Rock Paper Tiger

by Lisa Brackmann

  “Yesterday we blockade the factory,” the driver says. “Keep the trucks from leaving. That really pissed them off.”

  “And today?” John asks.

  “Surround the county government office. Demand justice. People have rights. The laws say so.” He waves his cell phone. “I get a message, I text everyone I know. Today’s demonstration even bigger than yesterday’s.”

  John settles back in his seat, mouth tight, eyes grim.

  We drive a while. I’m not paying too much attention. We’re on this road with two lanes, one in either direction. We pass an intersection, a crossroads, where a smaller road climbs up a mountain on one side and winds down a hill on the other.

  Up ahead, there’s a mob of men blocking the road.

  “Ta ma de!” the taxi driver yells. He hits the brakes.

  The men, six of them, carry clubs. They wear dark clothes. No pots. No protest signs.

  “The Party Secretary’s dogs,” the driver spits. “Making sure the protest leaders don’t leave town.”

  “Turn around,” John says urgently, grabbing his arm. “Just turn around.” I see him pull out his phone, hit a couple buttons.

  The driver shoves the gear into reverse; it grinds, catches, and we jerk backward. He twists the wheel; the tires spin and rubber burns; the car lurches forward, back the way we came.

  A car pulls up in front of us, blocking our way back.

  “What’s going on?” the driver yells, sweat and panic on his face. “Who are these motherfuckers?”

  John ignores him. He puts his hand on mine. “Ellie, I am going to open the car door and get out. When I do, you should run. Just run.”

  That’s stupid, I want to say. There’s one of you and at least six of them. And I can’t run. Not very well. I’ll never outrun them.

  But I don’t have time to say that. John opens the car door.

  He gets out, raises his hand, and walks toward the men behind us.

  “Hey!” he calls out. “What’s this about?”

  I guess this is my cue to run.

  A couple of the men take a few steps toward John.

  I’m thinking: run where? The road is blocked in both directions. The only way to go is up the mountain road. But it’s stupid. I’m never going to get away.

  I get out of the car. I run.

  I see, out of the corner of my eye, the men swarming John. I see him kick, hit, see one of the men clutch his knee and fall. Clubs lift and descend.

  I run up the road. Stumble a little. I look back over my shoulder.

  John’s on the ground now; they’re kicking him, hitting him with clubs, kicking him in the ribs, the head. He’s got his arms raised, trying to ward off the blows, but his arms are sinking, slowly, like they’re in water.

  I can’t say that I like Creepy John, but I’m not going to get away, am I?

  So I turn around. And I run toward these guys, screaming, “Hey! HEY! Leave him alone, you cocksuckers! Leave him alone!”

  I’m screaming in English, but I get their attention.

  They stop. It’s almost funny. They all kind of freeze in various positions, some crouching, some standing, some in midkick, and stare at me. Like, who’s this crazy bitch?

  I don’t hear them come up behind me. Arms circle around my waist; fists push up between my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. I gasp as someone kicks my legs out from under me, and before I catch my breath, someone puts a black hood over my head and wrenches my hands behind my back and clamps the flex-cuffs on my wrists, and there are no thoughts in my head, just fear so intense that my mouth tastes like metal.

  A shot. I hear gunshots. Two. Three. I can’t see; I can’t see anything. A hand pushes in the center of my back; another grabs the flex-cuffs and yanks them up. Pain shoots through my shoulders, and I stagger forward. The car, I think we’re at the car; my shoulder hits the doorframe; then the hand lets go of the flex-cuffs, pushes my head down, and shoves me forward. I fall inside. The door slams shut.

  I just lie there for a minute.

  I think: this bag on my head, it smells like one of those woven plastic shopping bags the peasants carry, like a plastic tarp.

  I struggle to sit up.

  The car door on the other side opens. I hear a cry of pain, sounds of struggle; then the seat bounces, and something—someone—falls against my side with a moan.

  “John?” I whisper.

  The car door slams. Someone gets in the front seat; I can feel his presence; I know he’s there, this solid object that displaces air. Someone else gets in the passenger side, doors slam, then the engine starts, and suddenly we’re moving, fast.

