“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“Of course, you have an American passport. You can always go home if you want.”
“Yeah. Right.”
IT’S DARK NOW. STILL early, just after seven, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. I settle up and hobble out onto the street. Take a walk. Test out my leg. It feels better, I tell myself, but the pain’s still pretty bad. I’m running low on Percocets, too. The majority of my stash is back in Beijing.
Yeah, I could go home. Back to the States. But what would I do there? I’ve been following the news. The recession. The unemployment. What kind of work could I possibly get? What would I do with myself?
I have a life here. I have work. Friends. An apartment. Where my mom is currently living. And if I go home, what’s she gonna do?
Fuck it. I need a drink.
I WALK FOR A while, the farthest I’ve walked since that asshole in Guiyu took a whack at me. It’s cool out, but not freezing or anything, and I’m fine in my jacket and a knit hat that I bought off a blanket from some guy near the Beijing Forestry University. I need my Yangshuo walking stick for support, but I’m feeling pretty good. The walking helps get me out of my own head, a little anyway.
This is a pretty town. Not a lot of traffic. I find myself heading east, toward the lake. The street looks familiar, like maybe I saw it from the taxi this morning. Where the hipster couple from the train got dropped off. A few bars and coffee places stuck in between local businesses and houses. Quieter than the main tourist drag near where I’m staying.
Except this place. I can hear the music thumping faintly as I approach. An old building, decrepit façade painted black.
There’s a signboard with a cartoon monkey grinning over his shoulder, red ass cheeks thrust out like an invitation.
The Cheeky Monkey.
That’s where the hipster couple said they’d be tonight, I remember.
I hesitate outside the door. I still don’t do well with a lot of noise. It makes me nervous. And the hipster couple, I mean, they were nice enough, but it’s not like I’m dying to see them again.
On the other hand, I could go in there and have a couple of beers. It’s something to do. And tomorrow I’ll question the manager at the Dali Perfect Inn, see if she can tell me anything about video director Langhai, maybe even go to the new city and check out the Modern Scientific Seed Company. Or not.
Because a part of me thinks I’d better punch out. Deal with my own shit. Of which there is much. Turn over the leads I have to Dog, or to Natalie anyway, and let them decide what to do.
But in the meantime I could have a beer, I guess.
I grab the door handle, feel the rough carved wood against my palm and fingers, open it, and go inside.
The smoke hits me more than the music does; the air is blue with it. The walls of the bar are painted black, with Day-Glo graffiti on them, lit up by black lights. The place is pretty small, like a hutong bar, with a combination of small sprung couches and old wooden chairs. The music’s not bad. Modern trance stuff, British, I think.
I push my way up to the bar. Not too many customers this time of night. A couple Western hippie/backpacker types, a young Chinese woman wearing a sixties-style polka-dot dress, her girlfriend in rolled-up Levi’s and slicked-back hair. The waitress is Chinese, the bartender some burnout European guy dressed in black, with big gold earrings. “What can I get you, love?” he says.
I look at the beer list. “Erdinger, I guess.” Thirty kuai, which is nuts, but at least it’s a big bottle.
He pours, I pay, and I hobble off to a solitary armchair in the back of the bar. I sip my beer and let the music wash over me. I seriously don’t know why I’m here.
After a few minutes, Polka-Dot Dress and Levi’s drift over. “Hello!” Polka-Dot Dress says. “Where are you from?”
“Beijing. Ni ne?”
She giggles. “Oh, you speak Chinese! So many foreigners speak Chinese now! We are from Shanghai.”
The two of them settle down in chairs next to me and strike up a conversation. Levi’s is an “independent filmmaker working on story of two lesbians in relationship and one marries gay man to satisfy family demands.” Polka-Dot is a fashion designer. “We come here because Dali very artistic place. You can meet all kinds of people.”
