not going to look too stupid among the “patrons of the arts” that Lucy Wu must run with.

I feel a little better when I meet Sloppy outside Comrade Lei Feng’s, as she’s wearing an outfit similar to mine.

It takes us about an hour by off-meter taxi to get to Simatai. We don’t say much during the ride, but then Sloppy’s never been the chatty type and, as mentioned, I suck at small talk.

I steal a glance at Sloppy now and then as we bounce along in our beater Jetta cab. Her attention seems to be focused on the landscape outside the car window. She’s always been friendly to me, in her sort of spacy way, and I assumed she and Lao Zhang were pretty tight.

Now I wonder. She was having dinner with Lucy Wu that night I met the Uighur. Lucy Wu, who shows up at Lao Zhang’s place at the crack of dawn with her very own key, who might be his old girlfriend but isn’t necessarily somebody he likes. Or trusts.

I know I don’t trust her.

And now, here’s Sloppy and me, both invited guests to Lucy Wu’s “Great Occasion.”

The taxi drops us off at the parking lot below the Wall. When I came here before, I humped it up the path to the Wall because I was too cheap to pay for the tram or a horse to carry me-and, also, I wanted to show that I could do it. That I could still walk up a hill if I wanted.

This time there’s no need to prove anything, because they’ve got it handled. There are actual horse-drawn coaches to take us up to the Wall, Mongolian-style ponies and carts.

Servers in black tie circulate with champagne and hors d’oeuvres while we wait for our coach.

Eventually it’s our turn, and we climb in and head on up to the Wall.

There’s a really funny sign along the way, one of those Chinglish efforts that totally cracks me up, telling you to “observe social morality, respect the olders, take good care of the children and be self-possessed.” When I was here before, there was a pack of local women hanging out by it, watching to see who was going up to the Wall, who might be likely targets for their souvenir books and postcards and lines about how poor they are and how they have no work and how they’re trying to educate their children, so won’t you buy a crappy book at an inflated price already?

But there are no local women sitting on the low wall by the signboard now.

Well, it’s after dark. Maybe they’ve all gone home to tend to their unemployed husbands and uneducated kids.

Glowing white tents are set up here and there atop the Wall. A band plays a mix of standards, rock, and jazz. Guests cluster around portable heaters outside the tents-a cold breeze blows from the north, from Mongolia maybe.

Sloppy and I climb out of our coach.

“I’m going to the bar,” I say. “You want anything?”

Sloppy’s attention is already fixed somewhere else, on a couple standing by one of the heaters, an elegant Chinese guy in a black jacket and a white, collarless shirt and a European woman wearing an ethnic Tibetan coat over a faded, frayed T-shirt.

“Oh, my god,” Sloppy says. “That’s Harrison Wang and Francesca Barrows.”

“So go talk to them,” I reply, having no clue who either of these people might be. “We’ll catch up later.”

Sloppy goes off to network, and I reconnoiter in search of the nearest bar.

I find it close to where the band is playing. To my untrained ear, they sound pretty good. The tune is some old standard, something out of one of those black-and-white movies where the actors are always calling each other “darling” and sipping champagne and martinis.

I stick to my usual Yanjing beer, tip the bartender, and go back outside to listen to the band.

“Oh, Ellie. I’m so glad to see you here!”

I pivot around, and there’s Lucy Wu, posed by one of the heaters, one foot pointed out like she’s waiting to have her picture taken.

“Hi, Lucy. Nice party.”

The two of us stand there for a moment, neither saying a word.

“Well,” she says, “I was just saying to some friends of mine that it’s past time for Zhang Jianli’s work to receive a serious public showing. It really is a pity that the art market in China is either too conservative or too busy chasing after trends to recognize quality.”

I don’t know if this is true or not, so I just sip my beer and nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Jianli’s really talented.”

She leans closer to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ellie, I would be honored to show Jianli’s work at my gallery in Shanghai. I can promise him that I will be respectful of his artistic intentions and that, at the same time, I can give his work the exposure it deserves.”

“That sounds great, Lucy,” I begin, “but-”

“I know he’s out of town,” she continues urgently. “But perhaps, when you talk to him next, you might mention our conversation? I have a window in September. But I would need to book this fairly quickly.”

