Dragon Day

by Lisa Brackmann

  “Sure. Great. Looking forward to it.”

  Shit.

  I flop down on the bed, my laptop balanced on my pelvis, wondering if it’s too early for beer.

  It’s 10:45 A.M. That’s too early.

  Out in the kitchen, I hear the scrape and squeak of the steel door opening and Mimi’s toenails skittering and dancing on the vinyl kitchen floor, along with an excited little “Woof!”

  Must be my mom.

  “Well, hello, Mimi! Are you a good dog? Are you a good dog?” Now Mimi’s nails are clicking on the floor like a flamenco dancer. Of course she loves my mom, who always gives her scraps from the taco projects.

  I lie there a moment longer with my arm over my eyes. I’m so not ready, not for any of this.

  But my door’s open, so my mom pokes her head in. She’s wearing one of her Christian T-shirts, one that says HOT MESS WITHOUT JESUS.

  “Hi, hon,” she says. “You want some breakfast?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Late night?” She smiles.

  I have to push down the rush of anger. I don’t know whether she thinks I was out having fun or what, but it’s none of her fucking business, and anyway, it wasn’t fun.

  “Yeah, kind of.” I’m not a great actor, but I’ve gotten better at faking things the last few years. Mostly by shutting up and nodding a lot.

  Lucky for me, sometimes my mom is pretty oblivious. Or she’s acting, too. Tell you the truth, I’m not really sure anymore.

  “Andy and I were thinking about driving out to Miyun in a little bit. Do you want to come? The weather’s supposed to be nice today, and the air’s better out there.”

  She’s looking at me with that same look Mimi gives me sometimes, the liquid eyes asking for something, some kindness, maybe.

  Or a treat.

  I’m such a shit.

  “I’d like to,” I say. “I’ve got some stuff I gotta do. Maybe if things don’t get too busy.”

  “Okay. Just let me know. We have some time.” She turns to go, then stops. “You sure you don’t want some eggs? I have pork belly.”

  “That sounds good,” I finally say. “Thanks.”

  After she leaves, I lie there a few more minutes. I tell myself I need to get up. To do something. But what?

  I can’t sell Lao Zhang’s artwork right now, given this whole DSD situation. They’re already looking at him for “economic crimes,” tax evasion, something like that—whatever they can use to make a case—and Harrison thinks we’ll only compound the problem by continuing to sell his work. Or anyone else’s work, for that matter. Because even if it’s all about getting Lao Zhang, I’m the one whose name is on the paperwork as “Director of Operations.”

  If I can’t sell any artwork, I’m not going to be able to afford this apartment much longer. My craptastic disability payment doesn’t come close to covering it. And my lease is up in a month. If they raise the rent on me …

  There are other jobs I can get, I tell myself. I used to be a bartender. I could do that again. Or, given Harrison’s new coffee project, maybe I could be a barista.

  That is, if I don’t get arrested.

  Why am I staying in this country again?

  Because there’s nothing left for me back in the States. No job for me to do. No future that I can see.

  Because for all the enemies I have here, I have plenty there, too.

  I finally sit up.

  Sure, I’ll have some breakfast. Maybe I’ll even go to Miyun with Mom and Andy. It would be good for Mimi to get some exercise, to breath some semi-fresh air.

  Good for me, too.

  Instead what happens is this: First, my phone rings again. “Pressure Drop” by Toots and the Maytals. The ringtone I use for Vicky Huang.

  “Tonight you can go to meet Meimei,” she tells me.

  “I can?”

  “Yes. At seven P.M. For dinner. She is in Beijing today. She has favorite place. I send directions.”

  “Okay,” I say, figuring it’s pointless to argue.

  “Expensive.” Vicky nearly hisses the word. “Wear nice things.”

  I glance over at the pile of smoke-soaked clothes on my chair. “Will do.”

  I fall back onto the bed again. I guess this means I probably don’t have time for an outing to Miyun with Mom and Andy. Which on the one hand is a relief.

  On the other I kind of wanted to do it. For the clean air and all.

  The next thing that happens is I hear the chime that tells me I have incoming email.