They seem nice. It’s nice talking to them. One of the backpackers comes over, a guy from Germany. The bar starts to fill up, not that it takes much in a place this size. Porkpie Hat Guy and Lei Feng T-Shirt, the couple from the train, arrive. “Hey, ni hao! You came!” The backpacker buys a round of the local Dali beer for the table. I’m thinking, you know, this is … nice. I can meet people, and hang out, and enjoy myself. I’m feeling like a member of the human race for a change.
And that’s when Russell from Yangshuo walks in the door.
I spot him right away. Weaselly dude with greasy hair, his cheekbones and Adam’s apple overwhelming his chin. And he’s limping. A lot. Worse than me. He has an actual cane. His head swivels around, like he’s looking for someone.
Me, apparently.
He limps over. Stretches the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile.
“Hey. Ellie. Glad I found you.”
“Russell, right?”
“That’s right.”
He sits in the chair next to me that the backpacker guy just vacated. He has to juggle the cane to pull out the chair, because his free wrist is wrapped in an elastic bandage.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“Dali’s a small place.” The smile again. “American, good-looking girl, I asked around.”
Oh, brother. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to this bar. I didn’t even know I was coming to this bar.”
“Like I said, small town. And a little luck.”
I try to think it through.
If I could figure out that Jason had a connection to the Dali Perfect Inn, no reason someone who actually knew him wouldn’t be able to as well. Russell could have started there, I guess. Tracked me to the Indian place. And from there …
“This bar is in all the guidebooks,” he’s saying. “You know, your Lonely Planets.” His lip curls a bit as he says this.
But how would he know I was in Dali?
I shrug. “Okay, whatever. What do you want?”
He leans toward me. Ducks his head. Lowers his voice. “You want to find David, right?”
I lean back. I don’t like this guy in my face. I nod. “Yeah.”
“What if I could take you to him?”
“IT’S A FARMHOUSE,” HE says. “Outside town a bit. I’ll take you there.”
“A farmhouse. You pulled a knife on me, and you want me to go with you to a ‘farmhouse.’ ” I make the finger quotes. “I may not be Einstein, but I’m not fucking stupid.”
“You fucking drove me into a ditch,” he half snarls. “And you—” He thinks better of it and shuts up.
“Stomped on your foot when you tried to mug me? Yeah. I’m real sorry about that.”
I watch him try to calm himself down.
“Look, we didn’t know who you were,” he says. “The … the people we’re up against, they have …” He looks around. Lowers his voice. “They have spies. Everywhere.”
“Uh-huh. Okay.”
And I thought I was paranoid.
“So who is it you’re up against?”
“You know.”
“Not offhand.”
He leans in close. “Eos.”
Eos. Naturally. “And New Century Seeds?”
Russell nods.
“Why are you coming to me now?” I ask.
“We checked you out,” he practically whispers. His mouth is next to my ear. I can still barely hear him over the music. “Your story, I mean. That you’re a friend of David’s family.”
“I checked out, huh? Interesting.”
Because there’s no way my story could have “checked out”—I never gave Russell, or Erik, or Alice, or anyone “Da
vid’s” real name or the names of his family.
The only person who could verify it is David/Jason himself.
So either Russell is a big liar or he really is in contact with Jason.
“I’m not just gonna go with you to some farmhouse,” I finally say. “I mean, why should I trust you?”
“I thought you wanted to talk to David.” He sounds surprised.
“I do.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the address. Write it down. Name a time. I’ll meet you there.”
HE DOESN’T WANT TO do it, but in the end he doesn’t have much choice. Because I’m totally willing to hit the eject button on this mission and head home. Russell, on the other hand, seems really hung up on my going to this farmhouse. Which all by itself is a reason I’m not so enthusiastic about going, because this guy is a weasel, and not in the cute little pet ferrety sense.
Finally he gives in. Scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Okay,” he says. How about ten-thirty?”
“Okay.”
“Come by yourself,” he hisses. “Or there’ll be trouble.”
I shrug, to cover a shudder.
You don’t have to go, I tell myself.
HOW DID RUSSELL KNOW I’d gone to Dali?
