Dragon Day

by Lisa Brackmann

  “And?”

  “Not sure,” he says, spearing another dumpling. “Of course, he cannot tell me what he decides to do. He already lose a lot of face to me.” The grin sneaks back. “But I think he will do as I suggest. This is a bad time to be accused of corruption. Renrou sousuo can cause him lots of trouble. He knows this.”

  Renrou sousuo, “human flesh search engine.” Chinese netizens sick of corrupt assholes, who’d really enjoy spreading Pompadour Bureaucrat’s photo through every corner of the Internet.

  “Does he know you set him up?” I ask.

  John shrugs. “Maybe he suspects. But he cannot prove it. He saw you take picture. Not me.”

  I get that hollowed-out feeling in my gut. I don’t know exactly what power politics are like in the PSB and the DSD, but it can’t be a good thing, having your boss or whatever he is to John suspect that you hold blackmail material on him. And being a guy who’s done a bunch of things he hopes Pompadour Bureaucrat never finds out about.

  How long can he walk this tightrope before he falls off?

  “John …” I hesitate. I mean, who am I to give anybody advice about how to live his life? “I know you care about justice. About China … But working with guys like that …”

  I’m probably going to piss him off. If there’s one thing I know for sure now, it’s that this guy has been on my side. But I still have to ask.

  “How much of what you do is good?”

  John chews on a dumpling, the muscles in his jaw working harder than they really need to. He swallows, like it’s a hard lump to get down. “I don’t know,” he says. “I try to do good things. And China faces threats. I believe this. But …” He picks up another dumpling, shaking his head. “What I do, some of it I don’t like. Sometimes I think I do it because I don’t know how to do something else.” He dips the dumpling in his soy/vinegar/chili mix, focusing on it like it’s the important thing, as opposed to what he’s talking about. “I don’t know if you can understand,” he says.

  “I think I get it,” I say.

  After we’re done eating, we hang out on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant for a minute to say our good-byes. I’m going to hobble home on foot. John either has his car or took the subway.

  Either way, we’re going in different directions.

  “What do you do next, Ellie?”

  “Get out of town for a while. Just stop … being in this place I’ve been in.” I shift back and forth from one foot to the other, trying to ease the spasm in my bad leg.

  He hesitates. Slips his hands in his pockets. “Can I come and see you sometime? On your travels?”

  I nod. “Sure. I’d … I’d like that.”

  We stand there for a moment, as if we’re trying to take the measure of each other. After all this time, I still don’t really know him, what makes him go, where the anger comes from, why he cares about me.

  That last one’s probably the biggest mystery of all.

  “I see you soon, Ellie,” John says. He turns and walks away, up the sidewalk toward the Second Ring Road.

  Harrison calls me the next day.

  “I’ve gotten all the footage from Zhang Jianli’s performance,” he says. “We can have someone cut it together and start releasing it, if you believe the time is right.”

  I think about John’s and my blackmail project and whether publicizing Lao Zhang’s detention would help that or hurt.

  “Let’s give it a few days. It’s his piece. Maybe he’ll get a chance to cut it together himself.”

  I can tell there’s a question Harrison really wants to ask, but he doesn’t. “If you think so,” he says.

  “Just so you know,” I say, “I’m leaving town on Tuesday.”

  “Next week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a destination in mind?”

  “Yangshuo for a couple of days. I might visit some friends who run a bird sanctuary there.”

  “After that?”

  “Maybe Yunnan. Somewhere the weather’s nice and the air is clean.”

  A pause. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “So don’t wait for me. Do whatever’s best for the foundation.” We’ve got this charity where we donate money to set up art programs for migrant kids. I’m on the board, but it’s not like I run any of that. I’ve hardly paid any attention to it.

  “And your other clients?”

  His voice is gentle, but it feels like a slap. I don’t want responsibilities. I don’t want to be reminded I have them.

  “Lucy can handle it for now.”

