Rock Paper Tiger

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I TAKE THE tequila with me-he’s right, it’s good stuff-and even after I pay the tab, I’ve got about nine thousand yuan left over. That’s pretty funny, I think. Like, a thousand bucks or whatever it is these days is some kind of bribe? What’s to stop me from going to some journalist and telling them everything that’s happened to me?

Aside from the fact that I have no proof of anything and it all sounds pretty crazy, that is.

The Suits know it. They’ve got nothing to worry about.

I use some of the money Suit #2 left on the bar and hire a cab to take me to Mati Village.

Lao Zhang’s place looks the same as I left it, like no one else has been here in the meantime. Who knows if that’s true?

I don’t do much my first night here-drink some beer, watch movies, surrounded by stacked canvases and the smell of paint thinner.

The next day, I wake up pretty early, fix myself a double espresso, find a notepad and a pen, and do some work.

I have no clear idea what I should do, but I figure I should start with an inventory, get an idea of what’s here. There’s a lot, I don’t know how many canvases stacked up against the walls of the main room and bedroom and kitchen, and then I remember that there’s a storeroom on the side of the house as well.

What I do is, I assign a number to each piece, starting with the ones in the bedroom, and I describe the subject and the size next to it. Lao Zhang made things a little easier for me by writing the date of each work under his signature. I have a vague memory of him doing this each time he finished a piece.

I work all morning, and I realize that it’s going to take me a while to go through everything. Besides paintings, there are photographs, DVDs of performance pieces, and video art. Jesus. This is the work of someone’s life, and Lao Zhang’s no slacker. As I recall, he has a storage space at the Warehouse as well.

Around two in the afternoon, it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten anything other than a small bag of snack crackers I found in the kitchen, and I’m getting pretty hungry.

I decide to go to the jiaozi place.

It’s after the lunch rush, and the restaurant is pretty quiet, just a few young guys leaning back against the wall in one corner, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. I order some dumplings and green vegetables and a Yanjing beer. I have the strangest feeling, like if I sit here long enough Lao Zhang will walk in, dressed in some raggedy old T-shirt and skullcap, sit down and order up another round of jiaozi. He won’t talk much-he hardly ever does-but he’ll smile in that crooked way of his and every now and then look up, thick shoulders hunched over his plate, and try to explain to me what some painting or performance piece is really about. It used to be when he’d talk about stuff like that, I’d lean back in my chair and nod and drink my beer, and most of what he said would go right by me.

I’m thinking now, I’m ready to listen, and I could really use a few explanations.

I could use his company even more. Just having him sitting here, eating jiaozi with me.

I’m almost done eating when Sloppy Song and that Western woman, Francesca Barrows, walk in. The two of them scan the room, stopping when they see me. They seem surprised. Concerned, even.

“Yili, hao jiu bu jian,” Sloppy says.

Long time no see.

“Ni hao. I’ve been a little busy.” I gesture at the table. “Please join me.”

They sit. Sloppy tugs on her braid in a way that looks more pissed-off than distracted.

“You’re at Lao Zhang’s place?” Sloppy asks.

“Yeah. Trying to do an inventory of his art.” I watch her closely, thinking that she could easily be one of the players in the Game, and it’s not so much what she asks me as what she doesn’t.

“Good. You going to the Warehouse?”

“The Warehouse? I was going to do that last.”

“Don’t wait,” Francesca says. “Haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve been out of town. Heard what?”

And at that, Sloppy bursts into a torrent of heavily accented Chinese, most of which I can’t understand, but I catch “government,” “demolish,” “vacation homes,” and, I think, “auto dealership.”

“Auto?” I repeat.

“Volkswagens,” Francesca spits out. “Fucking bastards.”

“Wait. What?” I ask.

Sloppy tugs on my sleeve. “Better you see.”

We walk a block on Heping Street and turn the corner onto the street leading to the Warehouse.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am.

There used to be a bunch of outbuildings ringing the Warehouse: residences, little shops, a couple of restaurants, all decrepit and seeming on the verge of collapse. Now one side of this is gone, smashed into rubble. Migrants in tattered trousers and T-shirts pick through the piles, separating bricks from trash. Bulldozers are parked to the side, their toothed jaws slack and empty. Waiting for their next meal.

“What happened?” I ask.

“The government’s seized the land around the Warehouse,” Francesca says in clipped, bitter tones. “They’ve ordered it demolished to make way for vacation condominiums and a car dealership. They’re planning additional land seizures in Mati Village as well. The area where Lao Zhang lives, for one.”

