Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  I think I might know who Sea Horse really is, someone I used to know in the real world, or what passes for it. But I don’t ask. No one does here. This is a place where it’s safe not just to be who you are but also to be who you want to be.

  A lot of the avatars are pretty elaborate. Sea Horse has a mermaid’s tail, a glittering silver helmet. Another avatar has angel’s wings, his hair wreathed in fire. I haven’t bothered with any of that. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt, like always.

  It’s too hard to pretend to be somebody else.

  I make my way to my house.

  IT’S A STONE HOUSE, surrounded by a wooden deck, against a backdrop of pines. As I approach it, a big three-legged dog lopes toward me, barks, then halts and wags its tail. An orange cat sleeps on the stoop. I cross the threshold, and it starts to purr.

  Home.

  I go inside, and the place lights up. I sit on the couch, across from the huge picture window that looks out onto the beach, watch the animated waves swell and crash and send up spouts of foam. Occasionally huge goldfish surface, puffing their cheeks, mouths pursed in perfect O’s. Dolphins surf in the waves.

  If Lao Zhang is online, he’ll know that I’m here.

  I wait. Order another cup of coffee—I mean, a real cup. The coffee place is decorated like it’s French or English or something—uneven wooden tables, puffy chintz cushions, old coffee grinders, prints of gardens and flowers on the walls. The coffee’s good, too. They do designs in the foam of their cappuccinos. The other customers, some hip young Chinese, maybe from Hong Kong or Shanghai, a family from France, sit and drink their coffees and chat and laugh, leaning back in their chairs, enjoying themselves. A couple of the kids play a board game, Pictionary, I think. On vacation. Like I should be.

  Outside, the fog has thickened into drizzle. I can see the drops suspended in the halo of light from the streetlamps.

  Halfway through my second cup of coffee, Lao Zhang knocks on the door.

  Monastery Pig, I guess I should say. That’s the name he goes by here.

  I used to be Little Mountain Tiger, but I changed it. That was a different game, one I want to leave behind.

  Now I’m Alley Rat. I was born in the Year of the Rat, and rats are a good sign in China, they tell me: clever and quick and good at surviving. Rats and cockroaches, right?

  Lao Zhang’s gone for simple in his avatar, too. He’s wearing a beanie, a black T-shirt, and cargo shorts. All his work goes into the pieces he creates for this place. Like my house.

  A text box appears over his head. YILI, NI HAO.

  NI HAO, I type.

  My house is a private chat room. I still don’t know what the fuck to say after HI, HOW’S IT GOING?

  Lao Zhang sits next to me on the couch. SOME GOOD MUSIC LATER TONIGHT, he says. IN THE WAREHOUSE.

  COOL, I type, distracted.

  HAVE TO USE PASSWORD, BECAUSE THEY HAVE SOME LIVE STREAM. MAYBE VIDEO. ISN’T THAT RISKY?

  MAYBE A LITTLE. BUT I WANT MORE PEOPLE TO COME HERE. TO SHARE THINGS. THAT’S WHY I BUILD IT.

  Time was we had a real place to be. An actual village. With houses made of brick. People made of flesh. We could sit down and eat real dumplings together and drink beer.

  But that place got chai’d. Bulldozed under. Now there’s a cluster of high-rises called Harmony Village Gardens, where nobody lives. The units bought up by speculators or not bought at all. Subsidized by the government, maybe, by bad loans at state-owned banks. A ghost village.

  WE HAVE A PROBLEM, I type.

  TELL ME.

  I keep it short. About me drinking tea with the DSD. About Harrison’s fear that they’ll charge us on economic crimes.

  And about John, whom Lao Zhang knew by another name, before. Who I sure hope isn’t here in the Great Community, under a different name entirely.

  After I finish, Lao Zhang is silent. Or rather his avatar sits still on the couch, occasionally blinking, which is a default feature for the avatars here.

  THANKS FOR TELLING ME, he finally says.

  THE MAIN THING IS, IF YOU NEED MONEY, WE CAN’T SELL YOUR WORK RIGHT NOW.

  I DON’T NEED MONEY. I AM WORRIED ABOUT YOU.

  I get this nice warm flush. Because, you know, some guy acts like he cares about me.

  NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. I DON’T THINK.