  “All right. But you’ll stay in touch. Won’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sure. I will.”

  “You’re sure this is all you want to take?”

  I’ve gotten it down to a little backpack and a small duffel bag. “Yeah,” I say. “This is plenty.”

  “Well …” My mom clasps her hands in front of her. “We can keep some things for you at Andy’s place.” She turns to him. “Right?”

  “Sure,” he says. “We have room.”

  My mom’s already picked over the kitchen and the DVDs. Most of the good kitchen stuff she’d bought anyway.

  “Thanks. There’s just a couple of boxes and some paintings.”

  I made a deal with my landlady to sell her my TV, couch, and bed. “Very convenient for new renters,” she tells me. The rest of the furniture came with the apartment.

  The framed paintings lean against the living-room wall. After a year of doing this art gig, I don’t have that many pieces, just five, but I like them. Contemporary calligraphy, a take on a landscape, a satirical map-of-the-world print, a dreamlike image of a Red Guard on a swing, feet aimed at the clouds.

  “What’s this?” my mom asks. She’s looking through the paintings, flipping them forward one by one.

  I glance over. It’s Lao Zhang’s portrait of me, where I’m holding a scared cat and a snarling three-legged dog hugs my leg, against a backdrop of sand dunes and an exploding helicopter, and I look way stronger and smarter than I really am.

  It’s a cool painting, the one I care about the most, but I never hung it up. Who hangs up a picture of herself? That’s just weird.

  “Something a friend did,” I say.

  My train to Guilin leaves around 3:45 P.M. from the Beijing West Railway Station. I was going to take a cab—the subway still doesn’t connect up with the Beijing West Railway Station; it’s supposed to happen later this year—but Andy offers to drive.

  We’re standing in my now-vacated apartment, the leftover furniture making it look like some kind of hotel suite where no one ever actually lived.

  I start to turn him down, and then I take in my mom, who’s hugging Mimi and telling her what a good dog she is.

  “Hey, Mimi,” I call out. She perks up and scampers over to me. Stands on her hind legs and rests her front paws on my hips. I bend over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. She loves that.

  I can’t take Mimi with me. I really want to. A part of me feels like I need some living thing around me, who cares about me, and since I just can’t deal with an actual person right now, a dog would be perfect.

  But it’s not fair to her. She’d have to ride on the baggage car of the train. I don’t know if I could bring her to most hotels or hostels. And I don’t have a clue where I’m going, after Yangshuo.

  More to the point, I don’t know if I’m capable of taking care of anything. I’m sure not good at taking care of myself.

  “Thanks, Andy,” I say. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  We get to the train station really early, because the traffic didn’t suck as much as I thought it would.

  “I can park car, we can wait inside with you,” Andy says.

  “That’s okay. Besides, Mimi wouldn’t like it.” Mimi and I sit in the backseat of Andy’s newish Hyundai. Her head rests on my lap. She knows something’s up, and she already doesn’t like it.

  “I don’t like it either,
girl,” I murmur, staring into her gold-toffee eyes.

  I think, Why am I doing this again? I can pretend it’s just a vacation, but I know that’s not what this really is. Why am I running away?

  Because that’s what I do.

  Andy’s gotten us through the tangle of cars and taxis over to the curb in front of the station plaza, up against a white traffic barrier, car horns going off in the haze of exhaust. Not a place where we can stop for long. Which is fine with me. I’m not good with long good-byes.

  I get out. Lean in to give Mimi a hug and a scratch around the scruff of her neck. “You’re a good dog,” I say. “Be good for Mom and Andy, okay?”

  I close the car door carefully. She puts her paws on the doorframe and sticks her nose through the cracked-open window.

  Andy’s gotten my bags out of the trunk. He lifts the pack so I can put my arms through the straps. Places the duffel bag on my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I say. “And … thanks. For taking care of my mom.”

  Andy frowns a little, as if he’s mulling that over. “I like your mom very much. But I think she takes care of me.”