Here’s the thing: the Chinese government’s finding a foreigner most places in China, not a surprise. There are ways around it, but, for example, I have to show my passport every time I register at a hotel, and you’ve got to figure they have some means of tracking you with that.
Russell, though, wouldn’t have that information—that is, unless he’s working for the government.
I try to figure out the implications of that scenario, and it makes my head hurt.
Otherwise, if Russell really is a friend of Jason’s, then he could have known about Jason’s list of seed companies. Those were three locations: Guiyu, Dali, and Guiyang, in Guizhou. So he had a one-in-three chance of getting it right, and if he’s in contact with Daisy, a one-in-two, because Daisy could have told him that I’d already gone to Guiyu. And maybe he could make an educated guess that I might choose Dali over Guiyang, given the video evidence. No films by Langhai from Guiyang or Guizhou, not yet.
On the other hand, Russell really doesn’t seem that smart.
Erik, though …
I have this sudden flash of him sitting across from me at the table, studying Jason’s photo like he’s analyzing a poker hand.
Yeah, he’s smart.
I CAN’T FIND A regular taxi, so I end up in one of those three-wheeled motorcycle carts, sitting on a bench covered with fake fur under a canopy of orange-and-pink-dyed fabric strung up on skinny metal tubing that looks like it couldn’t bear the weight of a shower curtain. The driver is a woman who resembles one of the pot-selling grannies without the traditional dress—instead her round, wrinkled face is shaded by a New Orleans Saints baseball cap.
We head west, up into the foothills. The lights thin out, the houses, too, until it’s nothing but darkness, the occasional house with a lit window, a few passing cars.
“Daole,” the driver says. We’ve arrived.
A crumbling stone wall, a glimpse of peaked roof with weeds growing in the shingles. Dim lights. Faint music.
“Can you wait for me?” I ask. “I can pay you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m off work now. Going home.”
“So if I need to get back to town?”
“I think maybe foreigners come to this house all the time,” she says with a little grin. “So I think you can find a taxi.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
I pay her and get out. My heart’s pounding in my throat, and I have to steady myself with my Yangshuo walking stick.
I am not nearly drunk enough to be this stupid.
First thing I do is switch my iPhone back on, GPS and all. This is one of those situations where maybe I’d rather have certain people find me than just disappear off the radar and end up … I don’t know, as pig food. ’Cause you know pigs will eat anything, including people. And I think I hear pigs. Snuffling. Snorting. Or maybe that’s the music.
I open up the splintering wood gate. It’s so dark that I can barely see a foot in front of me. I wake up my phone, use it as a flashlight. There’s probably an app for that, but I don’t have it.
There’s a dirt path that leads up to what seems to be the main building, a grey shape in the dark. The roof I saw before is just some kind of shed or barn or something. Maybe abandoned. This doesn’t look like an active farm, from what I can see. There’s an ancient blue farm truck, though, and a newer lime green Chery parked off to one side, on the border of an overgrown field.
Holy crap, what a tremendously stupid idea this was.
Why am I doing this? What the fuck’s wrong with me?
I take a moment and go into my contacts on the phone. Hesitate, then find one. My finger hovers over the number. I don’t want to call it. But just in case.
As I approach the door to what I guess is the farmhouse, a dog starts barking like a pit bull in a crack den.
And the front door of the farmhouse slams open.
“Shei laile?” someone yells. Chinese. A skinny silhouette backlit by interior light. The dog at his side lunges forward. The music is louder now, with the door open. I’m thinking it might be Radiohead.
“Ni hao,” I manage. “I’m, uh … Russell invited me to come.” The figure hesitates. I still can’t make out his face. The dog growls.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Qing jin.” Come in.
When I get inside, I feel a little better.
It’s another converted farmhouse with whitewashed walls, now covered in a combination of graffiti murals and posters. There’s a Western guy, not Jason, with a knit cap, a Plastered T-shirt, and a backpacker beard, sitting next to a lanky Chinese girl wearing embroidered bell-bottoms and a fake-fur jacket. There’s the Chinese guy who opened the door—glasses, shaggy hair, red Li-Ning soccer jersey. A couple of guitars and a beat-to-shit drum kit, a battered amp. Empty beer bottles on flimsy tables and the floor. Folding chairs. Fast-food containers. Overflowing ashtrays. A strong scent of pot.