  OKAY. And then silence.

  Out in the virtual ocean, Chairman Mao surfs an animated wave, wearing baggy swim trunks patterned with marijuana leaves.

  I NEED TO CONSIDER, Lao Zhang types.

  CONSIDER? WHAT I SHOULD DO.

  THERE’S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO, I type. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, THAT’S ALL.

  YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL, he types.

  No shit.

  I COULD LOG OUT from my house, but I decide to leave through the town square. The sculpture that Sea Horse was working on has taken shape. The rosy-cheeked baby has gotten bigger, nearly as tall as the giant ears of corn. And there are bees now, huge bees that buzz the stalks and corn silk. The baby holds up a basket filled with husked corn, except some of the kernels are bulbous. Misshapen. A single bee lies belly-up on the pile of corn, its legs twitching. Other dead bees surround the base of the corn statue.

  SEA HORSE, NI HAO, I type. WHAT’S WITH THE BEES?

  Sea Horse stands next to the baby, blinking.

  YOU’LL SEE, she says.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “ANDY SAYS THERE’S A great show we can go to tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Andy nods vigorously. “Yes. With lights. And music. On lake.”

  “By that fellow, the movie director? The one who did the Olympics ceremony, with all the drummers?”

  “Oh, right,” I mutter.

  So far today we’ve taken a bus to this ancient village called Xingping, which I have to admit is pretty fucking charming—narrow cobbled streets with colored pennants and lanterns strung across them, chickens wandering around, laundry hanging out on poles. You know, the kind of place that looks like a postcard. Kept that way for tourists, I’m pretty sure. My mom stops and buys a bunch of cloth purses shaped like fish—“Oh, look, how cute! See? There’s a smaller fish inside for change!”—while Andy insists on buying lunch, the local specialty, “beer fish,” and after that we go to a groovy coffeehouse in an ancient building for coffees and dessert.

  Now we’re on the river cruise back to Yangshuo, on a flat boat made of white PVC tubes, a canvas canopy supported by a shaky aluminum frame, powered by an outboard motor.

  And yeah, it’s gorgeous. I can’t really take it in, it’s so beautiful. All the alien mountains, swaddled in fog. Water buffalo and pebbled beaches. Tropical palms and every manner of green. “Those mountains, you see them?” Andy points. “They are on back of the twenty-yuan bill.”

  I look to where he points: a mountain range that looks like someone went nuts with a soft-ice-cream dispenser, depositing row upon row of these crazy shapes, the greens and browns muting into blues and greys as the ranks recede.

  “You see?” Andy says. He’s taken a bill out of his wallet. Holds it up in front of my face. “Twenty-yuan bill.”

  I think, Get that fucking money out of my face so I can see the actual mountains, Andy, because I can look at a twenty-yuan bill anytime.

  “Yeah, I see,” I say, and take a slug of my Liquan beer. Breathe in the river’s mossy scent and tell myself to calm down.

  “So what do you think about the show?” my mom asks.

  “Why don’t you guys go? I have some work I should do.”

  She pouts. “Ellie, I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

  And I thought the two of us were supposed to go alone, I want to say. But I don’t. Because it’s not really a vacation for me anyway.

  “Stuff happens,” I say with a shrug. “I made a promise to … you know, to do a good job.”

  AFTER MOM AND ANDY leave for the light show, I put on my jacket and knit hat, grab my color copy of Jason’s photograph,
and set out.

  The main tourist drag in Yangshuo is called Xi Jie—West Street. It’s filled with bars and discos and coffee places with names like Minnie Mao’s and the People’s Commune Café, complete with Santa Claus in a PLA uniform. There’s a Venice Hotel, a Stone Rose Bar. The street is narrow, most of the buildings two or three stories, a lot of traditional architecture, whitewashed, red-stained wood shutters. Uneven granite paving stones. No cars. By now it’s just past 7:00 P.M. The music is already pounding from the discos, the streets thronged with tourists, vendors calling out to “look, come buy!” and holding up their scarves and hats and carved wooden frogs.

  The weird thing is, for a street called West Street, there are way more Chinese tourists than Westerners here. Young people, mostly, wearing broad grins. Couples holding hands, cruising the strip. I guess West Street to these kids means it’s something sort of forbidden, a little dangerous.

