The Year of the Hydra

by William Broughton Burt

  John’s smiling, too.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Last night I dreamed of being back in Memphis, strolling naked along Poplar Avenue—a common theme, actually—and trying to be quite nonchalant about it when my sister approached me in a pair of bib overalls. She had a red chiffon dress draped over her arm.

  “Put this on,” she said. “We have to talk.”

  “It’s a dress,” I told her.

  “It’s all I have,” said Lillian.

  I put on the dress. It felt kind of naughty with nothing beneath.

  “What is taking you so long?” demanded my sister. “I’m rotting in a Chinese prison, in case you’ve forgotten, and yes it’s definitely a prison. My anxiety attacks are having anxiety attacks, and here you are streaking along Poplar Avenue.”

  “I’m on my way to Beijing,” I told her. “Just—”

  “Just nothing. These people are scary, Doo, and I don’t know what it is they’re after. Where’s Tree?”

  “That’s something else I’m working on.”

  “I hate this,” said Lil, sweeping the bangs from her eyes, “our being scattered all over the place like this. I don’t know what the fuck we’re supposed to do now.”

  I couldn’t quite take my eyes off my sister, whom you’ll recall I hadn’t seen in some time, awake or otherwise. Her eyes were more emerald than I’d recalled. Startling. I very nearly told her so.

  “I’m really sorry about the whole dad thing,” I said. “I wanted to tell you about it.”

  “Just come get me, okay?” snapped Lil. “And be careful. There’s someone following you.”

  “I’ve shaken those people,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean physical people. Find Tree. She’ll know what to do.”

  Lil began to laugh.

  “What?” I said.

  “The dress. You should keep it.”

  I awoke with cotton mouth and an acute case of gender ambiguation. I looked around. I was lying on a few folded blankets on the wooden floor of a cabin in whatever province we’re in. Phoebe and Ling lay asleep on the double bed. I began to stretch, which wasn’t the best of ideas. Riveting cramp in my right kidney. My arm was aching, too. And I missed that red dress. It’s so hard to find a dress that hits my shoulders right.

  After a quick breakfast of beef and noodles and enough MSG to dissolve the nervous system of a yak, we’ve managed to make admirable time. At least, so far as I can determine, not knowing whether to trust my—uh, Ana’s—watch. The sweep hand is sweeping, at least. The sun is only a couple of hours past the zenith and we recently passed a road sign announcing Jiangxi Province, whose northern boundary I think is the historic Yangtze River. That would mark roughly halfway. That’s the good news. Less encouraging is the growing evidence that Phoebe has defected to the people’s interstate highway system.

  “I thought we were going to stay on the back roads,” I say. “By my count, this highway has eight lanes.”

  “All Chinese road back road,” she replies stiffly.

  “This is feeling kind of conspicuous.”

  “All Chinese road bi-bicious. You want go Beijing, we go Beijing.”

  We pass a road sign that puts us alarmingly near Nanchang, which is a city the size of Chicago. If I were lying in wait for this car, I would be parked along this exact stretch of highway.

  “Phoebe, don’t you think they’ll expect us to go through Nanchang?”

  “Who they?” she snaps. “We just go Beijing see some friends. Nobody care about this.”

  “I think your husband care very much about this.”

  Phoebe shoots me a glare. “You forget somebody here very understand English.”

  The car becomes silent except for the whap-whap-whap of the paving sections passing beneath us. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to suggest that we drive all night. Probably this isn’t it.

  We pass another road sign and Phoebe hits the turn signal. “Oh, we stop now this place very famous Chinese history.”

  “History?” I say. “We have time for history?”

  “First communist government start here. I show my daughter this.”

  Beyond the off ramp, the road is a narrow, smooth meander of pleasant, round-shouldered hills. No traffic at all. My tension vanishes, and I consider the possibility that Phoebe may be exactly right. A little break could be just what we need before taking on Nanchang.