Vacation homes I can kind of get. It’s pretty scenic around here, actually. But a car dealership? Do people buy cars when they’re on vacation?

“What’s this really about?” I ask.

Sloppy shakes her head.

It could be what Lao Zhang and I had talked about before. The government doesn’t like it when too many people get together with a common purpose. Even if that purpose is just making art.

Then there’s Lao Zhang. If the Suits were flipping out about him, god knows what the Chinese government’s doing.

Maybe this is their response. They can tear down what he helped to build.

“Is there anything…? I mean…”

Sloppy shakes her head again.

“I’ve contacted a number of Western media outlets,” Francesca says. “The Guardian and the LA Times are interested in doing stories. But that won’t stop this.”

“What would?” I ask.

“Short of massive bribes… I can’t think of anything.”

I think about this. “What about Harrison?”

“Harrison Wang?” Francesca lifts an eyebrow. “I can’t say I’m on those sorts of terms with him.”

Can I say that I am?

“I could let him know what’s going on,” I offer. “Maybe he might have some ideas.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Francesca says, but it’s clear from the way she says it that she doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell it’ll do any good.

Inside the Warehouse, people are packing up exhibits, gathered in small knots engaged in tense conversations.

I approach a group where I know a couple of people-Xiao Zhang and this photographer, Fuzhen. They’re sitting with a couple of guys I don’t recognize on a sprung couch next to a video installation, drinking tea and eating sunflower seeds.

“Ni hao,” I say uncertainly, because even though I hang out here, I’m not really a part of it, and what I’ll lose is only a small piece of their loss.

“Yili, ni zenme yang?” Xiao Zhang asks. He gestures at the couch.

“Okay. Busy.” I sit.

Fuzhen pours me some tea in a plastic cup. “Heard from Lao Zhang?” she asks.

“Not for a while. But he asked me to look after his art.”

We all sit in silence for a minute.

“How long before they knock this down?” I finally ask.

“Not sure,” Fuzhen says. “One official says he can delay it a few days. But we can’t be sure he’s in charge.”

That’s typical. You got one guy who tells you one thing and another who says the opposite, and it’s not necessarily that either one of them is lying; it’s just that it’s not clear who has the authority to decide.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“Looking at a space in the Wine Factory,” one of the men I don’t know replies.

“Maybe Tongzhou. Maybe Caochangdi,” Fuzhen says.

“I don’t know,” says Xiao Zhang.

At the back of the Warehouse are a bunch of storerooms. Inside the storage space belonging to Lao Zhang are more canvases, a couple of stacks of dusty boxes of CDs, DVDs, and VHS tapes, binders of photos and negatives, some odds and ends that might be sculpture or might be junk. There’s a lot of stuff here. I’ll need a truck to get it all out.

I spend a while trying to figure out what’s there, take some notes, try to determine how big a truck I’ll need and where I’m actually going to put all of this once I move it.

I debate about whether I should call Harrison or e-mail him, and settle on the electronic. Not because I’m paranoid that my phone is a global tracking device-who knows? Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve got a microchip in my butt, for all I know.

I decide on e-mail so I can think about what I want to say, so I can say it right.

I go to Comrade Lei Feng’s (how long will this place last if they tear down the Warehouse and start evicting artists?) and log in to my e-mail account.

“Dear Harrison,” I type. “I’m back in Mati Village. I found out that Lao Zhang wants me to handle his art while he’s away. It’s a lot of work, and I hope I can do a good job with it. Things are a little complicated here, though.”

I go on from there, explaining what the government is planning. And I finish with: “I’m wondering if you might have any ideas of any options we could pursue. This is a great place, and it would be really sad to see it destroyed. Best, Ellie.”

Then I go home. I mean, I go to Lao Zhang’s. It’s not really home. I don’t know how much longer it will even be here.

The next morning, I get up and make myself a double espresso and try to figure out what I should do first. Hire a truck, I guess, and move the stuff out of the Warehouse and bring it over here. Even if the plan is to tear down this block of studios, no one’s come and painted “chai” on the wall yet. I probably have a little time.

But then what?

I’m thinking: Lucy Wu. She’s been all hot to arrange for an exhibit-unless, of course, that was all bullshit and she’s just another operative-but if she really does have some fancy art gallery, maybe I can work a deal with her for storage.

I’m thinking about all this when someone knocks on the door.

I almost drop my coffee cup. Okay, I think. Okay. Deep breaths. Public Security, the Suits, some random Beijing officials-I’m just hanging out. I don’t know anything, and I’m not doing anything wrong.

