Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  “We threaten them because we’re telling the truth, and they can’t stand that. They don’t want people to know. They just want to keep poisoning the planet and counting their profits, and that’s all they give a shit about. Not about you, not about me, not about a bunch of farmers in China, or India, or the US. We’re fucking roadkill to them.”

  Jason’s rigid, tensed up, ready to fight. Now I see the passion that drove him into the mess he’s in. The kid I thought he was.

  And then he just deflates.

  He’s too young to look this exhausted. This defeated.

  Then I remember how I looked when I was his age.

  “Anyway, I can’t go home,” he says.

  “Yeah. I get that.”

  We sit and watch the farmer in the paddy below us, slogging through mud behind his water buffalo, against that backdrop of emerald hills covered with white flowers. I think I can smell them, the flowers, a hint of sweet in the sharp scent of pine.

  “He’s probably using a shitload of pesticides,” Jason says.

  “So why did you want to meet me?” I finally ask. “Is there something I can do? Something you want me to tell Doug?”

  He turns to me, frowning. “I didn’t ask you here,” he says. “I knew who you were because some friends of mine told me you were looking for me.”

  And now I’m getting that prickly feeling between my shoulders. Like someone’s got me in his sights.

  “I figured you were … I don’t know, maybe working for Eos,” he continues. “Working for somebody.” He shrugs. “I just don’t care anymore.”

  “I’m not,” I say, and I’m looking around, looking for Buzz Cut, looking for hajjis, for whoever might have followed me here.

  But there’s no one. It’s utterly quiet, except for the wind blowing through the leaves, like a faint shuffling of cards.

  “Listen,” I say, “someone spoofed your email address. Said you wanted a meeting with me, and that I’d know where to find you. I figured out where you were through your Langhai videos. And the way I got here, I don’t think anyone followed me. But …”

  I take another look around. At the silent plaza, at the cow skull on top of the pole. At the mountains, the mist, the fluttering white flags.

  “I don’t think you should stay here,” I say.

  “Fuck,” he says quietly.

  I expect him to … I don’t know, react. Freak out. Bolt, grab his stuff, and head out of town.

  He fingers his flute, like he’s going to start playing it. Then shrugs. “It’s not like I have a lot going on. I’m teaching the village kids some English. I’ll miss that.”

  “Sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “But if you’re trying to hide? Maybe this isn’t the best place.”

  “You think there’s a better one?” He’s looking out over the hills again. “Where can you hide anymore?”

  “Maybe some place that’s not in China, for a start. Or a place in China that’s bigger. A city, like Guangzhou, or Shanghai, where there’s a lot of foreigners and you won’t stand out.”

  “A city like Guangzhou or Shanghai’s the last place I want to be.” He turns back to me. “The way we’re going, who knows how much longer there’ll even be places like this left? I want to be in them while I can.”

  I get it. I stare out over the hills, at the cultivated wilderness, at the people living on this land who aren’t living that differently from how they did hundreds of years ago.

  Except they probably have Internet.

  “Okay. But at least get yourself as far away from Eos and Hongxing as you can. Away from here, or anyplace you posted as Langhai. And for fuck’s sake, delete those videos.”

  “No.”

  “No? Seriously?” I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, hard.

  “If they catch me, if that’s what I’m leaving behind, then I want them out there.” He manages a smile. Cute, almost cocky. “Maybe I’ll hop the Great Firewall and cross-post them to YouTube. Think I’ll get more hits?”

  Stubborn as Dog’s been about this whole mission? I’m thinking it runs in the family.

  Okay. If he wants to stay here, I’m not going to be able to talk him out of it. But I feel like, after everything that’s happened, I have to try to do something. Something positive. I don’t know what.

  “I’m going back to Beijing,” I finally say. “I’ll see if there’s something I can do to help.”

  He snorts. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, like …” I think, suddenly, of Moudzu and Peach Computers. Of Moudzu’s parents, who’d hoped I was a reporter.

  “I know some journalists back in BJ. I can talk to them. See if someone wants to do a story. It could be a big one.”

  “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” he says. The way he says it, I’m guessing he doesn’t think it’ll help.

  “In the meantime, seriously, get yourself someplace else. And set up another email address. Email me when you’re settled. Just don’t say who you are.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You’ll think of something. We’ll figure it out from there. How to get the evidence to me. Backups of the videos. Just in case you … decide to delete them or something.”