  Honestly, I don’t even want to sit up again. Because it’s probably junk mail, or if it’s relating to the art business, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.

  But I do sit up, because I figure I should take one of my fancy shirts to the laundry and see if they can have it ready for me in time for this fancy dinner with another one of Sidney’s insane children. I mean, I have to figure she’s insane, based on my experiences with the family so far.

  Whatever. As long as she pays the tab.

  I’m not expecting the email that’s landed in my inbox.

  “You Cannot Miss This!”

  My heart starts to thud, before I even take it all in.

  “This is our Pick of the Year! We don’t see this slowing down! We know many of you like momentum!”

  Spam, you’d think, right? For some bullshit phony stock. But I’ve gotten this email before. It’s a signal, and I know what it means.

  “What do you think?”

  My mom hovers near the table, clasping her hands in that way she does when she’s nervous.

  “Really good.”

  She’s made these spicy eggs with bits of pork belly, chives, and her homemade pico de gallo, stuffed into something that’s a cross between a flatbread like you’d find in Xi’an and a thick corn tortilla.

  I’m not lying. In spite of the fact that the last thing on my mind right now is eating, I actually have to stop and savor what she’s made, because it’s delicious.

  “I wish I could find more avocado,” she says. “It would be good with some avocado, don’t you think?”

  “Everything’s good with avocado.” I shovel more into my mouth.

  “It’s not exactly Mexican food, but it’s better than most of what I’ve had here. I don’t understand why you can’t find good tacos. I think Chinese people would like tacos. Andy likes them.”

  “Mmm.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. I need to get going. “So I can’t go to Miyun with you guys. Something’s come up. A meeting.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Yeah, well, you know. Artists,” I mumble, and I push the rest of the eggs onto my fork with the last piece of flatbread.

  “Oh well, I understand.”

  “Thing is …” I look up. She’s still standing there with her hands clasped, like she hasn’t moved. I can feel my cheeks reddening, and I’m not sure why. “Can you take Mimi with you? You know, so she can get some fresh air?”

  I mean, why should I be embarrassed? Mom and Andy love that dog.

  “Sure, we could do that.” She frowns a little. “There really aren’t a lot of places for dogs in Beijing, are there? You’d think with all the dogs here, they’d have a dog park or two.”

  “Yeah, well, the whole pet thing is pretty new. Lots of places in China, they still think of dogs as taco stuffing.”

  My mom shudders. “I don’t know,” she mutters. “I really do like it here, but … there’re some things I just can’t get used to.”

  I shrug. I could say the same thing about anywhere.

  I take the subway to the Yonghegong stop and find a coffeehouse south of the Lama Temple, past the gilt-embellished peaked roofs that rise above the red-washed walls. Typical coffee place—menu drawn with multicolored chalk on a blackboard, scarred wood tables, mismatched chairs, curling black-and-white photos of old Beijing and Red Guards stuck up on burlap walls with thumbtacks. The brewed
coffee here sucks, so I order an Americano. Get out my new MacBook Air, launch my virtual private network, and open a browser.

  The spam stock email was a signal from Lao Zhang, telling me to log on to the Great Community.

  No network is safe. Anything on your computer or on the Internet can be accessed. Hacked. I know that. But I at least don’t want to make it easy.

  I copy the string of numbers from the bottom of the email that look like random computer gibberish, place it into my browser’s address bar, put periods in the right places, and hit ENTER.

  And find myself on the “Welcome” page of the Great Community.

  On a beach, where choppy grey waves crash against the sand, an animation that looks like it was done in brushstrokes. A three-legged dog that barks at an incoming wave. The giant Mao statue, which before was faded and half buried in sand, looks even more battered now, encrusted in barnacles that have climbed up to the top button of its tunic. It’s about to fall over, propped up by the outstretched arm holding a Little Red Book. Farther up the beach, one of the Twin Towers has toppled. The other one sways in the pixel breeze.

  It’s a virtual community, a secure environment that Lao Zhang created after he disappeared from Beijing last year, where he could make art, where it was safe to hang out and chat. I don’t know who hosts it, where the servers are, who’s paying for it. Better not to know, right?