  I hate it already. The crowds, the music, the pulsing strobe lights from the discos, the constant come-ons to buy something or drink something or fuck something.

  You made a promise, I tell myself. You have to at least try.

  I hesitate, then go into the first coffee place I see, show the girl greeter Jason’s photo. “Sorry to bother you. Have you seen this young man? I’m a friend of his family. They are worried about him.”

  The girl, a tiny thing who looks like she’s maybe twelve, wearing a sort of sailor suit with very short shorts over tights, makes a show of studying the photo, scrunches up her face and shakes her head. “Haven’t seen him. But wait a moment. I can ask my manager.”

  She retreats into the coffee house, a wood-lined space that reminds me of the inside of a cigar box.

  “No, sorry,” she says when she comes back. “My manager doesn’t recognize him either.”

  “Thanks for asking,” I say, folding the page and putting it back in my canvas bag.

  As I turn to go, she puts her hand on my arm for a moment. “I hope you find him!” she says. “It’s terrible for his family to worry.”

  I wonder where she’s from. Where her family is. What they know about her situation. What her situation even is.

  If she’s lucky, she’s from the area. Has a home to go to. A bed of her own. Or works for an employer who provides a dorm room somewhere close by.

  Or she sleeps here, in the coffeehouse, after it closes. Wraps herself in a blanket and sleeps on a straw mat, on the floor, beneath the tables.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I hope I find him, too.”

  I stop at every open business along Xi Jie. Show people the photo. Watch them shake their heads. If Jason had been here, he was just another foreigner. One who didn’t do anything particularly memorable.

  I limp down the street. By now I’ve got a throbbing headache and my leg feels like it’s on fire. Percocet, I think. I’m going to sit down and have a beer and a Percocet.

  Not on Xi Jie, though. Some quiet side street. At least there’s plenty of those here in Yangshuo.

  I’ll try one last club and call it a night.

  Up ahead is a place called the Last Emperor. Lots of red and gold. The same pounding music as everyplace else, Lady Gaga at the moment. Outside, there’s a guy dressed in a costume doing his come-ons, a slouched, shuffling sort of dance combined with waving people in. He’s wearing a Qing-dynasty-style beanie, a fake pigtail, and a long embroidered robe over counterfeit Levi’s and Nikes.

  “Come inside! Ladies’ night!” he says to me, in English. He’s young, with a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, an attempt at a goatee.

  “Maybe. But first can I ask you, this man, have you seen him?”

  He stops his shuffle. Takes a look at Jason’s photo. “Why you want to know?”

  “His family misses him.”

  He lifts the other corner of his mouth in half a grin. “Really?” He hands me back the sheet. “You can ask over there.” He points with his cigarette down the side street that empties into Xi Jie across from us. “Place called Gecko. Lots of foreigners like it.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  He takes a puff from his cigarette. Grins from both sides. “Then maybe come back here later. For a drink.”

  “Maybe,” I say, and smile back, because he helped me and he’s sort of cute, in a slouchy, borderline-delinquent kind of way.

  I’m sure not coming back for a drink, though.

  I find Gecko easily enough. It’s a narrow place sandwiched between a coffeehouse and a pizza restaurant, advertising imported beer, free Wi-Fi, and rock-climbing expeditions. Well, okay. The front is dark wood, with a hanging sign depicting a bright yellow lizard, which I guess is a gecko.

  Inside are wooden tables, potted and hanging plants. Photos of mountains and rock climbers. One wall has a rack of equipment—packs, shoes, clothing, metal spikes, a bunch of coiled ropes. The music is groovy Brazilian jazz. And yeah, a lot of foreigners, most with that rangy, “We like fresh air, nuts, and leafy greens!” look.

  The waitstaff is Chinese, though. Typical. You don’t have to pay them as much.

  I sit at an empty table and order an overpriced Sierra Nevada. They don’t even offer Liquan here.

  The waitress who brings me my beer is young, short-haired, wearing a long-sleeved Gecko T-shirt and a fleece vest.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She nods, smiling, expecting, I’d bet, that I want to know about rock climbing, or river rafting, or some other healthy outdoor shit they go for around here.

  “This man, have you seen him?” I hold out Jason’s photo.

