Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  I find the baggy drawstring pants I’ve been using for pajamas and a cleanish T-shirt, the one from the Mati Village coffeehouse I used to like, with Lei Feng holding a steaming mug of coffee. I change in the bathroom. The pressure bandage I’ve had wrapped around my leg lies on the floor in the corner. It reminds me of a shed snakeskin, like I used to see sometimes when I was a kid and I’d ride my bike out in the desert. I pick the bandage up, but I don’t try to put it back on. My leg feels a lot better, I tell myself. Instead I roll it up neatly as I can and put it on the shelf where the towels are stacked.

  When I come out of the bathroom, John has the food laid out on the little table pressed up against the window overlooking the lake. Dumplings and some green vegetables. Vinegar peanuts. And a couple bottles of Dali Beer.

  “Looks great,” I say.

  “I have this for the dog,” John says. He holds up a bag of Iams kibble and a leash and collar.

  “That’s really nice of you.” I don’t know what else to say.

  HE RIPS OPEN THE dog food and pours some onto the empty sack that had carried our dinner. The dog digs in, seeming to like this better than the ethereal-flavor beef, or maybe she’s just feeling better than she was. “She probably needs some water,” I say. John frowns. It’s like he’d thought of everything but he hadn’t thought of that, and it bugs him.

  Finally he grabs one of the hotel teacups and fills it with water. “Not so good,” he says. “I find something better later.”

  After that we both sit down at the little table.

  I eat a couple dumplings. Drink some beer.

  “So the … the thing in Dali,” I say.

  John shrugs. “I take care of it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I tell the PSB they make a mistake. That you have nothing to do with these guys.”

  “Oh, yeah? So it’s over? I don’t have anything to worry about? Or are you gonna keep this in one of your files, just in case you need me to do something? Help you find Lao Zhang, maybe? Or fuck over some other artist who says things you don’t like?”

  A muscle in John’s cheek twitches.

  “This problem you have in Dali is just a local thing,” he says. He sounds calm. Cold, almost. “It did not go any further than here. And it is gone now. You want to go back to Dali, to Lijiang, to anyplace around here, you can. The local PSB understands now you are a friend to China. You won’t have any troubles.”

  I really don’t know what to say to that. I drink my beer. John pours me more and then refills his own glass. Downs it and opens another bottle.

  “Why are you doing all this?” I finally ask.

  He puts the bottle down. “Because we are friends.”

  The way he looks at me—steady, serious, not putting on one of his confused, clueless acts—I almost believe him.

  WE FINISH EATING. THEN we drink the rest of the beer. It’s not until we’re on the last bottle that I start thinking about the other times I’ve drunk beer with John.

  Both times turned out pretty weird.

  “Are you tired, Yili?” he asks, watching me.

  “A little.”

  He stands. Tidies up the take-out containers and the paper plates, stuffing them in the plastic bag and tying the bag shut.

  I look around, at the big room, the king-size bed. And I think, What the fuck? Are we going to be sharing this bed?

  My heart starts to pound, and I’m not sure why. Because yeah, he’s creepy, but he’s also pretty good-looking.

  I stand up, too, bracing myself on the table.

  John tosses the bag in the trash.

  “I, uh … I need to give the dog her antibiotic,” I say.

  He nods. “I will let you sleep.”

  With that he slings his black duffel over his shoulder and heads to the door. So I guess he has his own room. I follow. You know, to be polite.

  He pauses by the door. “Tomorrow … I can take you someplace. Wherever you need to go. If you like.”

  “Thanks. I …” The truth is, I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do tomorrow. “Anyway, thanks. For … you know. Helping me with the dog.”

  We’re standing pretty close together, but I still don’t exactly expect it when John leans over and kisses me.

  He does it fast, presses his lips against mine and then draws back. Like he’s nervous. The clueless, slightly awkward guy I met at that party a year ago.

  I don’t know why, but it pisses me off.

  “That the best you can do?”