  In the distance I hear some of those crazy pipes, like I heard on the street in Kaili yesterday. Drums. And now high-pitched singing.

  “Festival tonight,” Jason says. “Why don’t you stick around?” He smiles, a little hesitantly. “You can tell me about Doug. You probably know a lot about him I don’t.”

  I shake my head. “I’d like to. But I’d better not. Stay, I mean.”

  Now I stand up, muscles between my shoulders twitching. I’m feeling like I’ve already stayed too long. Like someone’s coming for us.

  “Remember what I told you,” I say. “And … write me. Okay?”

  He nods.

  Who knows if he’s listened to anything I’ve said?

  Me, I’m getting the fuck out.

  I take one look over my shoulder as I reach the path that leads out of the plaza, into the village. See Jason sitting there, his back to me, his shoulders slumped, staring at the rice paddies below.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I WHITE-KNUCKLE IT ALL the way back to Beijing.

  I luck out and get a seat on a train that leaves Kaili at 1:30 in the morning. I don’t particularly care where it’s going, I just want out of here, and I don’t want to go back to Guiyang.

  As it turns out, the train goes all the way to Beijing, but it’s a thirty-two-hour ride.

  What I do is, I get off at Changsha instead, eleven hours later, just after noon. Go directly to the airport, which takes about an hour. I miss out on the flights that leave around 2:00 P.M. but manage one departing at 4:00 P.M. that gets me into Beijing just after 6:30 P.M.

  I don’t think the Eos guys have access to whatever system it is that my passport gets entered into when I buy a plane ticket. But even if they do, if they think I’ve been looking for Jason in Changsha, all the better.

  From the Capital Airport, I catch the express train that hooks up to the Beijing subway and transfer to the 2 Line. And from there it’s just a few stops to the Gulou station.

  As I ride up the escalator and emerge onto the familiar corner, see that goofy bronze statue of kids playing surrounded by half-dead bushes, I feel this rush of relief and affection that’s better than a drink.

  Home.

  I fumble for my keys, expecting my mom to open the beige metal door before I manage to open the second lock. But when I open the door, there’s no one home.

  No Mom. No dog. Just the hall light left on.

  I look around the kitchen and see a doggie water dish. An empty food bowl drying in the dish rack. There’s a bag of Iams kibble and cans of dog food in the pantry.

  So they’re just out someplace, I tell myself. She left the hall light on because she knew she’d be getting back after dark. It’s not even 8:00 P.M. yet.

  No need to get all f
reaked out over nothing.

  I TAKE A SHOWER. Change into a fresh T-shirt and pair of jeans. I’m wiped out, and what I really want to do is crash on the couch. Wait for my mom and the dog to come home. Hope that she doesn’t ask me too many questions about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, because no way I want to come anywhere close to having that conversation.

  Two things stop me from doing this. One of which is that I’m really hungry.

  I go to the dumpling place a couple blocks away on Jiu Gulou Dajie. Choose mutton with chives and spinach with eggs and wolf them down doused in vinegar, a little soy, garlic and hot chili. Wash it all down with a Yanjing beer. I’ll take this over Sidney Cao’s gourmet gorge-a-thons anytime.

  Well, except for maybe the wine. That shit’s pretty good.

  THERE AREN’T THAT MANY hutong neighborhoods left in Beijing, but most of them are still within the Second Ring Road, and there’s a bunch between the Drum and Bell Towers and the Lama Temple. I take the subway to the Lama Temple stop, get off, and head west.

  This area’s gotten popular the last couple of years. Not like Nanluoguxiang, all tourist bars and Tshirts and Maomorabilia, not quite yet. There are a number of restaurants and bars, though, some with live music, some with wine, and a couple of weird dives. I’m heading for one of those. It’s on a little alley southwest of the temple, a shoe-box-size place that’s painted matte black, the walls graffiti-scrawled with fluorescent markers. They have strong infused cocktails stored in glass jugs and good imported beer. Also free wireless.

  Even with the VPN, I don’t feel comfortable doing what I’m about to do in my own apartment. Not after everything that happened. Not when I have no idea who’s watching me.

  I sit in the darkest corner at the rough plank table, boot up my laptop, and log on to the Great Community.

