I’m still not thinking that straight, I guess. Before, I’d kept hoping I could ask a simple, direct question and find out what I want to know, which is where the fuck is the guy, but I know by now that isn’t going to happen. So instead I ask a vague one and get a nonanswer. Great.
“Did he volunteer here?”
“A little.” She rises. Meets my eyes for a moment, then looks away. “I’ll show you.”
I follow her down the path. Boba follows me.
It’s colder now, or I’m just catching a chill, and I take a moment to zip up my jacket. I can see my breath on the air, mist surrounding the cone-shaped hills, lighter grey against a dark grey sky. It feels like rain is coming. There’s a sudden flapping of wings behind us, maybe from the birds that can’t fly straight.
The path we’re on leads to the cage and shed where Macho Guy was headed, I think, but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s inside.
I stop for a moment. I’m not sure I want to go any farther.
Sparrow half turns. “This way,” she says, gesturing toward the shed.
It’s a big shed, more like a small barn, really, surrounded by another chicken-wire fence. The door is closed. The front of it is featureless. Blank. I shiver in my jacket.
Sparrow opens the gate. “Come on, we just go inside.”
“I, uh …”
I’ve already been attacked, twice. Jason was here, and he’s vanished.
I just blundered out here like it was safe. Like it was a refuge. But what do I know about her? What do I know about any of these people?
Now Sparrow stops and looks at me. “You okay?” She seems genuinely concerned. Or she’s a really good actor. “You need to rest again?”
Remember the wounded antelope. You don’t want to be one.
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just … uh, it looks like it might rain.”
“Maybe so.” She hesitates. “You don’t have to see this,” she says. “Just, you ask about David.”
I have a bunch of thoughts, like David’s dead and rotting in there, or maybe maimed, or he’s crazy and chained up to keep him from running away, or …
Well, fuck.
In for a penny, in for a pound or whatever.
Sparrow pauses by the door of the shed. “Okay, when I open, come in quickly,” she says.
She opens the door. I hesitate. And stumble into the dim interior. The door closes behind me.
I smell it before my eyes can adjust.
The unmistakable odor of cat piss.
Something bumps against my calf.
“Holy shit!”
“You don’t like cats?” Macho Man asks.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I, UH … WOW. THIS is a lot of cats.”
The shed/barn/cathouse—whatever you want to call it—is crawling with cats, or hissing/jumping/purring/meowing with them. I can’t begin to count. There are shelves along the walls where they perch, ceiling beams they drape themselves on or pad across, a giant cat tree in the middle of the room that stretches up to a beam with platforms jutting out.
“I just built that,” Macho Man says. “The cats love it.”
The cats obviously love him. We’ve caught him in the middle of pouring kibble into feeding stations. Several cats rub and lean against his calves.
“I made an outside area, too. You want to see?” He points toward the back of the cathouse.
“Sure. I guess.”
I follow him. He opens the door. Several of the cats dash for the exit. There’s a yard there, screened in with chicken wire all the way to the top of a mostly-dead tree that looks like it was struck by lightning. Two cats, a white one and a ginger, scramble up the trunk.
Sparrow has crept in behind me, so quietly that I took her for another cat at first.
“So …” I try to think how to ask it. “You’re a bird sanctuary. And … cats?”
Sparrow shrugs.
“We rescue them,” Macho Man says proudly. “Somebody post on Weibo that a truck passes by here with many cats. To sell to restaurants, for meat. So we go up there and block the road. Fifty of us. Argue with him for hours. Finally he releases the cats to us.”
Weibo is Chinese Twitter. It makes the authorities crazy, but microblogging’s so popular that they’re afraid to shut it down.
“We pay him,” Sparrow explains. “Also, Kang Li is very persuasive.”
Macho Man, Kang Li, grins. “I just tell him to think of his karma. Better to release so many cats than to kill them.”
“So now we have cats,” Sparrow says with a sigh. She gives me a sudden, sidelong glance. “You want one or two? Take them home to Beijing?”
“I … well, let me see how things go the next few months. My situation is a little … unclear.”
