We’re at the top of a stairwell. Unpainted cement, lit by a single fluorescent bulb. John points at the stairs.
We go down a flight, pass the first landing we see, and head down the next flight. Long, steep flights. When we get to the bottom, I figure we’re two stories below the first floor.
There’s a corridor, harshly lit by a couple more fluorescent lights in bare, rusting cages. Seeing them reminds me of something else, a place I was at back in the Sandbox, a place I never want to see again but still can’t get out of my head.
Some people can just forget shit. Why can’t I?
“Something wrong?”
I wipe my forehead. It’s covered in sweat. “No. Just hot down here.”
Pipes run along the ceiling, water pipes that drip, plus electric conduit and tangles of loose, frayed wire. There’s a sign next to a junction box warning of danger, with a little black silhouette of a man getting zapped by a black lightning bolt.
We walk a ways. On one side there’s more machinery: boilers and stuff, I guess, plus a jumble of crates and dusty boxes, mopeds and bikes. On the other it’s flimsy wallboard, interspersed here and there with those dented blue tin panels they use to make temporary fences at construction sites. We turn right, and then it’s wallboard and blue metal panels on both sides.
I catch the sweaty scent of hot, packaged noodles before I really get it.
“People are living down here, right?”
John nods. “Rat tribe,” he mutters.
I don’t know if it’s an insult, calling them that: the legions of Beijing’s workers who serve and cook in the city’s restaurants, who clean its fancy hotels, the migrants who come here to make money and who can’t possibly afford a real apartment in the city, the college grads and dreamers and artists who’ve ended up in tiny cubicles in the basements and subbasements of high-rises and former fallout shelters. I mean, there are worse things than being called a rat in Chinese culture. I was born in the Year of the Rat, and everybody says that means I’m a clever survivor.
So, hey. Embrace the suck.
I don’t get the feeling that there are that many people here right now. No conversations. No laughing, or shouting, or crying. If I listen hard, I can hear a faint strain of some Chinese pop music, so quiet it’s like I’m almost imagining it, like maybe I’m hearing something else, a pump or a rattling air conditioner, and I’m conjuring music out of it.
I guess most everyone’s at work this time of day. Or sleeping.
We walk down the makeshift hall, John checking out the numbers stenciled and in some cases scribbled in thick black marker on the wallboard. It’s pretty dark, with the only light coming from behind us. No hint of daylight anywhere. How could there be? We’re in a fucking basement fallout shelter.
John stops about halfway down the hall. Points at a blue construction panel. It’s a makeshift door, I finally realize, with holes drilled on one side and thick wire running through those and into the wallboard. Light leaks out around it like a glowing frame.
I think, Okay, there’s light. So she must be there, right?
Someone is anyway.
John raps on the door.
There’s a rustling sound, someone moving, and then, “Shi shei?” A young woman’s voice.
John jabs a finger at me.
Me? I mouth.
He nods, with that hint of irritation I’ve seen on him before, like I’m missing something obvious.
Whatever. “Ni hao. Wang Junyi ma?” Hello. You’re Wang Junyi?
The door rattles, then opens a crack. She’s got some kind of chain on it, which is pretty funny. A couple of good, hard shoves and you’d rip the wire “hinges” right off this “door.”
“Bushi. Ni yao shenme?” No. What do you want?
Shit. I really should’ve made something up ahead of time.
“A couple of nights ago, I went to a party,” I say in Mandarin. “Wang Junyi was working there. She left something. I wanted to give it to her.”
John nods, this time with something close to a smile. Like I’m not such a bad liar after all.
He should know.
“You saw her?”
“Yes.” Which, you know, I probably did.
The door opens a crack wider. “You’re a foreigner,” she says.
“Right.”
More rattling.
The door opens.
I can’t see her that clearly, with the light coming from behind her. She’s young, I’m pretty sure. Short, a little stocky. She takes a step back, her body rigid.
“Who’s he?” she asks.
“A friend.”
“He was at the party?”
“No.”
She hesitates. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. It’s hard to see her face.
“Come in,” she finally says.
It’s a little cubicle with white walls. The floor space is almost entirely taken up by a couple of twin mattresses. There’s a pole running above our heads from one side of the room to the other that’s hung with clothing, a couple of salvaged shelves piled with shampoo and cosmetics, stacks of magazines, some folded T-shirts, a laptop, and an electric kettle, the plug for that stuck into a power strip plugged into an extension cord that runs up to the single ceiling light. There’s stuff on the walls, a plastic poster-size slick ad for Lancôme cosmetics that looks like it came from a subway station, the face of a beautiful woman holding up a tiny bottle like it’s got a genie inside. A picture of Rain, the Korean pop star, next to a mountain landscape that looks familiar but that I can’t place.
“Huangshan,” she explains. “We both come from Anhui. Do you know Huangshan?”
“I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard of it,” I say.
“Most beautiful mountain in all of China. You know the saying in China: ‘Once you visit Huangshan, you would not want to visit any other mountain.’”
“I did not know that,” I say.
John and I sit on one of the mattresses while she makes tea. “Juliet is my English name,” she tells us. She has one, even though she doesn’t speak more than a few words of the language. “I saw the movie with Lai’angnaiduo Dicapuliao. Luomiou yu Zhuliye.”