  His face darkens. He takes a step closer; we’re standing toe-to-toe. And then he kisses me for real, his body up against mine, my tits against his hard chest, his one hand tangling in my hair, the other running down my back till it cups my ass.

  And yeah, I guess this is what I wanted.

  I WANT THE LIGHTS out, but he wants one turned down low. “Because you are beautiful,” he says softly, “and I want to look at you.”

  “I’m not.” Hearing him say that makes me get teary, which is stupid, and I know it. But I’m a mess. I don’t like looking at myself, especially my leg. Why would anyone else want to look at me, unless he’s some kind of freak?

  “You are wrong,” he says. “And I can prove it to you.”

  We’re lying on the bed, and he rocks back, resting on his calves and heels. His dick is standing at attention, like a good little soldier. Not the biggest one I’ve ever seen, but it’s nice. Trim and hard, like the rest of him. I like the neat black hair around it, too. I reach my hand out.

  “No, Yili,” he says.

  “No?”

  He stretches out next to me, his face close to mine. “You know about Dao?”

  “Taoism?”

  “Yes.”

  His fingers start tracing light patterns all over me, from the crease of my jaw down to the hollow of my neck, onto my nipple, along my ribs, and it’s making me crazy.

  “I … uh, just, ren fa di, di fa tian, tian fa …” It’s this Taoist rhyme I learned in Chinese class.

  “Tian fa dao,” John supplies. “Dao fa ziran.”

  Man follows Earth, Earth follows Heaven, Heaven follows the Way, the Way follows Nature.

  “Yeah. That,” I manage.

  “You know what Taoists believe?”

  “Uh …”

  “Taoists believe that man is yang. Man must preserve essence.”

  “Essence?”

  “You know,” he whispers.

  I can guess.

  “Women, women are yin. Men only have so much yang essence. But women, women have always their yin. In this way women are stronger than men.”

  His hand moves lower, and I am not feeling strong.

  “Taoist say it’s very good for man to … to get yin from woman. But she only release yin if he pleases her. So he should be inside her as long as he can. And please her many times.”

  “Are you a Taoist?” I ask.

  He grins. “I practice.”

  AT ONE POINT THE dog starts whining and comes over to the bed. “It’s okay, dog,” I tell her, but she keeps whining. Maybe she only understands Chinese. “Uh, dou hao. Xiuxi! Shuijiao!” Finally she settles down again. Which is good, because John does not seem to be settling down anytime soon.

  He gets my yin once, twice, and it’s not until we’re trying something called “Mating Cicadas” (it’s a lot better than it sounds) and a third dose of my yin that John’s jade stalk gives it up inside my red pearl.

  “Wow,” I finally say.

  “I can do better,” he tells me.

  I MANAGE TO GET out of bed, clean myself up, put my pj’s back on, because even though John’s seen pretty much all there is to see of me, I still don’t like being seen. The dog’s lying on a rug near the bathroom. When she sees me approach, she looks up and thumps her tail. “Good dog,” I whisper. “Hao gou.” I hold out my hand, and her wet nose nuzzles my palm.

  By the time I get back to bed, John is sound asleep. I settle in next to him.


  I lie there, exhausted, but not quite ready to sleep.

  I just had the best sex of my life, with Creepy John.

  And he doesn’t even snore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I WAKE UP BECAUSE the dog barks.

  I lift my head, and I see John and the dog by the door. He has the dog on the leash, and the dog is doing this excited hopping and circling, from her back to her front legs. She barks again. A happy bark.

  “Sorry!” John says in a low voice. “I just take her outside. For walk. I already give her antibiotic,” he adds.

  “Thanks.”

  After he closes the door, I fall back on the bed. I’m so sore I feel like I’ve been to fucking Taoist boot camp. Or Taoist fucking boot camp. Ha-ha.

  I lie there for a while, but I can’t sleep. I think, John will come back soon. Do I want to be lying here in bed when he does? For another round of yin exchange?

  I haul my ass out of bed and into the shower.

  As I stand under the water, I think of all the reasons why sex with Creepy John was a truly bad idea.