  “John,” I say. “John, can you hear me? Are you there?”

  “Bie zou,” one of them says.

  Shut up.

  Someone turns on the radio. Chinese hip-hop. “Daibiao wo hutong,” the rapper chants. Represent my home.

  We hit a pothole. John’s head slides down onto my lap. I try to reach him, stretch my hands from behind my back. I strain, and my fingertips graze the back of his neck. I try to reach his carotid to check for a pulse, but I can’t.

  My fingers come away slick and greasy, and I know it’s blood.

  I think I can hear him breathing through the plastic hood, over the radio and the engine. I think I hear a rattled breath, filtered through snot and blood. He’s not dead, I’m pretty sure. I feel the weight of his head on my thigh, and it’s warm, so he can’t be dead.

  As we drive, I feel the warmth spread, and I realize his blood is soaking me.

  I don’t know how long we drive. At some point, they switch the radio to a talk show. I can’t hear it all that well, but I think it’s a call-in show about people’s sex problems. Every once in a while the driver and the passenger chuckle in response.

  I’m going to die, I think. They’re going to kill me. I’m going to die. I’m breathing too fast, I can’t breathe in this fucking hood, I’m going to suffocate, I’m going to die.

  Shut up, I tell the voice in my head. Just shut the fuck up. I can breathe. And they don’t want to kill me: they think I know something.

  Okay, I think. Okay. So … so what? So they’re going to try and get me to tell them things. Things I probably don’t even know. Well, okay, I know how that goes. I know the kinds of things they’ll do.

  Lah lah lah. Stupid cunt.

  Oh, Jesus, I think. Can’t you help me out here? Can’t you give me some strength? So I can suffer, like you did, and still be strong?

  But I’m just praying into my hood. No one answers. A part of me thinks that means my faith was never strong enough. That I’m not good enough. Then I think: that’s bullshit. You accept Christ as your personal Savior, and it doesn’t matter what kind of miserable piece-of-shit sinner you are, what horrible wretched things you’ve done. You get forgiven anyway. Free pass!

  I’m thinking about all this, and there’s just silence. No words of comfort from my former best buddy Jesus. There’s only me, cut off from the world by the hood. There’s John’s head in my lap, his ragged breathing and blood. On the radio talk show, the hostess berates a caller, and the driver laughs.

  I stretch out my arms so I can touch the back of John’s neck again. “Hang in there, John,” I whisper. “Keep playing. Okay?”

  “Shut up,” the driver says.

  Then I know that I’m not forgiven. It matters what I do. Okay, I think. I’ve got to do this right.

  Shit, I really have to pee.

  The car pulls over. Stops, though the engine keeps running. The passenger door opens with a metallic creak. Someone gets out. Opens the back door.

  A hand grabs the collar of my jacket and pulls it off my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  The passenger ignores me. Lifts up the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  I don’t think. I just react. I jerk back, then slam my head and shoulder as hard as I can at the hand, and I think I hit his head.

  “Fuck!” he says. In English.


  He slams me back against the car seat. His forearm pushes against my throat, like a metal bar. I can’t breathe.

  I feel a sharp prick on my shoulder, a burning in the muscle. The arm comes off my throat. I suck in air, gasping.

  Oh shit. Oh god. I don’t… .

  My breathing slows. I feel the air move through me, like warm water.

  I can’t lift my head. It’s all water.

  “Hey,” I manage. “Hey … why’d you do that?” My voice slurs.

  “Because you’re taking a little trip,” he says.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  COLD. I’M COLD.

  I open my eyes, and it’s all white.

  White walls. Cold white light.

  I’m lying on my back on a cement floor, one arm flung out, the other shading my eyes from the fluorescent glare.

  My leg hurts; my hips and shoulders ache. I remember … what?

  My mouth tastes like copper.

  I try to sit up. Oh, shit, I think I’m going to throw up. My head pounds like it’s about to burst.

  I lie back down and close my eyes.

  When I open them again, I pull my legs up, knees bent, feet on the ground. My legs are bare. I’m wearing a T-shirt. That’s it.