“Okay. If I talk to him, I’ll let him know.”

“I hope you will.” She clasps my hand. “I hope you’ll let Jianli know that I support him and his efforts.”

Is this some kind of code? Is she telling me that she’s part of the Game?

She leans forward, hand cupped around her mouth, like she’s about to share a secret. I think: maybe, finally, somebody’s going to tell me what’s going on.

“The Chinese art market is crazy,” she says. “For a few years, people paid far too much for mediocre work. Now, with the economic crisis, the bubble has deflated. But smart investors know this is the time to buy work of real quality.” Then she actually does whisper: “I couldn’t believe it when I found out Jianli has no representation. Other artists of his caliber are millionaires! We could all profit.”

She gives me a quick hug. “I’d better mingle. Lunch next week?”

“Sure. Uh. Fine.”

After that, the only thing I can think to do is grab another beer. Okay, so Lucy Wu’s just an art dealer. Maybe. Who knows? I chug my beer and get another one.

I go back out onto the Wall. Push past a knot of partiers dressed in high-fashion skateboard gear. It’s getting loud. They’ve got a DJ and some light show on top of that, and gradually the whole party is morphing into some kind of Great Wall rave. I drink my beer. I’m wondering if I should find Sloppy and tell her that I’m bailing. I hate this repetitive music with its robotic drums, and I hate the strobing lights and all the couples laughing and stumbling and dancing, some twenty-year-old girl already puking on the historic pavement, and what did I find out from coming all the way up here? That Lucy Wu is really into Lao Zhang, which I already knew, and it’s either about his art or about something else.

Lucy Wu: Undercover Art Babe.

On the other hand, maybe she’s the best thing that could happen to Lao Zhang, somebody who appreciates his work and could help him profit from it.

Maybe that’s the help Cinderfox and the Great Society had in mind, getting Lao Zhang some money to get him out of whatever mess he’s in.

I start climbing along the Wall, away from the party and up the hill, looking for a quieter spot. My leg hurts. It’s a cool night, but I’m sweating. It’s really steep. It’s also not completely restored. There are places where the paving stones jut out, where the bricks have crumbled. You have to be careful. There are lights from the party that shine up this way, but it’s dark ahead. Security guards stand at what seems to be the party’s official perimeter. Beyond that is one of the watchtowers. I’m thinking that might be a good place to hang out for a while.

I’m not the only one who had this idea; a few other people from the party have drifted up this way. I stop for a moment and rest my hand against the weathered stone of the Wall. I can feel grooves in its surface, Ming Dynasty graffiti maybe. The last time I came up here, one of the village ladies pointed some out to me, before she started going on about how foreign friends are so generous, not like Chinese, and could I please buy her postcard book so she could feed her children?

“Be careful, Miss,” one of the security guards says as I pass. “Dangerous up here.”

I nod and keep going.

Inside the watchtower are a couple of local people, a man and a woman. She sits on a cooler; he squats next to her. They’re watching a battery-operated TV that’s playing a Chinese sitcom: I can tell by the frenetic yelling and the laughter. They look older than me in the flickering TV light: in their forties, I figure. But who can tell with people who have lived as hard as they have?

“Hey, Miss,” the woman calls out. “Have water? Beer? Postcards?”

“No, thanks.”

“Come on, Miss, postcards sell you cheap.”

What do I look like, an ATM?

I keep climbing. Maybe I can make it to the next watchtower. Maybe I’ll just turn around and find a cab.

About halfway to the next watchtower, I stop and lean against the Wall. I watch a flock of sparrows suddenly stir and rise up in a dark cloud over the valley below, twittering like some distant choir trying to get in key.

With the ambient light from the party and the light from the nearly full moon, I can vaguely make out the series of hills to the north that once formed the natural boundary between China and the rest of the world, the Big Outside, where the foreign hordes waited for their chance to conquer.

What happened was, the Mongolians and then the Manchurians who invaded eventually adopted Chinese ways and founded dynasties pretty much like the ones that had come before.

Funny, I think.

And then I hear: “Yili. Is that you?”

Guess who?