It’s familiar, at least. I’ve been in a lot of rooms like this. And it’s generally worked out okay. Most of the time.
I put my phone back into my jacket pocket.
“Is Russell here?” I ask.
The Chinese guy nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
The Western guy takes a hit off a joint mixed with tobacco and coughs on the exhale. “Hey, Russell!” he yells. American. “You got someone here looking for you.”
The Chinese guy indicates a chair. “You can sit if you’d like.”
I sit.
The Chinese girl hangs out by the American guy, leaning against him, taking a hit off the spliff. The Chinese guy paces. His dog, which is some kind of yellow mutt with a curled tail, noses his leg, whines.
“Zou, zou, zou,” he mutters, grabbing the dog’s rope collar and hauling him toward the front door. “Go!” he says, one more time, and shoves the dog outside.
I sit there, my daypack on my lap, throat parched, wishing I had a beer. Or a Coke. Or something.
Mainly I wish that I was somewhere else. Like on a bamboo raft, floating down a river. Or in my hotel room. A train. Anyplace.
From across the room, Russell emerges from a dark doorway, beers in hand. “Hey, Ellie,” he says, teeth bared in an attempt at a grin. “You made it. Beer?”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
“This is Ellie,” Russell says to the others. “She’s a friend of David’s.” He turns to me. “Right?”
“A friend of his family,” I say, taking a long pull on the beer.
“Where is he anyway?” the American guy asks, his voice slurring. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Russell jerks his head, shoots the guy a look. “He’ll be here. I just talked to him.”
“Oh. Cool.” He mimes a drum pattern. “Be good to play a little.”
The Chin
ese guy paces in short, sharp angles. He’s amped. I can see from here that his pupils are dilated. Bingdu, amphetamines of some sort, I’m guessing.
“When’s he coming?” I ask.
“Few minutes, half hour,” Russell says with a shrug. “No worries, he’ll be here.”
The American guy stands up, wobbling, with the Chinese girl on his arm; goes over to the drum kit and almost falls onto the stool; picks up some sticks and tries to play in time to the music. The Chinese guy keeps pacing.
“Hey, is there a bathroom I can use?” I ask.
The Chinese guy stops pacing for a moment. He points at the door where Russell came in. “That way.”
I push myself to my feet with my Yangshou stick and limp back there.
The door leads outside. There’s a small cinder-block building that I’m guessing is an outhouse. I have a real flashlight in my daypack, one of those agro LED models I picked up at the Pearl Market. I get it out and turn it on so I can see what I’m doing.
Sure enough it’s a squat shitter, framed by grey brick. I go inside. Squat and pee, hoping I’ll be able to get up again, the pain in my leg like someone’s stabbing me in the thigh, over and over. Maybe Russell, with his shanzhai Ka-Bar.
While I’m doing this, the yellow dog slinks inside. I hear a low growl.
Great.
I use my Yangshuo stick to boost myself up, my jeans still puddling around my ankles, the dog showing its teeth and growling.
“Fuck, dog, come on!” I mutter. “Your boss invited me inside. Doesn’t that count for something?”
The dog sits back on its haunches. I can’t really see its eyes in the dark, but I think it’s watching me. I tug my jeans up over my ass.
Funny thing, the outhouse smells like shit, obviously, but that’s not all I’m smelling. I fumble the last button on my jeans and look around.
It seems pretty straightforward. Low ceiling. A latrine and a faucet that drains into an iron sink. I look behind me, aiming my phone to cast whatever dim light it can.
There’s a wall and a tiny window, like a vent. I’m not tall enough to see into it. But there’s a tin bucket by the faucet.
I grab it, turn it upside down, get my good leg on it and haul my ass up.
Hour of the Rat Page 20