  He reaches out and pats my hand. “You can come back soon.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Two guys have trotted over. “Miss! Miss! Carry your bags?”

  I shake my head. “I’d better get going,” I tell Andy. “See you soon. And keep me posted on the restaurant.”

  I turn to go, and there’s my mom. “Oh, hon,” she says, wrapping her arms around me, awkwardly, because of the luggage. I pat her on the back. I want to give in, to let go, to just be a kid and have my mom take care of me, like when I’d have nightmares and she’d come into my bedroom and sing me a song, read me a story.

  But I can’t. I don’t know how. The shit in my head won’t dissolve the way those nightmares did once the light came on.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she murmurs, like she was reading my mind. “It’s all going to be fine.”

  “Do not tell me God has a plan,” I snap.

  She lets go of me. Puts her hands on my shoulders, gives them a gentle squeeze, and smiles. “I won’t.”

  The Beijing West Railway Station isn’t one of my favorite places. A friend of mine once described it as “a Stalinist wet dream topped by a Chinese party hat,” this massive upside-down horseshoe flanked by wings with a pagoda on top that feels like an evil Transformer crouching on the landscape, ready to start stomping its way through Beijing.

  The inside’s not much better. Three pairs of escalators cordoned off by Plexiglas and giant chrome tubes, like some kind of factory conveyor belts leading us all to be processed. I ride up one to the second floor, where the departure halls are, staring up at the giant information screen, video ads playing in the central slab between the slowly scrolling arrivals and departures. I’m surrounded by bright lights, lit-up plastic signs, neon. I wander down the hall, thinking maybe I should buy some snacks for the trip. Maybe I should sit down and have a beer. I’ve got plenty of time. It’s only two thirty.

  Finally I spot my gate, about two-thirds of the way down the hall. I glance inside. The waiting area is packed, as usual, the rows of plastic chairs occupied, people squatting or sitting on their luggage in the aisles.

  Maybe I’ll store my bags in one of the lockers. I’ve got a soft sleeper; it’s not like I’m going to have to fight my way onto the train for a hard seat.

  “Yili.”

  I turn, and there’s Lao Zhang, wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts, like he always does when the weather’s even a little warm.

  I don’t know what I’m feeling. It’s like everything empties out of me.

  “You’re okay?” I finally ask.

  He nods. “You have time for coffee?”

  ★ ★ ★

  We end up at a McDonald’s, sitting at a bright orange plastic table covered with a thin slime of grease and the smell of stale french fries.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your friend Harrison tells me you go to Guilin today. He didn’t think you take the early train, and this is the other fast one. If not, the other two are later. So I just could wait.”

  It’s a nice gesture, but I feel like I’m missing part of the story.

  “When did you get out?” I ask.

  “A few days ago.” He sips his coffee and makes a face. Lao Zhang always did like good coffee, which this isn’t.

  I’m starting to feel something now. It might be anger. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  He shakes his head. He won’t look at me. He takes another sip of coffee.

  “I didn’t feel good,” he says.

  I study him. If anything, he’s thinner than he was at Tiananmen. The flesh around his eyes looks bruised with fatigue.

  We got him out, but who knows what happened to him while he was inside?

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you … ?”

  I don’t even know what to ask.

  “Hai keyi. I’m okay.” He fiddles with packet of sugar. Taps some into his coffee. “You just feel very small, when they take you.”

  I shake my head. I don’t get it. “You knew what would happen if you came back,” I say. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs and laughs a little. “I thought this system, it is completely corrupt. The Party is brutal, and cruel, and it only cares about its own interests, not about the laobaixing. The common people. If I believe what I believe, then I have to confront this.”

  And then he does look at me. He smiles. His eyes seem lost in their dark-circled beds. “Now I think maybe you are right. It is just … ego. Wanting to be a big man. Artists all think what we do is so important. But maybe it’s only important to ourselves.”