Not that it matters.

I open the door, and Harrison Wang stands there, dressed in a black silk shirt that seems to soak up the surrounding light and shimmer with it.

“Harrison,” I say stupidly. “Hi.”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, it’s-it’s fine…” I smooth my hair with one hand and gesture awkwardly with the other. “Come in.”

I steer him toward the couch in the main room, grabbing a couple of empty beer bottles that have congregated on the coffee table. “Espresso?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I go make him one anyway. Because that’s what you do, to be polite, and I’m trying to figure out how to act like a grown-up.

When I come back in with the espresso, Harrison sits on the couch, staring at the canvases stacked against the wall beneath the skylights.

“This is impressive work,” he says.

“Yeah.” I put the espresso cup on the coffee table in front of him, snatching up a couple of snack-food wrappers and a plate of sesame-seed shells. “I mean, I don’t know anything about art. But Lao Zhang’s stuff. I see it, and it… it makes me feel something.”

Right now, I feel myself blushing, because I sound like such an idiot.

“Yes,” Harrison agrees. “In an art form like painting, where seemingly everything has been done before, for the artist to move the viewer really means something.” He squints, as though he’s trying to make out fine detail in one of the paintings. “Plus the theme and the execution are both very sophisticated. And powerful.” He turns back toward me. “I can understand why you want to protect all of this.”

“Yeah,” I say, since I can’t come up with anything else. I sit down in the chair across from the couch.

Harrison sips his espresso. “I’d already heard about the situation here in Mati Village. Unfortunately, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

I hate that word.

“The development project has the support of some powerful people in the government. There’s a lot of money involved.”

Not like that’s a huge shock. “But what about that Vice Mayor?” I ask.

I can’t remember his name, but he’s always talking about how art is this engine for cultural and economic development. Look at 798-it’s a tourist attraction.

“Mati Village has its supporters, it’s true. I considered proposing an alternate development plan myself, with a consortium of investors.”

“So maybe there’s a chance we could stop it?” I ask.

“It’s not clear to me that we should try.”

Now Harrison puts down his espresso and stares at me. “Which is more important, do you think? The community itself, or its members?”

Another thing I hate. Brain teasers. “Well, the community is made up of its members,” I say. “So I don’t see how you can separate one from the other.”

“True. But some members are more vital than others. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess.”

All of a sudden, I get it.

“That was the trade-off,” I say. “Lao Zhang for Mati Village.”

“I don’t have that kind of power,” Harrison says, with a sad shake of his head.

“But you do have influence.” Even though I don’t understand exactly what it is that Harrison does, one thing I know is that he’s got a lot of money. And influence is one thing that money can definitely buy.

“So, how’d it go?” I ask. “You come up with this competing plan, and then you offer to drop it if they leave Lao Zhang alone?”

Harrison says nothing. He stirs his espresso with the little spoon I gave him.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“I have no idea.”

Something else occurs to me. “But the Uighur. You knew where the Uighur was.”

“The Uighur? What are you talking about?”

Oh, he’s a good liar, I have to give it to him. But a little too smooth. No ragged edges around his denials.

“Yeah,” I say. “The Uighur. Why was I worth more than the Uighur, Harrison?”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?” Harrison says after a moment. He finishes his espresso. “I came to see if you needed some help moving Lao Zhang’s art. I have a truck I can send over and plenty of room in my storage units.”

A lot of stuff goes through my head all at once. Stuff like: who gets to decide what’s more important? what’s more valuable? who gets saved, and who doesn’t?

Who gets to decide? The person who has the power, that’s who.

Beyond that, it’s all chance. Or fate. Or God and karma. Who the fuck knows?

“Thanks, Harrison,” I say. “I could use your help.”

THE NEXT DAY, I’m running around Mati Village, trying to co-ordinate with the truck driver Harrison’s hired to move Lao Zhang’s stuff, when my phone rings. I’m yelling at the driver, who’s overshot the loading dock at the Warehouse, so I kind of juggle the phone and answer it without seeing who’s calling me.

“Wei?”

“Ellie. It’s Trey.”

I stare at the phone, heart pounding.

“Hi, Trey. Can you hang on a second?” Then I yell at the truck driver, “Pull up here! Just back in! Wait a minute, I’ll be right over.”

“Okay, okay!” the driver shouts back.

“Ellie?” I hear Trey’s voice come over the cell.

“Sorry. You got me in the middle of something.”

Naturally, he doesn’t ask what.

“So…” he says, and then there’s this silence. “So I heard you’re back in town.”

