Jake has already met Sugimoto once, as part of a Thursday evening out at a new Brazilian restaurant, during the newcomer’s first weekend in town. They exchanged business cards but haven’t called each other yet. Jake will make that move eventually. For now, Sugimoto is earmarked for Pierre, who’s descending from the mezzanine with two flutes filled with sparkling wine. Jake knows the glasses are full of Krug, which Pierre keeps chilled in his bedroom. He’ll bring one to Sugimoto and toast him privately to welcome the newcomer to Beijing. Pierre will also let him know what he’s drinking and that there’s more upstairs for later. As someone who got the same welcome reception from Pierre when he arrived in Beijing, Jake knows the tactic well.
Jake retreats to the edge of the terrace and looks down on the foundations of new buildings taking shape around China World where worker housing blocks had stood just a few months ago. The pounding of steel fills the vacuum between Pierre’s building and the China World Towers. But Jake can only observe. Even the former residents of those buildings, thoroughly Chinese and well connected enough to live in a favoured locale, only had a few months’ notice of their move to some new suburb outside the Fifth Ring. That notice was delivered in the form of the character sprayed in red paint on their walls. Demolish.
The residents protested by means of a feeble procession orchestrated just before the Lunar New Year when they figured too many of the authorities would be in transit to clamp down. They carried banners that avoided any direct demands and no specific target for their anger. The banners, saying “Guo Mao residents looking forward to a joyous New Year,” were ironic, written in red characters and evoked the spirit of the season.
Jake saw the protest from his newsroom and decided to take some notes and gather quotes for Qiang. But in the fifteen minutes it took him to ride the elevator down and walk over to the streets that no longer exist, the protest had vanished. Jake didn’t look for them because his editors were waiting for a story about the newly-appointed deputy governor of the People’s International Bank of China.
Jake looks at his phone to see if Diane has sent any texts. She’s supposed to be at the party by now and Jake is anxious about whatever news she will bring. Face-to-face is the only way to communicate with her because new rules implemented by the Telecommunications Ministry make it impossible for anyone to buy a SIM card anonymously.
Knowing they’re all tracked closely, Jake has decided that the Public Security Bureau will get one message clearly. Several foreign correspondents are regulars at Pierre’s parties. Always eager for a story, they would want to follow Qiang’s detention. It’s the kind of story that plays well among audiences in North America and Europe, one that the authorities won’t be able to ignore once more than one news outlet starts covering it. Bringing Diane into this community, introducing Qiang’s closest relative to the foreign press corps, means some of the control in this scenario rests with Jake.
“Nice ass,” Ben says, breaking the spell as he approaches Jake from behind. Under his black leather blazer, Ben wears a white t-shirt with a black silhouette of a hand brandishing a middle finger. His jeans and Converse All-Star sneakers completes the punk, hostage-taker chic. A grey scarf draped around his neck softens the look.
“The scarf’s a good idea,” Jake says as he shakes Ben’s hand and then kisses one of his cheeks. “Really, you need a French accent somewhere if you’re going to come here and drink the Veuve.”
Diane isn’t with him. Something about Ben’s expression confirms the obvious and Jake tenses up.
“She felt very uneasy about showing up in this crowd,” Ben says.
All that’s required of her is her presence, Jake thinks. He wonders again whose side she’s on. If not on her brother’s side, she would have trouble taking this seriously because, well, because people just get plowed under if they stand in front of earthmovers. That’s why the protesters in the streets of the Guo Mao district scattered and never showed up again. They knew the endgame.
Why didn’t Qiang see the futility of this project? As smart as he is, he couldn’t figure out where to stop? Where did he think this documentary project would lead him, doing interview after interview with controversial figures. It was just a matter of time before he was taken away. Now he’s just another blip of dissent. Deleted. And Diane’s just another one among 1.3 billion people who, in the end, respect the momentum of authority. Putting Diane in a box labelled “Chinese,” Jake has clarity on this now, giving part of him a sense of relief. Diane’s exactly the person he suspected she might be. But psychoanalytic accuracy won’t change Jake’s inability to do anything about Qiang.
“She called me,” Ben continues. “She’s not ready to start talking about the situation. She thinks she might be getting somewhere with the PSB.”
“How. In what way?” Jake shoots back.
“Another one of the officers she’s been talking to acknowledged the detention.”
“That’s progress? We’ve known that for two fucking weeks now. Thanks Diane, wherever the fuck you are tonight,” Jake says, gesturing outwards over the balustrade.
“Hey,” Ben says. “Chill.”
Jake pauses to take a sip of champagne and then leans in to Ben.
“It’s almost two weeks since he disappeared, Ben, and nothing. Doesn’t that lend some credence to what Kendra said? That they’re just going to string her along. Isn’t this exactly what they’re doing?”
“Jake, you know Diane’s been visiting the PSB every day since she’s been here, right?”
“I only know what she says. I know nothing about what she’s doing.”