  Then I remember. My jeans. Blood. And I think maybe I pissed in them. I kind of remember doing that.

  I remember a little more. The car. John’s head in my lap.

  They drugged me.

  Where am I?

  Small room. White walls. Cement floor. One door. Two metal chairs, one with short legs, like it’s built for kids.

  I try to sit up again. Slowly. I lean against the wall. Wrap my arms around myself. It’s like a meat locker in here.

  The door opens. A guy comes in, wearing a tracksuit and a mask—a ski mask—and rubber gloves. The tracksuit is red with yellow trim. Adidas. I can still see his eyes. He’s Asian, thick, squat, built like a wrestler.

  “Sit in the chair,” he says. He sounds American.

  I try to stand up, but I just can’t. I’m too dizzy and my head hurts.

  He grabs my wrists and pulls me to my feet. I feel the rubber on my skin. He pushes me into the low chair.

  “You do what you’re told. Understand?”

  I think he might be the guy who came to the Liangs’ place, to Tongren Village. I nod.

  “Stay there.” And he leaves.

  So I sit. I sit for what feels like hours, shivering. I stare at the white walls. I think I hear something, the call to prayer from a mosque, so faint I’m not sure, and it reminds me of those times. I think: I can’t be there, but maybe I am. How long was I out? I don’t have a clue. I could be anywhere. I strain to listen. The chair is hard and too small, the seat at a funny angle, and after a while it hurts for me to sit in it. I’m cold, and I’m so thirsty. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I think: I can’t stand this; I really can’t.

  Finally, I think: fuck these people. I stand up. My legs and back are so cramped that I almost fall over, but I stay on my feet.

  Immediately, the door opens. The Chinese (American?) guy strides across the room. Puts his thick hands on my shoulders and shoves me into the chair. “What did I tell you? What did I tell you?” he yells.

  “Fuck you,” I say, voice cracking.

  He slaps me across the face. I smell rubber and talcum powder.

  “You’re going to do exactly what we tell you. Sit in the fucking chair. Don’t fucking move.”

  He leaves me there.

  After a while, I start crying. I don’t want to. I know they’re watching me. I don’t want them to see me cry, but I can’t help it.

  Then I stop. Wipe the snot off my face with the back of my hand. I stand up.

  And in pops the same guy. In my head, I name him Charlie. “Sit in the fucking chair!” he screams.

  I laugh.

  He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs my wrist and forces it behind my back, pushes down, and the pain nearly drops me to my knees, and I’m in the chair. With his free hand, he pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. Metal this time. He fastens one ring around my wrist, threads the cuffs around one of the chair’s back struts, then secures my other wrist.

  “You’re going to sit,” he says. “You wanna play it this way, then that’s how we’ll play it.”

  And he leaves me there.

  Hours go by. Maybe days. I notice the subtle gradations of white on the walls. My teeth chatter. My hands feel numb. My shoulders burn. I’ve got to pee again.

  I think: if I don’t drink something, I’ll pass out.

  Then I have a new idea. I’m cuffed to this chair, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stand up.

  I stand. I can’t stand up all the way. The cuffs slide along the strut to the backrest, and the fucking chair is heavy. I take a few steps, hunched over, dragging it behind me.

  The door flies open, and here’s my new best friend.

  He hits me. I sit. He yells: “You think this is some kind of game?”

  I look up at him. “Yeah,” I manage. My lip is bleeding. “It’s called, I stand up and you come running.”

  I wait for him to hit me again, but he doesn’t. So I keep going: “It’s like, it’s like… .” I laugh; I can’t help it, but I can’t catch my breath, and it’s more like a wheeze. “… musical chairs. You know? Musical chairs. But there’s no music. You should work on that.”

  Even with the mask on, I can still see his eyes. He looks confused.

  “Hey, I need some water,” I say.

  “You need to sit down and shut the fuck up,” he says, trying to recover his inner bad-ass.

  “I’m dehydrated, you stupid fuck,” I say. “You wanna keep playing here, you’d better get me some water.”

  His fists clench and unclench, like he really wants to do something, but he doesn’t know what.