  “No,” I say. “No.” And for once I’m sure of what I’m saying. “It is important. What you’re doing … You’re calling out the bullshit. Bringing it into the light. Helping people get together, because maybe they think it’s bullshit, too, but they aren’t going to be the first people to stand up and say it. Or they’re not really sure what it is, but they see what you do and they go, ‘Yeah. This isn’t right.’”

  He laughs again. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, if it wasn’t important, they wouldn’t have gone after you the way they did.”

  He sits there sipping his coffee. Thinking it over.

  “I hope you are right,” he finally says. “Sometimes I think they just don’t want to take any chances. Easier to consider that everything is a threat. ”

  “You can’t make people believe things forever, not when they see that every day they’re being told lies.” I’m thinking of John when I say this.

  He nods, like his head’s too heavy to hold up.

  “Where are you going now, Yili?” he asks.

  “Yangshuo for a couple of days. After that … I’m not sure.”

  He nods again. Sips his coffee. He looks so lost. He was the place that used to feel like home to me, if only for a little while. He’s not that guy anymore.

  But I’m not the same person either.

  Now I do feel something. It’s like I’ve been frozen and the blood’s starting to circulate again. It hurts, in a way. But it’s something.

  “Come with me,” I say. “We can just … go some places. Be together.”

  He smiles slowly, looking at me the way he used to, with the kind of warmth that made me seek him out on a cold day.

  “I want to. But I can’t.” He tilts his head to the right. “You see that guy? At the table by the door?”

  I glance over. Sitting there is a young guy with a shaved head, a compact build, some muscle underneath a tight T-shirt with a Nike swoop across the chest. Watching us.

  “They tell me I can’t leave Beijing for now,” Lao Zhang says.

  I feel the tears building up behind my eyes, and I can’t stop them from falling.

  “I could just stay,” I blurt out.

  “No. Don’t stay for me.” There’s
an urgency to his voice that’s been missing till now. “Go and have a rest for a while. It’s better if you’re not in Beijing right now anyway. This”—his eyes flick toward the plainclothes guy in the Nike T-shirt—“won’t last long if I don’t cause problems.”

  “It’s not fair,” I manage, grabbing a paper napkin off the table to blow my nose. It’s a stupid thing to say. Why do I even expect fairness anymore?

  “I know.” He looks at me, and I can see the old Lao Zhang there all of a sudden, like lit coals that were hiding under ash: the guy who’s thinking about his next painting, his next performance. Maybe even about me.

  “When you come back, I’ll be here,” he says.

  ★ ★ ★

  I sit on the lower berth of the soft-sleeper compartment. I have an upper bunk, but so far there are only two other people in the compartment, a stout older woman wearing a quilted black blouse embroidered with gold thread and a chubby kid in a Superman T-shirt who I’m guessing is about ten years old. Grandma and grandson maybe.

  I’m drinking a Yanjing Beer, staring out the window, watching the familiar landscape roll by: half-built high-rises shrouded in green safety netting and smog, occasional fields, green struggling to break through yellow dirt, endless power lines. I’m trying not to think about anything. Just finishing my beer, and maybe another one, killing the time before I can fall asleep.

  Grandma reads a magazine, grandson plays games on some little handheld thing, the two occasionally snacking on some sticky rice rolls with red bean paste and a can of Pringles.

  Finally Grandma puts her magazine down. Yawns loudly, stretches. Turns her attention to me.

  “Ni shi naguo ren?” What country are you from?

  I almost laugh. This is going to be one of those rides, I bet. Next she’ll ask me how long I’ve been in China, if I’m married, do I have any kids, and if not, why? It happens almost every time I take the train somewhere.

  Oh, well, why not? It’s an eleven-hour ride to Guilin. You have to pass the time somehow, right?

  “Wo shi Meiguoren,” I say.

  I’m an American.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WRITING NOVELS MAY be a solitary activity, but they never find their way into readers’ hands without the work and help of a great many people.