“Jake,” Ben begins in a calm tone, “if she wanted to do nothing, she’d be in Shanghai working, taking care of her three-year-old daughter and not jeopardizing her career. She’s taken an extended leave. Not easy for someone in her position. And she’s away from her family. Why would she do that if she didn’t think she was making progress? That’s why I’m willing to give her a little more time.”
Ben’s tone makes him sound like a therapist. The psychoanalytical approach has the opposite result. Jake sees it as condescending.
“Well, I’m not,” Jake says, pointing to a group of guests congregating in one corner. “Maybe I’ll march over to Regine from Trask News over there and give her the download.”
“Do you think you know more than Diane about how this place works?” Ben asks.
Jake puts his wine glass on the balustrade. He knows his threat to go to other reporters draws on spite and probably went too far. But the audacity of the threat doesn’t compare to what Ben is suggesting, so thick with irony that Jake doesn’t know where to start.
“And what the fuck do you know, Ben? How long have you been here now? What has it been, five days?”
“I know that I’m concerned enough about this to put my life on pause to come over here, to help where I can.”
“You know what Ben?” Jake says, pointing a finger close to his face. “I don’t care how you’re dressed. You remind me of every American CEO who decides to invest in China. They show up quoting Confucious or Laozi, making some connection between ancient Chinese wisdom and their own business strategy. And you know what happens to most of them? You know what happens to their investments here? They get their asses kicked. And do you know why they get their asses kicked? Because they don’t know shit about China. Just… like… you.”
Jake pokes Ben in the shoulder. Ben swats Jake’s hand away, sending it into the wine glass which flies outward and then down toward the construction site. They freeze for a moment and then lean over to watch the glass spin and roll and disappear into the abyss of construction lights illuminating patches of grey concrete shot through with steel beams and spindles of rebar. Jake can barely make out the yellow dots, hard hats thankfully, moving below the glare of the construction lights.
“Dude,” Ben says. “The question wasn’t meant to be a challenge. I’m just trying to figure out what’s the most logical course of action.”
“Yep, I get it,” Jake says, beginning to calm himself. “It’s been a tough couple of weeks as you can imagine.”
A moment passes as they study the bustling topography below. In the silence between them, Jake realizes he’s gone too far.
“I probably owe you an apology,” he says.
Ben shakes his head. “That’s silly. If anything, I should be thanking you for your concern about Qiang.”
Jake doesn’t want to hear this. If Ben was more of a jerk, Jake could handle the situation in his own way.
“Well, you can thank me by getting me another glass of wine.”
Ben chuckles and puts his arm around Jake’s shoulder. A purely platonic move, but the embrace still sends an invigorating buzz through Jake. He wonders whether he’s attracted to Ben or just hard up for sex since he hasn’t had any since Qiang disappeared.
Emerging from the crowd, one of the guests sidles up next to Jake and peers over the edge.
“What’s the attraction down there?”
“Greg, hi,” Jake says, forcing a smile. He needs to stifle the anger. “This is Ben. He’s a friend of a friend, just in Beijing for a few days.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ben. Are you also a reporter?”
Greg would want to know. Journalists, PR account managers, and industry analysts must all know each other. Their objectives are at once distinct and overlapping. They exist in a self-sustaining ecosystem like fish, plants, algae and bottom feeders in an aquarium.
“Ben, this is Gregory Nell. He runs Greater China for Whitewash Communications,” Jake says.
Smirking, Greg holds his hand out. “I never get tired of that joke, Jake.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Greg says as he shakes Ben’s hand. “The firm is actually called Whiteboard Communications. And, yes, I’m what’s known to some as a spin doctor.” Looking back at Jake, Greg enunciates the term, eviscerating it.
“Thanks for getting me on the guest list,” Greg says to Jake.
“Reward me by lining me up with a CEO who can talk about something other than his love for shareholders.”
“Ah, that little gem keeps everyone out of trouble,” Greg says.
“Seriously, Greg, you guys are getting so good at your job there’s almost no point in interviewing anyone here anymore. No one can even confirm the time of day anymore.”
“Jake, these companies are now listed in Hong Kong and New York, or aiming to be,” Greg says. “You know this, mate.”
“I get that, but now it’s worse here than in Hong Kong and New York,” Jake says. “You guys are instructing them to say nothing to any Western reporters.”
“It’s not about them or me,” Greg replies. “It’s about you. You and Trask News and TRADEWIRE and all the others are under more pressure than ever to move share prices. Do you know how many corrections I’ve had to ask for because of reporters playing fast and loose with comments made by my clients? These guys need a bit of protection.”
“You’ve never needed a correction from us,” Jake says.
“Remember what I said last week, Jake,” Greg says. “If you can’t beat us, join us. Come to the dark side. You could be in a senior position in less than a year.”
Greg has made the offer before and Jake has always waved him off. At first, Jake stuck with journalism because of a genuine interest in China and the adventure reporting trips provided. He just happened to finish his language training in China when the newswires were clamouring for stories from the country, so he stayed in the country he had grown accustomed to, where nothing is stagnant, where it’s so easy to ride the rapids of transformation to something more exciting and where nothing is like it was in Kentucky or Indiana.