  At first it was just for the two of us—at least that’s what he told me—but I don’t know if that’s really true. Other people showed up pretty quickly. Other artists and musicians and writers. He kept adding to the place, and so did the newbies, until there was a whole virtual village, with galleries, houses, nightclubs, stores, bizarre sculptures, performance pieces. A safe place to say what you wanted, be who you wanted.

  Funny thing is, I never spent all that much time here, especially after it got busy. I never even gave my avatar a cool outfit. Just the same jeans and white T-shirt she was created with. There wasn’t all that much for me to do here, other than chat with Lao Zhang. Some of the concerts were okay, and some of the art, but I wasn’t making any art. Wasn’t playing any music. The Great Community was just another place where I stood around and watched other people do stuff.

  I figure I’ll take the path along the cliffs that leads directly to my house. Usually the three-legged dog runs ahead, stopping now and again to wag its tail and bark, until I catch up.

  This time the dog does something different. It turns inland, on a different path, the one that leads to the town square.

  The last time I was here, there was lots of stuff going on. All kinds of avatars, text boxes popping up faster than I could read them. A poetry reading by a fountain that spouted multicolored sprays of gems, butterflies, stars. A couple of dinosaurs lumbering through the plaza. Who knows why?

  Today it’s empty. Hardly anyone here. The fountain is motionless, a pool of standing water. A lone avatar dressed in a samurai outfit stands by a building that looks like a cross between a cathedral and a rocket ship. As I pass, the building suddenly pixelates. Then vanishes. Just like that. Deleted.

  The samurai avatar stands there for a moment longer. Then he, too, disappears. Pop. Gone.

  I shudder. The real me, I mean. My avatar continues to trot through the deserted town, following the three-legged dog to the path that leads to my house.

  The house looks the same.

  Same stone house, same wooden deck, same pine trees around it. The orange cat sleeps in a spot of sun by the front door. Purrs when I cross the threshold.

  Same as always.

  I go inside. The lights come up as usual. I sit my avatar down on the couch facing the wall-size window that looks out over the animated beach.

  There’s no time for even the giant goldfish animation before the knock at my door—this script has sound, two hard raps on hollow wood.

  I click on the door to open it.

  In the Great Community, he’s called Monastery Pig. My friend, Lao Zhang.

  YILI, NI HAO, appears in a text box above his head.

  Like me, he never did anything fancy with his avatar. Just cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, and a beanie skullcap—the hat changes, from time to time. I’ve seen him in baseball hats, Mao caps, even in a cowboy hat once. But today it’s the beanie.

  NI HAO, I type back.

  His avatar hovers by the couch.

  QING ZUO, I say. Please sit.

  He does.

  It’s weird, you know? It’s like we’re sitting next to each other on a real couch and I’m watching the whole thing outside my own body. Staring at a screen. And I know that he’s somewhere—who knows where?—staring at a screen, too.

  WHAT’S GOING ON HERE? I finally ask.

  I’M COMING TO BEIJING. IN A WEEK OR SO.

  WHY?

  Truth is, I already know why. Or at least what he told me. He said he felt bad about the position he’d put me in.

  IT IS JUST TIME.

  YOU SHOULDN’T, I say. IT’S NOT A GOOD IDEA. ANYWAY, I’M FINE.

  I NEED TO, he says. TIME TO FINISH THE PIECE.

  WHAT PIECE?

  THE PERFORMANCE PIECE. THE BIG ONE. MADE UP FROM ALL THE LITTLE PIECES. THE WHOLE CYCLE.

  WHAT THE FUCK?! I type.

  I mean, I know Lao Zhang used to do performance art. Painting himself red and strumming a ukulele on top of the Drum Tower, singing the chorus to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Steering a little boat through the Houhai lake with a statue of Chairman Mao in the prow. Whatever it meant. I wasn’t always sure.

  This time I don’t have to know what the new piece is about to know that it scares me.

  DON’T DO IT, I type, pounding the keys. JUST DON’T. IT’S NOT WORTH IT.

  OF COURSE IT IS.

  We sit there in silence for a minute.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE? I type. WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY ARE THINGS DISAPPEARING?