  Okay, I’m not completely irresponsible. I know I have this tendency to occasionally hook up with guys I don’t know very well. So I’m on the pill. And I also insist on condoms.

  Well, most of the time. Last night being an exception.

  I’ve had the hepatitis B vaccination series, so that’s good. There’s a lot of hep B in China. HIV, though … and there’s a lot of HIV here, too.

  He’s with the DSD. He’s not going to have HIV. I don’t think.

  And, he’s with the DSD. Which I am pretty sure is one for the “truly bad idea” category.

  On the other hand, it’s slightly less creepy than if he were just some crazed stalker dude. Right?

  How can you be so fucking stupid? I ask myself.

  By the time I come out of the shower, pressure bandage rewrapped, dressed in my jeans and a fresh T-shirt, John has returned with the dog.

  “Breakfast,” he announces.

  Croissants and coffee. On a tray. Un-fucking-believable. “They have all this at the hotel,” he explains, setting it up on the little table. “From European bakery. And very good coffee.”

  “You like coffee?”

  “Before, not very much. But lately I like more and more.” He smiles at me.

  The dog, meanwhile, nuzzles my legs and then sits on my feet.

  “She is very affectionate,” John says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Please, sit. Have coffee.”

  I feel this sudden rush of … maybe not anger, but irritation. I don’t want to do anything that John tells me to do.

  Except I really want some coffee. And maybe a Percocet.

  Is it too early for beer?

  I lower myself onto the chair and pick up the cup of coffee. I read somewhere that a study in Japan showed that rats get happier just from smelling coffee. I take a deep breath before I sip.

  John sits across from me, holding his coffee cup in his hands. He looks younger somehow. Boyish. A bounce in his step like the dog’s.

  Maybe it was all that yin he got last night.

  “So where do you want to go now, Yili?”

  I shrug. I don’t really know, and I don’t feel like talking about it.

  John tears off a piece of his croissant. Hesitates.

  “If you tell me a little more, maybe I can help.”

  “Look, just fucking lay off me, all right?”

  He sits back in his chair. I’m not sure how to read the expression on his face. Is he pissed off? Is he hurt? I can’t tell.

  “Okay, last night? You satisfied your curiosity,” I say. “Fine. So did I. But you think that means we’re suddenly all friends and I’m going to trust you? How stupid do you think I am?”

  Now he’s angry, and I can tell. He slams his mug on the table, coffee splashing over the sides. “What do you think this is, Ellie? What do you think?”

  We stare at each other. I focus on the white scar that cuts across his eyebrow.

  I want to say something awful, something nasty, something so mean that he’ll fuck off and out of my life forever.

  But I can’t.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  AFTER BREAKFAST WE TAKE a walk: me, John, and the dog. We walk on the brick path that runs along the lake—a promenade, I guess you’d call it. There’s one of those grey stone “traditional” fences to keep you from falling in, like you see everywhere in China: square posts with flowers carved at the top, a rail and a slab below, with geometric cutouts. It’s beautiful, and quiet, and we don’t fill the silence by trying to talk. What’s there to say?

  But finally I have to say something. I guess I owe him, given that he got me off of the Dali’s Most Wanted Foreigners list.

  Unless he was the one who set me up …

  But no. I don’t really think that. I don’t know how I feel about John, exactly. But I don’t think he’d do that to me.

  “I’m just doing a favor for a friend, that’s all. I didn’t think it was going to get complicated.”

  He frowns. “Complicated how?”

  “I’m still not sure. But it’s not like … I mean, it’s just a bunch of foreigners, mostly. Nobody’s doing anything against China.”

  Of course, neither were my artist friends, last year. But they were Chinese, and it’s not the same.

  “Why don’t you want me to help you, Ellie?”

  The question drops in the air like a stone.

  “Just … It’s something I should do myself, that’s all.”

  “Why?” He sounds more frustrated than angry. “Why you have to do everything by yourself?”