Journalism also offered Jake something else that made his life easier: a degree of social protection. Moving into finance, as many of his classmates in Beijing did, meant he wouldn’t need to come up with false stories of women in his life. Jake never wants to get into frat boy banter about tight pussies. The only ones he ever saw were in the magazines his father left lying around the house to use as coasters. Currency and bond traders don’t like cock unless it’s their own. The press corps was generally more open-minded about anything, including sexuality, than the testosterone-addled members of the finance industry.
Greg’s line of work might not be as stridently masculine as finance but PR managers need to work closely with clients, often treating them to meals and drinks, creating lots of space filled with conversation about family and living arrangements, territory that a semi-closeted gay man in Asia can’t easily meander through. Jake knows Greg wants to bring him on board for the optics. A youngish, Mandarin-speaking American vaguely reminiscent of Robert Redford, familiar with the do’s and don’ts of China could help Greg attract more business from American multinationals as well as publicly traded Chinese companies. But he’s not sure that Greg, knowing Jake is gay, has thought through all of the implications. The idea had enticed him at one time, just ahead of his ten-year mark as a reporter, when he wondered how much longer he would stay with a career that didn’t inspire him and thought about how nice it would be to turn left when boarding a plane and have a flute full of champagne waiting for him as he sits.
Such thoughts had ceased, though, when Qiang arrived in Beijing. As he became friends with Qiang and learned how to size up the quality of sources, Jake recommitted himself to journalism. He helped subtitle the interviews Qiang shot for his film and the work had been a constant reminder of the importance of good reporting. It pushed Jake to work his sources for better quotes. The key to a good story isn’t just the information or the particular action, he had learned. What motivates decisions? What motivates action? Such details can turn the most mundane story, something one might feel they need to read, into something one wants to read. A year of friendship and work with Qiang helped Jake evolve from a lightweight reporter who covered press conferences, wrote up announcements, “scrummed” and “doorstepped” government officials to a mid-weight. He hadn’t turned into a Pulitzer Prize candidate, but at least he had become someone who could pull together decent feature stories, some worthy of a front page. Perhaps, he thought, he was making a difference somehow. Throughout this evolution, Greg’s attempts to recruit Jake had become more amusing than enticing.
But now, confronted by how little control he has over Qiang’s predicament, Jake re-evaluates the importance of his work. Curiosity turned to cynicism and cynicism has become apathy. Is it really worth the trouble? Most journalists either fade away as they climb the ranks of news organizations, taking up roles behind the scenes as senior editors, or they wind up in public relations, twisting objectivity towards sales objectives and keeping the vast machinery of economic growth intact.
Or, like Qiang, they wind up missing.
“So tell me, Greg,” Jake says, finally, “how dark is the dark side, really?”
Ben returns with a glass of red wine, which he gives to Jake.
“Truce?”
*****
The guests have coalesced into distinctive groups under a canopy of bossa nova lounge music playing through Pierre’s invisible sound system, a network of overhead speakers integrated into lamps at four corners of the rooftop terrace. Worn down by the confrontation with Ben, Jake takes in bits of conversation around him. Gwen Stefani will play in Tokyo. The sad state of “millennial” foreign students flooding into Beijing who are more interested in Facebook than exploring the city. Then again, Beijing’s most interesting corners are now construction sites so adventures are more difficult to find. Anecdotal evide
nce that HIV rates are rising because too many local gay guys think they won’t be infected as long as they don’t fuck foreigners. The Bird’s Nest, the Water Cube and other Olympic venues are almost ready and worth checking out even if you only get to see the tops of them behind construction barriers.
Having lost count of the number of glasses of wine he’s consumed, Jake disengages from a group of a few others talking about how Turkish Airlines has great deals on flights from Beijing to Muscat. It’s the new must-see place and, with the opportunity to make Istanbul part of the trip, who wouldn’t go for it?
The good wine now gone, Jake rinses an abandoned rocks glass with a splash of San Pellegrino and then pours in some Johnny Walker. And then some more. Greg has vanished. Sugimoto and Pierre are no longer present. Jake will find out tomorrow if that transaction closed.
“Hey Jake, I got some news for you,” says a familiar voice approaching from behind. “Make sure you have plenty of whiskey in that glass.”
Regine speaks in her precise South African accent, smooth as honey and all the more magnificent through the filter of peak buzz in the heart of Saturday night. Regine and Jake have spent hours together in hotel lobbies and other venues waiting for Chinese Central Bank and Finance Ministry officials. Eventually they forged a somewhat co-operative relationship, agreeing to “truce” when it looks like the chances of a comment are slim and sharing notes with each other to make sure they got the story right.
A self-labelled “rice tart,” Regine only dates Chinese men. With long, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin, Regine is a dead ringer for Nicole Kidman.
The Wounded Muse Page 12