Kang Li, the tough guy, scoops up one of the cats, a coal-black one that’s all long legs and skinny tail. He flips it over, holding it like a baby. “Mao mao,” he croons, scratching its belly. “Ni tebie lihai!” You’re especially fierce!
“So … David,” I manage. “How does he fit into all this?”
“He help with the cat rescue,” Sparrow explains. “Block road. Take video. That’s where we meet.”
I think about this. “Video?” I ask.
“YOU KNOW WHY I like cats?” Kang Li leans back in the chair, sucks down his beer. “Because they are affectionate yet independent.”
He leans over and scratches Boba’s head. Boba blinks his reptile eye, stretches his long neck, and flaps his wings, which I guess means he likes it.
“Here it is,” Sparrow says. She’s booted up her computer. I push myself to my feet and hobble over to her desk, which is stacked high with paper, books, a dirty teacup, and a couple of rubber-duck bath toys.
On the monitor is a video posted to Youku, which is like Chinese YouTube, except with more censorship and less copyright protection.
There’s a two-lane road where a small truck faces off against a weird assortment of vehicles: a newish Buick, a couple of Chery sedans, a beater PLA Jeep, even one of those crazy “mosquito” tractors. A bunch of people stand on the road waving signs, and I recognize Sparrow and Kang Li. Kang Li is at the head of the crowd, confronting the driver, who’s red-faced and furious, shaking his fist, and I think he’s going to take a swing at Kang Li, but he doesn’t. Kang Li just stands there, calm but alert—energized. He gets off on this kind of thing, I’m guessing.
The video’s been edited, actually cut together pretty well, and the next shot is of Kang Li with his arm around the driver, calming him down, and another woman I don’t recognize talking earnestly to the driver.
Shots of the crowd watching the confrontation.
And shots of the inside of the truck: stacks of bamboo cages with cats crammed into them. You can hear them crying, hissing. Terrified.
Time passes. It gets dark. The activists sit on the road. No one’s going anywhere. Shots of activists with their signs and candles.
Finally a cheer goes up from the crowd. Kang Li and the other woman and the driver smile and nod and do little head bows. A deal has been struck.
Next we see the people passing the bamboo crates from person to person, loading them into the cars and the tractor. And in one of those shots I’m pretty sure I see Jason, lending a hand with the loading, his hair longer and darker than in the photo I have of him, his face framed by a backpacker beard.
The final shot: Kang Li with a cat in his arms. The titles read, in Chinese and English: “Yangshuo Friends of Animals—Love cats, don’t eat them!”
“That’s a good cat,” Kang Li says. He’s come over to peer at the monitor. “A French lady who has a restaurant in town took that cat. She has three now. Donated a lot of money for the rescue, too.”
“So David made that video?” I ask.
Sparrow nods. “Yes. Very good with the camera and the … the edits.”
“Can you send me the link?” I ask.
I SIT ON THE couch, elevating my leg again. Kang Li brings me a beer. I’m
starting to like Kang Li. I mean, how can you not like a guy who’s tough, gets gooey over cats, and brings you beer?
Sparrow, meanwhile, sits in front of her computer with a neutral smile. I’m not getting her. I had the feeling, last time in the Gecko, that she knew something, that she wanted to talk to me, but either I was wrong or she’s not ready to share.
“Did David ever talk to you about seeds?” I ask.
She frowns. “Seeds?”
“Special ones. GMO. Uh …” I’m not sure if she knows that term in English, and I don’t know it in Chinese, so I look it up on my phone. “Jiyingaizao.”
“Ah. Wo mingbai.” She hesitates. “Maybe. Maybe he has this interest.”
“So he talked to you about it?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Just that … such things are damaging. To the natural environment. To animals. And people.”
I watch her. She doesn’t want to meet my eyes. “What do you think?” I ask.
“I don’t know enough, maybe.”
“Well, I do,” Kang Li says loudly. “They’re dangerous. Come on, look at this country. You can’t trust the food, you can’t breathe the air, and we should let them make a fish tomato?”