  I TOLD THEM THEY SHOULD GO. IF THEY BUILD IT, THEY SHOULD DECIDE WHETHER TO DELETE IT OR LEAVE IT.

  BUT WHY SHOULD THEY GO?

  BECAUSE MAYBE THIS IS NOT SAFE PLACE ANYMORE. OR WON’T BE SOON.

  Like after you get yourself arrested for some dumb-ass performance art? I want to scream.

  But I can’t scream. I can only type it with the CAPS LOCK on.

  A series of laughing emoticons appears in Lao Zhang’s text bubble.

  I PROMISE IT WILL NOT BE DUMB-ASS, he says.

  Finally I have to ask it. Even though I kind of hate myself for asking. Because what’s the point? I know it’s not going to end well.

  CAN I SEE YOU? I type. BEFORE?

  There’s a long silence. His avatar blinks on the couch.

  MAYBE NOT A GOOD IDEA.

  WHY? I type. Though I think I already know.

  BECAUSE MAYBE THEY ARE WATCHING YOU.

  I snort with laughter.

  Yeah, you think?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ★

  FUCK, FUCK THE fucking fuck.

  I walk out of the coffee bar, and my head’s spinning.

  Sure I’m being watched. By my very own personal spy.

  Do I tell John about this?

  I know Lao Zhang, I say to myself. Whatever it is he’s planning on doing—his final “piece,” I mean—he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s not going to try to blow something up or anything like that, right?

  He wouldn’t. That’s not who he is.

  Not who he was, anyway. I haven’t seen him in over a year. I don’t know what he’s been doing, what he’s been going through.

  How well did I really know him before, for that matter?

  Don’t go there.

  If I can’t believe that Lao Zhang’s the man I thought he was, what has the last year of my life been about?

  I pass the rows of little shops selling incense and Tibetan Buddhist tchotchkes: gilt statuettes, sandalwood beads, prayer flags, and cards. I bet at least a couple of them have postcards of the Dalai Lama behind the counter.

&
nbsp; Whatever it is that Lao Zhang plans on doing, it’s got to be some big, stupid gesture that gets him into trouble. I mean, he’s already in trouble, right? By coming back, it’s like he’s giving up. He knows what’s going to happen. Maybe not the details, but that it’s nothing good.

  I’m getting teary-eyed, which I really hate.

  And for all he said it was about taking the pressure off me, well, I know one thing about so-called superpowers—they hate being embarrassed. There’s no way I’m not going be on the receiving end of some blowback from this.

  By the time I’m on the escalator heading down to the Number 2 subway, I’m really pissed off.

  All this time I’ve been doing what Lao Zhang wanted me to do. First, going on that crazy hunt through China last year, following clues he’d laid down for me, getting my ass kicked from one end of the country to the other. Then managing his art. I’m still not sure why he picked me for that.

  Yeah, he told me he thought it was good for me. That I needed something to do. Which, okay, was true. I needed a mission. Something to take my mind off the Great Wall of Bullshit that had been my life to date.

  But how is this going to help me? Being the front woman for a dissident artist determined to get himself in deeper shit than he already is.

  So he thinks he’s going to make some big gesture and that it’s going to mean something. Like those Tibetans lighting themselves on fire to protest the regime. Does any of that help? Does it change anything?

  And fuck it, I’m not Chinese. This isn’t my country. It’s not my business trying to change it.

  And further, I’m sick of being a good soldier on someone else’s mission.

  You know what I could really use? A guy who’s actually there for me when it counts. Not some flaky artist who—okay, I know he cares about me, at least I think he does, but I’m never going to be first. Or even close to it.

  I swipe my card at the turnstile and take the escalator down to the platform. Stand there and feel a wash of stale air from the tunnel. It’s not too crowded at least. Middle-school kids in tracksuits, a couple of European tourists examining the map enclosed in Lucite that details the exits, a cluster of PLA soldiers in square-cut, baggy fatigues who don’t look much older than the middle-school kids. A subway worker, an older woman in a blue uniform with gaudy gold buttons, sweeps the tiles with a straw broom.