  It’s night there, too.

  I’m not sure what’s going on as I wander through the square. Floating signs for an art show. A bigger one for a rave. The SexChat Club is lit up, individual bobbing lights representing the number of avatars who’ve signed in.

  The corn statue, the one Sea Horse was building … how many weeks ago? It’s still there, but it’s changed. The giant ears of corn have rotted, black gaps among the kernels, some kernels swelled up to the point of bursting, like tumors. There are more dead bees lying belly-up around the corn. A few of them have shriveled, like they’ve been dead for a long time. The only thing that’s the same is the baby. Rosy-cheeked and chubby. Bearing a basket of rotting, poisoned corn.

  I head to my house. As always, the three-legged dog runs toward me, barks, and wags its tail. The orange cat sleeping on the stoop wakes up and purrs.

  Funny. I have a real dog now. Maybe I should get a cat. Kang Li has a few to spare.

  While my avatar sits on the couch and waits, I order another beer.

  Finally, when I’m about ready to pack it in and head home, Monastery Pig—Lao Zhang—knocks on my virtual door.

  NI HAO, he types. HAO JIU BUJIAN. Long time no see.

  SORRY, I type. BUSINESS HAS BEEN A LITTLE COMPLICATED.

  Lao Zhang’s avatar sits on the couch next to me.

  Where to start?

  I MET A BILLIONAIRE WHO WANTS TO BUY SOME OF YOUR WORK, I type, but that’s as far as I get before Lao Zhang drops the bomb.

  I’M COMING BACK TO BEIJING, he says.

  YOU CAN’T, I tell him. THERE’S NO POINT. THINGS ARE BAD HERE NOW. THE GOVERNMENT’S SCARED. ESPECIALLY WITH THE LEADERSHIP CHANGES COMING UP NEXT YEAR. ANYBODY THAT WORRIES THEM, EVEN A LITTLE, THEY’RE HASSLING. THEY’RE ARRESTING ARTISTS.

  I type that bit in caps, hoping he’ll get it.

  I UNDERSTAND. BUT I HAVE NOT DONE ANYTHING WRONG.

  AND YOU KNOW THAT DOESN’T MATTER!

  IT WASN’T RIGHT FOR ME TO PUT YOU IN THE PLACE I DID. WHERE THEY ARE COMING AFTER YOU INSTEAD OF ME. I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D HAVE THESE PROBLEMS. I THINK MAYBE THINGS ARE NOT GREAT, BUT THEY WILL NOT BOTHER FOREIGNERS THIS WAY. I WAS WRONG.

  NOT TOTALLY WRONG. THEY AREN’T GOING TO ARREST ME. I—

  I stop there. Because what I’m about to type is that I have a friend in the DSD. Creepy John. Who wants to protect me. And there is no way I want to get into that whole situation right now.

  ANYWAY, MAYBE WE CAN SETTLE THE PROBLEMS IF I COME BACK.

  ARE YOU CRAZY? THEY’RE GOING TO WANT TO KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN. WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING. THEY’RE GOING TO SAY YOU LEFT THE COUNTRY ILLEGALLY. THAT YOU’RE WORKING WITH FOREIGNERS. THAT YOU’RE A SPY. I MEAN, WHO KNOWS?

  MAYBE I HAVE NOT LEFT CHINA. MAYBE I HAVE AN EXPLANATION. I AM JUST WORKING SOMEPLACE. IN THE COUNTRY. LIKE TAOIST MONK LIVING IN CAVE TO WRITE POEMS. I DON’T KNOW ABOUT PROBLEM. NOW I DO. SO I COME HOME TO FIX.

  THEY’LL PUT YOU IN JAIL. IN A BLACK JAIL. OR WORSE. DON’T DO IT.

  ALREADY DECIDED. His avatar stands up. SEE YOU SOON.

  Fucking great.

  I SIT THERE AND have another beer and a shot of one of the infusion things, something involving vodka and ginseng. Thinking about all the times I was missing Lao Zhang and wishing he were here. And now all I can think about is how much I’d rather he stayed away.

  Not because of Creepy John, I tell myself. Because it’s not safe.

  I DECIDE TO WALK home. Get in some PT. Maybe clear my head a little. Hah, I think. With the shit that’s going on, not much chance of that.