  “Come on,” I say. “What’s your problem? You don’t wanna get me some water, you can just hit me again. I’m sitting right here. Not going anywhere. Come on, you fucking pussy. Don’t you wanna hit me?” I stand up again, lift the chair legs off the ground, take a couple steps balancing the chair on my back like I’m some Chinese peasant with a bushel basket of rice. “Look, I’m not sitting! Come on! Do your job, asshole!”

  He puts me down, of course. It takes a couple of seconds, and I couldn’t even tell you how he did it, except suddenly the chair’s on the ground, my butt’s in the chair, and I feel like I’m going to puke.

  He has a roll of duct tape. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls off lengths of it, looking pissed off, and he wraps it around my ankles, securing them to the chair legs.

  But he doesn’t hit me again. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Heckuva job, man,” I say. “You should be real proud of yourself.”

  He tears off another piece of tape and stretches it across my mouth.

  “Shut up,” he says.

  Fuck, I am so thirsty.

  I guess I do pass out, finally. I can’t breathe that well through my nose, and then I can’t hold my head up. But when my head falls forward, that wakes me up, and I jerk my head upright, and think, okay, I’m still here.

  I can’t really stand up with my ankles taped to the chair legs. I can scoot the chair across the cement a little, which makes a really irritating scraping noise. I do that for a while. No one comes in.

  Come on, I think. Come on. You can’t just leave me here. You can’t.

  Days go by. Years.

  I can’t hold it any longer, and I piss myself. The puddle spreads out on the metal chair, drips down my thighs. I stink. I’m wet. I’m cold.

  The pain between my shoulders feels like a hand reaching beneath my skin and twisting the muscles. Spasms travel down my back, down my legs, the nerves on fire.

  I can’t stand it.

  I just want to lie down.

  I push myself hard, and I fall to one side. I crack my head against the concrete, and the last clear thought I have is: maybe that wasn’t so smart.r />
  The door opens; everything seems to be dissolving around the edges, and it’s hard for me to hold the picture together. Somebody, Charlie, I think, squats next to me, frees my hands, then my ankles. He half-carries, half-drags me over to the wall and leans me up against it, which is what you’re supposed to do with a head injury, keep the head elevated, and I feel like congratulating him for doing the right thing, but then he rips the duct tape off my mouth, and that really fucking hurts, and the pain is like plunging my head in ice water, and all of a sudden I can almost think again.

  He checks my pupils with a little flashlight, probes the area around my temple with his fingertips, then says over his shoulder, “Yeah, she’s okay.”

  The person he says it to crouches down into my field of vision. He’s holding an open bottle of water. I take it, suck it down.

  “Told you I needed water,” I say.

  It’s Suit #1—the younger, thinner one. Macias. “You’re in a serious situation,” he says.

  I want to laugh. “Really? No shit.” I look around the cold, white room. “Where’s your buddy? Beating on women seems like something he’d like.”

  Suit #1 blinks and furrows his brow. “Why are you escalating this?” he asks.

  The weird thing is, he sounds genuinely puzzled.

  “You threaten me, you kidnap me, and I’m the one who’s escalating? That is just fucking hilarious.”

  Suddenly I realize something. This isn’t the scenario they gamed for.

  “Oh, I get it,” I say. “You think I’m this loser headcase, and the minute you started playing Gitmo with me, you figured I’d cave.”

  Now I do laugh. “I mean, you let me keep my T-shirt. That’s pretty fucking lame. Don’t you get how it’s done?”

  “You want to us to take it?” Macias asks. “Because we can make this a lot worse. Is that what you want?”

  He stares at me, unblinking.

  He’ll do it, I know. He’ll do whatever needs to be done.

  “No,” I say.

  He stares at me a moment longer. Then he takes the water bottle out of my hand. Puts it down beside him.

  “I want to be very clear with you,” he says. “We have everything we need to lock you away someplace where you’ll never see the sun. You’ll live in a cell. You’ll never see a lawyer. You won’t get visits from the Red Cross, or from your friends and family either. We can do that. Do you understand?”