It takes me a minute. “Oh. Leonardo DiCaprio. Romeo and Juliet,” I say in English.
She nods vigorously, smiles a little. “So romantic.” She hands me a glass with some loose leaves floating on top. “Be careful,” she tells me. “Hot.” It is, almost too hot to hold. “But I think I’ll change my name soon.”
“Why?”
She shrugs as she hands John his tea. “It is a silly idea. Dying like that for love.”
Finally she sits on the mattress across from us. “So Junyi’s belonging, what is it?”
I squirm a little. The glass really is hot. I put it on the floor in front of me.
“Her identity card,” John says. “So we want to give it to her personally.”
It’s a good lie. They use that card, the shenfenzheng, for all kinds of things in China. Buying train tickets. Opening a bank account. Applying for a job.
Juliet nods, staring at the floating leaves in her glass. She twists it around in her hands, which I notice are reddened and chapped. “I don’t know where she is,” she says at last. “She hasn’t come home since that night. I call her phone, I call her work, I call her friends. No one has seen her.”
I get that horrible, collapsing feeling in my gut. Because I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen her since that night. A picture of her anyway.
“Did you contact the police?” John asks.
Juliet snorts. “The police? What for? We don’t have Beijing hukou, why would they want to help us? Anyway, the police are useless.”
John blushes a little. I doubt Juliet would notice, but I do.
“But if she is missing …” he says, almost gently.
Then Juliet starts to cry. I hate it when people cry. I never know what to do.
“We are friends from Anhui,” she says between sobs. “We
came to Beijing together to make money. I don’t know what to do.”
John reaches out and pats her on the shoulder. “I am sorry,” he says. “But you must go to the police. Tell them she is missing. I know a detective. You can go to see him.”
Juliet looks up. Her face, like her hands, is red and blotchy. Her body is suddenly tense, like she might bolt, or maybe attack. Fight or flight. I can’t tell which.
“Why do you care?” Her voice shakes, and I’m not sure how much is anger and how much is fear. We could be anyone, and maybe we’re not here to help. “What do you really want?”
“Justice,” John says.
“She called me from that party. She said if she worked late, she had a chance to make more money.”
I guess Juliet believed him. But then, John’s pretty convincing when he wants to be.
Maybe he even means it.
“When she said this, how did she sound?” John asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Angry? Happy? Scared?”
Juliet frowns a little, pursing her lips. “Just … normal. She said she was tired. But she was happy to have a chance to make more money. This is why we came to Beijing. To make money.”
John nods. “I understand. This company she works for. Do you know anything about it?”
“Just that they like pretty girls.” She shrugs. “Junyi is very pretty. Not like me. I could never work there.”
They were all pretty girls, the ones working at that party.
“How long has she worked there?”
“Not long. Maybe … two months.”
“Does she like it?”
Juliet snorts. “She likes the money. Much more than her last job. She says maybe we can get a better apartment soon, because the money is good.”
“Has she worked late before?” I ask. Because I’m wondering what that might have involved.
“Only once.”
I hesitate, because I really don’t know how to put this. And while my Chinese has gotten pretty decent when it comes to the basics of talking to people, I don’t exactly have much skill in the way of nuance.
“What did she say, after that first time?” I ask. “Did she tell you about it?”
“No,” Juliet mumbles, rubbing her roughened hands, not meeting my eyes. “I already went to sleep.”
“Huh.”
Her head snaps up. “Anyway, what does it matter? Why are you asking all these questions?”
“I told you,” John says. “I have a friend who is a detective.”
She stares at him. I’m not sure if she’s buying it. “You came to bring her identity card. You can leave it with me.”
John shakes his head. “Since she is missing, it must go to the police.”
Her eyes are tearing up again.
“Here.” He produces his wallet, pulls out a business card. Looks like the same card he gave me once, the one for his supposed company, “Bright Spring Enterprises,” where his name’s Zhou Zheng’an.
I’m pretty sure it’s not a real business either.
He holds out his card to her. “You can call me if you want. I will tell you what the police say.”
She doesn’t take the card. She squeezes her eyes shut, like she doesn’t want to see it.
I get it, I think. If she calls him, maybe she’s going to hear something she doesn’t want to hear.
“If there’s news, you want to tell her parents, don’t you?” he asks softly.
Finally she nods and takes the card.
“So what do you think? The catering company has ‘girls selling smiles’ after hours?”
He’s been quiet during the ride back to Gulou. Distracted.
“Maybe so. Or maybe someone just has this expectation.”
“Yeah, could be,” I say, thinking of Milk Lady, a little detail I have not told John about. I mean, for all that the guy is great in the sack, in a freaky kind of way, he’s got a moralizing streak a mile wide, plus he seems to have a bug up his ass about rich people in general, the Caos in particular.
“What now?” I ask.
“I thought you want to go back to Gulou.”
“No, I mean … Okay, so we think we know who the dead girl is. What happens next?”
“Hmmm.” His forehead wrinkles. “We can tell Inspector Zou. But maybe we can wait a little while.” His eyes get that dark look again, the one that kind of scares me. “I think I want to meet these Caos first.”