  It’s chilly out, but not too bad. I’m okay with my knit hat and my collar turned up, and the cold hitting my face is like a shot of espresso. Not that I really want to sober up. Lao Zhang coming back … I can’t even start to figure out what that’s going to mean. Or how I feel about it. Or what the consequences will be.

  It’s 12:30 A.M, the Hour of the Rat in Chinese astrology. Maybe that’s why I like this time of night, me being a Rat and all.

  I keep heading west, down the dark alleys just south of the Second Ring Road. It’s quiet here, and I need that right now. When I get to Beiluoguxiang, I’ll go down to Gulou Dong Dajie, the main street that leads back to Old Drum Tower Road. There used to be a hutong route all the way across, but the military complex they put in the center of the quarter ruined that. I wonder if they did it on purpose, putting a butt-ugly reminder of who holds the power in the middle of this little piece of old Beijing, with its hipster bars and rock clubs and funky galleries and boutiques.

  I turn onto Beiluoguxiang. You’d think with the way Nanluoguxiang’s gone from cool to trendy to commercial that the northern end of the street would be hipper by now, but it’s not. A lot of the little grey buildings are empty, shuttered. Dark. Like this one. Old flyers for an “Evolution Rave” flaking off the painted-over windows, but there’s no music now. No sign of life.

  I hear something—a skittering on the pavement to my left. I look. I swear I see the hindquarters and tail of a rat, disappearing up the alley, into a crack in a grey wall.

  Then a heavy step behind me and a man’s chuckle.

  “You just make it too easy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  HE’S GOT ONE ARM wrapped around my neck. His other hand grips my wrist, and he twists my arm up against my back so hard that it feels like my shoulder’s going to pop out of its socket.

  “You scream, I’ll break it,” he says.

  I’m thinking I should scream anyway. Because I recognize his voice. Buzz Cut. And then Carter steps into my line of sight.

  But there’s no one around that I can see. And if there were, would anyone help?

  I think about the self-defense stuff I learned. It worked against Russell. But against this guy? And Carter?

  Fucking Carter. Seeing him is like a punch in the gut.

  “You took the bait,” Buzz Cut says in my ear. “You saw him, I know you did. And this time you’re gonna tell me where he is.”

  “Or what?” I manage.

  He gives my wrist an extra twist. The surge of pain almost knocks me off my feet. Except of course this asshole
is holding me up.

  “We’ll think of something. Carter, give me a hand.”

  Carter steps out of the shadows. It’s too dark for me to see his face. I lash out with my foot, kick Buzz Cut in the shin, try to stomp on his foot, but he tightens the arm around my throat, lifts me up so my toes just brush the ground, and I can’t breathe. I land a slap to his crotch, not hard enough to take him out, but enough so that he grunts and jerks forward and my feet are back on the ground. I see Carter at Buzz Cut’s side, and I think he’s going to grab me, but instead he smacks Buzz Cut on the shoulder.

  “What the fuck?” Buzz Cut yells. The arm around my neck loosens. “You son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Carter mutters.

  I take in a few gulping breaths. The hand clutching my wrist releases. I stumble away.

  “You’re fucking dead,” Buzz Cut says, slurring the words.

  I turn. See him stagger backward, fall against the grey brick wall of the abandoned club. “I’m gonna …” he stutters. “I … fuck …”

  His knees buckle, and he collapses, landing hard on the dirty concrete.

  “Jesus, Doc,” Carter says, and I don’t need to see his face to know how pissed off he is. “I told you these guys are assholes. Couldn’t you have just dropped it, like I said?”

  “I … I was going to.” I look down at Buzz Cut. He’s not moving. He’s still breathing, though. I think. “What did you …?”

  Carter turns his palm up. He’s holding something, a dark tube the size of a large-caliber bullet or a small cigar.

  “What …? Why …?”

  He shrugs. “I tried to play Let’s Make a Deal. I thought we had one. He said he just wanted to talk to you. But I know this guy, and like I said, he’s an asshole. So I figured I’d better make sure.” He nudges Buzz Cut with the toe of his sneaker. Buzz Cut mumbles something and curls up like a cat trying to take a nap.

  “They had guys staking out your apartment,” he continues. “So as soon as you came back into the frame, we were on you.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck, Doc. You have to go wandering down dark alleys half drunk in the middle of the night?”