“A fish tomato?”
“Dui! Take gene from a fish and put it in a tomato. You Americans tried that.”
“We did? Why?”
He shrugs. “Maybe so it can swim?” Then he grins. “Supposed to keep it from freezing, I think.”
“Zhen exin,” I say, because it really seems pretty disgusting.
“I hear you want to make new kind of fish! Take gene, put in guiyu. Samenyu,” he adds, off my blank look.
“Salmon?”
“Dui. Corn, hay, rice.” Kang Li ticks each one off on his fingers. “They change them so you can use …” He turns to Sparrow. “Zenme shuo ‘nongyao’?”
“Pesticide,” she tells him.
“Pesticide,” he resumes, “and not kill the plant. But then other weeds become stronger. Must use more and more nongyao, pesticide. Too much poison, already a problem in China. We don’t need more.”
“And now you have the superweeds,” Sparrow says hesitantly.
“Yes. The nongyao can’t kill them. Crowd out other crops.”
“Some even have this … this dusu inside, this poison, to kill insect that eat plant.”
“And that’s supposed to be okay for us to eat?” I ask. Because it sure doesn’t sound okay.
“Maybe.” Sparrow gives a tiny, eloquent shrug. “Or maybe cause organ failure. Maybe cancer. Allergies. Make animals sterile. Many health problems. Or just not so nutritious as natural food.” She no longer sounds hesitant. “Perhaps factor in death of bees. With no bees, what will happen to food supply?”
“Plus contaminate other crops,” Kang Li puts in. “So you don’t have original kind anymore. Just changed.”
“And once changed, we don’t know how the plants develop. Mutate. Could change into something else.”
“Something we can’t eat,” I say slowly, getting it. “Or something that might kill us.”
Sparrow nods. “We just don’t know.”
I remember something else, something that Wa Keung told me about the New Century Hero Rice.
“I’ve heard you can’t save seeds and grow from them the next year,” I say. “That you need to buy the seeds each time.”
“Ah, yinwei zhezhong zhongzi bufayu?” Kang Li asks. The type of seeds are …?
“Bufayu?” I ask. It’s a word I don’t recognize.
“Sterile,” Sparrow supplies. “Not necessarily bufayu. But buying seeds every year, this is not new. You know hybrid seed?”
I nod. I read the Wikipedia entry anyway.
“Farmers for many generations breed for example two different types of rice to make a better one. But this kind not stable. Second generation not as good as first. By third or fourth, maybe they don’t grow at all.”
This stuff is making my head hurt. “So how’s that different from GMOs?”
“GMO more unpredictable. These kinds not bred by farmer. They change plant DNA, in laboratory, even put in DNA from other species.”
“Like the fish tomato?” I guess.
“Yes,” she says, nodding hard. “Just like that. Because with the gene … the gene splicing, you can have the … the tubian. The mutation. They even try to create seed that fail completely, after first generation. Because maybe second generation already no good.”
“So the farmer would have to buy new seeds from the company every year,” I say, now getting it. “They’d have no choice. And there’s no bad second generation to worry about.”
“Maybe.” Sparrow gives me a narrow-eyed look. “So you have an interest in this topic?”
“I have an interest in finding David, like I told you,” I say. “And he’s interested in this topic.”
Truthfully, I have to say, the whole thing is making me queasy. I mean, it can’t be good for you, eating plants with a poison inside them, can it? Or that sterilize themselves. Or that have added fish genes. I keep picturing tomatoes with fins. That can’t be a good idea.
I notice that Sparrow’s still watching me, and I’m pretty sure there’s something she’s not saying.
“We have dinner now,” she finally does say. “Please, join us.”
I’M REALLY NOT SURE if it’s a great idea, but I stay for dinner. It’s Sparrow, Kang Li, me, and Han Rong—the other volunteers have gone home. We sit at a folding table that, before the meal, held stacks of papers, books, and boxes of seed and veterinary supplies. No beer fish but plenty of beer, plus tofu, vegetables, rice, and some pumpkin dumplings that are really awesome. We eat, and we chat, and I get asked the typical questions: How long have I been in China, where did I learn Chinese, am I married, do I have children?