  I stop walking. I don’t know why. I lean against the stone railing and look at the lake. Wonder if the white bird is out there somewhere.

  “I guess because I can’t find anyone to do it with me. No one I can trust anyway.”

  I have to give him credit. He doesn’t say some stupid bullshit like, “But you can trust me.” He doesn’t say anything at all.

  The dog whimpers a little and settles on my feet. I scratch behind her ears. I’m not really sure what dogs like, but she likes that.

  Eventually the three of us start walking again.

  “If you want to stay in this room some more time, you can,” he tells me.

  “Thanks.”

  We stand inside the hotel room: me, John, and the dog. The room’s been cleaned. The bed made. Fresh sheets.

  “I go back to Beijing, then,” John says. He hesitates. “I think you are just on vacation. If anyone asks me.”

  I look at him standing there, head tilted down, hands hooked in the pockets of his jeans like a sheepish kid.

  “There’s something you could do for me,” I say. “I mean, you don’t have to. Just if you want. And if you don’t want to, if it’s too much trouble …”

  “Tell me,” he says.

  I don’t want to say it. Because it’s like I’m attached and I don’t want to give her up.

  “The dog. Can you take her back to Beijing? Make sure she gets her medicine? You can take her to my apartment, to my mom. Just let my mom know what she needs to do. To take care of her.”

  I swear it’s like the fucking dog is psychic. She looks up at me. Her eyes are big and gold. She thumps her tail.

  “Sure,” John says. “Sure. I can do that.”

  “And you won’t … you won’t sell her for hotpot in Guangzhou. Right?”

  John draws back. He looks offended. “Of course not.” He holds his hand out, so the dog can sniff it. “The tradition of eating dogs is old-fashioned and uncivilized. China needs to abandon this, as part of modernization.”

  “And cats?”

  “Certainly we should not eat cats. They do not even taste good.”

  THE DOG CLIMBS INTO John’s silver Toyota without much fuss and curls up on the backseat.

  “Be good, dog,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand English. “I’ll s
ee you soon, okay?”

  She nuzzles my hand, thumps her tail.

  John stands by the open door of the driver’s side, hands clasped in front of him, like he doesn’t know what do with them. “Don’t worry. I will take good care of her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you have any troubles, call me.”

  “I will.”

  We stand there for a moment. Then he nods, gets into the car, and starts the engine.

  Who is this guy? I still can’t figure him out.

  I watch the car pull away, hear the dog whine and bark once, twice. Then the car turns down a narrow lane, and I can’t see it anymore.

  Now what?

  I GO BACK INSIDE the hotel room and look around. It’s a nice room. Nicer than the places I usually stay. Maybe I’ll take John up on his offer. Stay here a few days longer.

  And do what?

  I made a big deal to John about how I had this thing I needed to do, something I had to do by myself, without him. How I had to help a friend.

  But what can I actually do about it?

  I make a mental list.

  I can go back to the Dali Perfect Inn, see if they have any contact info for Jason/David/Langhai. I can search the Web to see if he’s uploaded any new videos. And I can go to New Dali and check out the Modern Scientific Seed Company.

  I fall back on the bed with a sigh. I really don’t feel like doing any of this, except for maybe the Internet search, because I don’t have to go anywhere to do that. But after getting on my high horse and telling John I was on this big fucking mission …

  I guess I have to try.

  I make myself a cup of Starbucks VIA and boot up my battered laptop. Go to Langhai’s stream on Youku.

  And fuck me if there isn’t a new video.

  I settle back in my chair, heart thumping, fingers twitching, and I grin, because I’ve been hunting this guy and here’s a trail of bread crumbs. I click on the video.

  Another field of grain, manipulated so the sky is dark and the grain glowing yellow, outlined in black.

  “The Truth About Eos in China,” the title says. In English.

  “This is what you need to know,” a man says. American. He sounds young. Ragged, on the edge of exhaustion.

  Jason?

  “Eos has a joint venture with Hongxing Agricultural Products. They’re working on developing GMOs for the Chinese market. Especially rice.”