I slump back in the seat. This is not going to end well, I’m pretty sure.
CHAPTER TWELVE
★
DINNER WITH THE Caos is at a place called Tea.
I checked it out online. From the photos the place looks so perfectly elegant and minimal that it makes my teeth hurt. And according to an article on CNN, it’s one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.
“You sure you want to go, John? What if you end up with the bill? They give you that kind of expense account?”
John pauses in the middle of straightening his tie and shoots me a glare.
We’re in my apartment. John’s in the bathroom, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. He’s wearing a suit—something I’ve never seen him wear before—and though I’m no expert, I’m pretty sure he, or somebody, spent some money on it: a kind of silvery grey that drapes just so over a perfect white shirt. He’s put a styling gel in his hair that makes him look like some kind of movie star for the teen-idol set. I have to say he looks pretty good. Way better than a guy who’s hanging out with me should look. I mean, shouldn’t he be with some cute, perfect, dainty Chinese girl? What’s he doing with a train wreck like me?
Probably spying, I remind myself.
Mimi sits there half on his feet, staring up at him with a look of utter adoration. She’s always loved John.
I thought dogs were supposed to be loyal.
John smoothes his coat and turns to me. Looks me up and down. I’m wearing one of my Vicky Huang outfits.
“That is nice,” he says. “Though why do you never wear a dress? I think you will look pretty.”
I want to smack him. Instead I shrug. “Busted-up leg, not so pretty. Look, can we just get out of here and go to this fucking dinner?”
Mimi thumps her tail. Like she thinks we’re going for a walk. I lean over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Sorry, pup. I know you’re not getting enough walks. Tomorrow, I promise.”
Assuming I don’t get arrested.
Tea is in a hutong area just north of the Forbidden City, close to the National Art Museum and Jingshan Park. Not all that far from where I live, but the traffic sucked, and there was an accident on Di’anmen, and by the time we get close, my leg’s hurting and I’m twitching like a meth head, feeling like the longer we sit in this car, the more of a big fat target I am, and even though I tell myself, That’s stupid—it’s not getting blown up you need to worry about right now, I can’t help it.
I thought I was getting better.
“Are you feeling sick?” John asks.
I shake my head. “No. Just don’t like sitting in a car in traffic, that’s all.”
“Almost there.”
We get off the main street finally. Turn down a little lane lined by old grey walls with red doors, peaked roofs coyly hiding behind them, revealing just a glance, and I catch a glimpse of the bright moon through a tree—I don’t know what it’s called, one of those trees you see everywhere here with the narrow limbs and tangles of thin twigs that stretch toward the sky, like they’re trying to break through the smog and the bullshit to nourish themselves somehow—and it hits me like a wave, how in spite of how ugly this city is, sometimes it’s still beautiful.
We pull up in front of a grey wall. A uniformed valet swoops in and takes John’s keys.
I heave myself out of the car. Pain arcs up my wobbling leg, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I stare up at the sky, blinking, looking for the moon through the smog. The streetlamps light up the dust, making the air seem to sparkle, l
ike somebody threw yellow glitter into the sky.
“Are you all right?” I feel John’s steadying hand on my arm. And I’m remembering the night we met, how he tricked me. I was dizzy that night, too, walking with him. I remind myself why that was. What he did.
I pull my arm away. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Yili …”
I turn to face him. He looks confused, he looks concerned, he looks like he actually gives a shit. But hey, I’ve been wrong about that before.
“What?”
“We can just go home if you like.” He sounds so earnest saying this. So honest.
“Yeah? And then what? I get arrested for killing some girl I don’t think I ever even met?”
“I can take care of it. You don’t need to—”
“I do need to,” I snap. “I need to take care of myself. I need to …” I get hit by another wave of dizziness. Swamped. I steady myself against the wall. “Let’s just go to this dinner, okay?”
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A panic attack. It’s like I used to get, when I wouldn’t leave the house, when I’d freak out in the supermarket, or in a car, or … well, anyplace. But I’m better. I’ve been handling things. Look at what I’ve done the last two years. Look at the shit that got thrown at me. I survived it, right?
Why is this happening now?
There’s a double red door with brass studs. A red wood beam threshold. We step across it. On the other side is a broad courtyard and, across it, what looks like a small, Tibetan-style temple: ornate upturned roof with scalloped yellow tiles, red screens and walls and columns. Pillars of light rise at even intervals, like they’re another row of columns holding the place up.
It’s your head that’s doing this, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong right now. I’m not going to get blown up. It’s just a feeling. Like what the army shrink used to say: Feelings are transient. You let yourself feel them, observe what they are, let them go.
“Just because I feel this way now doesn’t mean I’ll always feel this way,” I mutter.
“Ni shuo?”
“Nothing,” I tell John. “Nothing important.”
There’s a flagstone path leading up to the temple, lit here and there by lanterns on iron posts. A little stone bridge that arches over an artificial stream. And finally, as we walk up a couple of broad steps that lead to the entrance, a bronze sign with a cutout character lit from behind: 茶.
Dragon Day Page 13