Kang Li holds court, even though I’d thought that the sanctuary was Sparrow’s project, not his, but then a lot of guys are like that, and it’s not as if he’s totally acting like he’s in charge, more that he enjoys talking and drinking beer and pontificating about stuff—for example, the Chinese government: “Corrupt, useless cowards, they don’t care about protecting environment, just approving projects to keep enough people working so that there aren’t more ‘mass incidents.’ ” Or Chinese businessmen: “Completely immoral, most of them. All they care about is making money, and fuck everyone else.” Or Chinese people in general: “Mamu, you know that term?—too numb to care about others. This country can never be great until social-relations reform.” Or America: “Hypocrites, don’t you think so? All that talk about human rights and the environment, but you invade other countries and don’t sign Kyoto treaty.” Or Communism: “a failed experiment.” Capitalism: ditto. And cats: he’s in favor.
All the while Sparrow sits there contributing the occasional word, sometimes smiling, sometimes seeming annoyed, but it’s that kind of affectionate annoyance where I’m wondering, Are these two a couple? Family? Or what?
As for Han Rong, he mostly smiles, laughing at Kang Li’s jokes and giggling at his more outrageous remarks, the sort of nerdy guy who deliberately flies under the radar and goes out of his way to act like Mr. Nonthreatening. I’m not buying it, but maybe that’s just because I’m paranoid.
He looks a little old to be a student, I think.
After dinner is done, Sparrow and Han Rong clear the dishes while Kang Li and I continue to drink beer. I know I have a decision to make, and I’m really not sure what the smart thing to do is.
I don’t think I should go back to my hotel, to Maggie’s Guesthouse, even though I’m paying for it and I’ve got a bag there. Mr. US Polo Team and his buddy already have it staked out.
Maybe another hostel out here somewhere, I think. Just for the night. And I’ll decide what makes sense to do tomorrow. “Could I use your Internet?” I ask Sparrow. “To look for a hotel?”
“Oh, but that’s not necessary,” she says quickly. �
�You can stay here if you’d like.” She ducks her head behind her hand, seemingly embarrassed. “This couch is not the best bed, but you are welcome to it.”
How safe is it for me here? Is it worth sticking around to try and figure out what it is that Sparrow isn’t saying? Or is that another one of my really bad ideas?
At that moment Boba trots over to me, his toenails clicking on the concrete, and stretches out his long neck, like he wants his head scratched.
“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.”
Look, they rescue birds and cats—I mean, they can’t be dangerous.
I’VE HAD BEER, AND I’ve had Percocet, so I fall asleep in spite of the lumpy couch, my leg propped up on its back cushions, and my general paranoia. It occurs to me, before I drift off, that I really need to think a little more about some of the shit I do. You know, take a ruthless inventory or whatever.
I’m having some dream where there’s all these people sitting at a long table, including Reverend Jim from my churchgoing days, wearing his Hawaiian shirt, and he’s saying to me, “All of us are different aspects of God, and separateness is just an illusion,” and I’m thinking, Well, that’s easy for you to say.
Then there’s this honking, like a car horn that got stuck, and I’m really pissed off—it’s like, turn off your fucking horn, asshole.
And then I wake up and realize that it’s Boba making all the noise. I grab the flashlight I stashed under my pillow, ’cause I’m not totally stupid, flick it on, and there’s Han Rong with his hand in my backpack.
“What the fuck,” I manage.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“OH,” HAN RONG SAYS. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I yank the backpack away from him. “Why are you messing with my stuff?”
“I …” His head swivels back and forth. “Maybe I made a mistake.”
“You think?” I aim my flashlight at his face. “So what was it you were trying to do?”
“Just …” He tries to smile. “Maybe it’s a little complicated.”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
Boba stretches his neck out and pokes his beak in my face. I guess he wants attention, and hey, he deserves it. I scratch his head.
Hour of the Rat Page 16