  She takes it, curious. Crouches down a little so she can scrutinize it under the table lamp. And something in her expression shifts. I’m sure of it. Her eyes dart sideways, like she’s looking over her shoulder.

  “Deng yixia,” she says, springing up. Wait a moment. She leaves the photo on the table.

  I have a big swallow of Sierra Nevada, feeling this slow burn of excitement. It’s something I’m not used to: the sense that I might actually be getting somewhere.

  Maybe I’ll find out where he is, I think. Or at least that he’s okay. Something I can tell Dog, something to make him feel a little better.

  The guy who comes over to my table is tall. Blond. Older than me by a decade at least, but built like a basketball player, tall and muscular. Like the waitress, he’s wearing a fleece vest, but his is Patagonia, and his T-shirt doesn’t have a logo.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asks.

  His English is flawless, but there’s a hint of an accent there. Maybe German, or Dutch, or Scandinavian.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m looking for this guy.”

  I flip my hand at the paper on the table, the image cracked where I’d folded it. But you can still see Jason, with his dreamy brown eyes.

  The guy makes a show of studying it. “I don’t think I know him,” he finally says.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Well, no.” He smiles at me. He’s got a thin face with prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged, long nose, like one of those knight statues you see laid out on top of a medieval tomb. “We have a lot of foreigners who come through here.”

  “Yeah, so I heard.”

  “So why are you looking for this one?” he asks, in a deliberately casual way.

  “I’m friends with his family. His brother, Dog … uh, Doug. They don’t know where he is, and they’re worried about him.”

  “I see.” He pretends to study the photograph a moment longer. Then pushes it toward me with his long, knotted fingers. Wrapped with scars, from all those ropes they use for rock climbing, maybe.

  “Sorry. Don’t think I recognize him.”

  He’s lying, I’m sure of it.

  “Look,” I say, frustrated, “all we want is to know that Jason’s okay.”

  “Jason?” For an instant the guy’s brow furrows. Then he composes himself. “Wish I could help.”

  You
fucking liar, I think.

  “So what’s your name?” I ask.

  “Erik,” he says. “And yours?”

  “Ellie. This your place?”

  “I’m one of the owners,” he says easily. “Will you be in Yangshuo for a while?”

  “I’m not sure. Depends on what I find to do around here.”

  “Well, if you’re interested in rock climbing, or white-water rafting, or hiking, just let me know.” He smiles. “I’d be happy to set you up.”

  I WALK OUT OF the Gecko, and I’m so pissed off.

  Erik recognized Jason. I’m sure of it. The way he reacted, I’m guessing he knows Jason by another name. But whatever it is, he’s not willing to share it with me.

  Okay, I tell myself. Calm down. Maybe Erik’s a friend of Jason’s and he’s trying to protect him. Erik doesn’t know if I’m really Dog’s buddy. He doesn’t know anything about me.

  I check my watch. It’s closing in on midnight. I think, Let’s find that quiet bar, have a beer, and then go back to the hotel.

  I wander around until I come to a dark side street off the river and a bar called Happy River Crab, where a five-foot-tall plastic crab wearing horn-rimmed glasses and clutching a Chinese flag in one claw greets me by the door. I go inside and order a local Liquan beer. I haven’t eaten since lunch, so I order some spicy peanuts as well. Too bad the kitchen’s closed for beer fish. I have to admit, Andy had the right idea about the beer fish.

  The first beer goes down fast, and I still have some peanuts, so I order a second Liquan and try to figure out what I should do.

  Maybe there’s some way I can convince Erik that we’re on the same side. Get Dog and Natalie on Skype, maybe.

  That is, if Erik really is on Jason’s side. I mean, how can I know for sure? Maybe something happened. Jason was balling Erik’s girlfriend or something. Or there was just some stupid accident and Erik’s trying to cover it up.

  How can I know?

  I take a big swig of beer, and I ask myself, what are my obligations here, really? I mean, I came to Yangshuo. I tried. Trudged up and down Xi Jie asking everybody I saw, ending up with my leg hurting like crazy and my head feeling not much better.

  When I leave Happy River Crab, the surrounding streets are quiet, the businesses dark. There’s still some action around Xi Jie, I’m sure, but I’m done for the night.