I’m thinking all kinds of things, but what comes out of my mouth is: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m back.”

“So… so everything’s okay?”

I hear this. I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t. I’m struck dumb.

Then all at once the words rise up and tumble out.

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay. I’m just fine. Everything’s great. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ellie, I just-”

“What did your friends tell you, Trey? What did they tell you about what they did? Did they tell you how they picked me up? What they did to me? Did they talk about that?”

“No!” he says. “No. They just said…” Something stops him. Like the words get tangled up in his throat.

“I told you to not to mess with those guys,” he finally says.

“Right. You did. Because you knew what they’d do. And you just let them, right? You didn’t even try to help me.”

“Ellie…”

He’s crying now. I can hear it. Deep, choking sobs. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I didn’t… I told them…”

He can’t finish.

“Whatever, Trey,” I say. “Look, I’ve got things to do. Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

I hang up on him. It feels good.

That was my revenge, I guess. But I wake up the next morning, and I think, how stupid is this-this mean, trivial payback?

Why not let him go?

So I do. We meet for drinks at a fancy bar in a five-star hotel, just me and him, and I sign the papers. We sit there across from each other at a little round table in a red-lit room while a jazz trio plays standards, the singer going on in her husky alto about love gone wrong, or whatever-isn’t that what all of those songs are about? Trey’s wearing a sports coat and an open-necked shirt, and he looks so handsome, and I feel it in my gut, everything all at once, how I thought I loved him, how-in spite of everything that had happened, in spite of everything that had gone wrong-I thought we could still have a life together, and then how he betrayed me, how he stabbed me through my soul, and I’m not even sure when that betrayal happened. Maybe the whole thing was spoiled from the beginning.

I’m staring at him, sipping my wine, and it’s like something shifts. Like something’s pulled away, some lens I’d been seeing him through, and all of a sudden, I see him clearly. He’s just this guy. He’s not going to save me. He’s not going to ruin my life either. That part’s pretty much up to me. Or maybe the Suits. But not Trey. He doesn’t have that kind of power any more.

“I’m sorry, Ellie,” he keeps saying. “I’m so sorry.”

I almost ask him, sorry about what? About what you did in the Admin Core? About how you treated me?

That’s when it hits me. We did those things together. What he did on his own, to the PUCs, what he let happen there, okay, that’s his burden. But the two of us? Our marriage, the life we had? The secrets we kept?

We were in it together all the way.

WE HAVE ONE last blowout at the Warehouse before they knock it down. The musician who lives on Lao Zhang’s courtyard spins his new tunes; we have food brought in from the jiaozi place, buckets of beer, all kinds of liquor, and hashish from the local Kazak dealer. Various people make attempts at live music, most of which suck, and I find out that Francesca Barrows plays the drums pretty well, and Fuzhen likes to sing pop songs. People get up in front of the mike and drunkenly recite poetry. Overseeing the whole thing, like some mute MC, is a cardboard cutout of Lao Zhang that somebody made and put up on the stage; and when one of the artists asks “Lao Zhang” to say a few words and sticks the microphone up to the cutout’s face, waits a long minute, and then says, “These are our guiding principles!,” I laugh so hard that I spit out my Yanjing.

Mostly, I stand toward the back and watch. But that’s okay. Because standing here, I feel surrounded by something, something good. I feel like I’m part of this. Not that I’m an artist, or anything like that. And I know Mati Village isn’t some utopia either. The people here gossip and screw each other and have their little dramas, just like everywhere else I’ve ever been.

But still, this place, these people, it means something. Even if I’m too plastered to figure out exactly what.

Later, I sit on the sprung couch, nursing a beer, wishing I hadn’t joined in the maotai toasts, because that stuff’s pretty foul, as befitting something that comes in what looks like a Drano bottle. Eventually I’m joined by Sloppy and Francesca.

“Did you ever talk to Harrison Wang?” Francesca asks.

“Yeah.”

“Did he have any ideas?”

I’m not sure what to say. I settle on: “Yeah. But it’s complicated.”

Francesca snorts. “Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s not like that,” I protest. “I mean… some stuff’s more important than buildings.” I’m having trouble remembering exactly what.

Sloppy sits there, tears running down her face. “I’ll miss all of you,” she says.

Oh, yeah. People. That’s it.

“We can stay in touch,” I say. “Hey, we could start a blog. You know? The Mati Village refugee blog.”

I don’t think Sloppy understands the word “refugee,” but she still nods thoughtfully. “I think blog is a nice idea,” she says.