  The Buick turns onto a small lane with an unmanned guardhouse, a notice pasted to the glass window.

  “Government is close this place because SARS,” reports Phoebe. “Don’t nobody here.”

  Beyond the guardhouse is a tantalizing view of breeze-enlivened wooded slopes and grassy meadows. We could be in east Tennessee. We enter a pastoral dream of new grass and bouncing butterflies. Neither cars nor humans are anywhere in sight. The Buick glides to a stop in a hill-sheltered parking lot. Before us lies a twisting foot trail.

  “Is where communist soldiers have the camp,” says Phoebe, excitedly reading the sign. “We can go walk this place.”

  Phoebe opens the driver’s door and bounds outside. I open the door but I can’t move. It takes both Phoebe and Ling, both of them laughing, to pull me out.

  Struggling to walk in the bright sunlight, I turn a complete circle, looking for something to be worried about. I don’t find it. Closing my eyes, I inhale the intoxicating scent of newly minted grass. Ling runs ahead. Phoebe stands smiling at the head of the trail, waiting for me. A moment later we’re walking hand-in-hand.

  “You like this place so beautiful?” she asks.

  I look at her. “I like.”

  A pair of yellow butterflies swirl before us, nearly touching our faces. Phoebe inhales and gazes straight up, showing her lovely throat.

  “See how high the sky? Ninety-thousand li. Old book Yi Wen Lei Ju say that first everything everywhere is all together, very small, then boom everything get bigger sky is move away from the earth this take eighteen thousand years. Between the sky and earth is a man. He is Pangu. Pangu is go through nine changes every day, become so smart the sky become so high earth become so thick now. This is how everything start. Then come the first three emperors.” She smiles. “Everybody China know this story.”

  Phoebe shouts ahead to Ling, who stops to wait for us.

  “Why,” I ask, “does every number in that tale reduce to either three or nine?”

  “Because everything start with one, get ready with three, get finish with nine. You don’t know this? Don’t believe this? My husband say Chinese so silly, I say it make you happy believe something. Haw-row always believe nothing, just angry.” A shudder goes through her. “I not want think about this now.”

  Our footpath enters a broadleaf forest. Here too is an overpowering scent of new spring foliage. We trace a cut between two hills, and the trail ends at a locked gate. Ling scampers up the wooded hill to our left and shouts for us to follow. We do follow and are rewarded by a vista of a lakeside bathed in sunlight. Beneath the shade of oaks, a carpet of grass leads right to the water’s edge.

  A moment later, Phoebe and I are sprawled in the soft grass watching a lone crane glide into the west. Ling tosses pebbles into the water. I feel Phoebe’s body move slightly closer to mine. Our hips touch, and my body explodes in bliss.

  “God in heaven,” I say.

  “What?” asks Phoebe, relaxed and smiling.

  “What happens to us?” I whisper, astonished at myself. “How can we forget how beautiful this world is? It’s like… it’s like permanent temporary insanity. You go into town to buy a tin of tuna, and the next thing you know a decade has passed, your body has become a breakfast sausage, the Republicans control both houses of Congress, and you still don’t have the tin of tuna.” I turn to her. “Please tell me you know what I’m talking about. Even if you don’t.”

  Phoebe’s forefinger jabs my chest. “You say no time we stop here. Now you see. American people all the time so serious so hurry
only get the bad health. You worst American.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “Worst,” she whispers, bringing her smile so close to mine I’m certain they’ll touch. At the last instant, she turns to see Ling run toward us crying, “Look!” In her tiny left hand is a fossilized stone.

  I accept it from her hand. Seems an asterisk-shaped creature once drew breath very near where we lie. Now just an empty space. So it goes.

  Ling runs back to the lakeshore and I ask Phoebe, “What will you do? Where will you go when all this is over?”

  Her smile vanishes. “Don’t know this.”

  Wrong question. I close my eyes, letting the moment dissolve, letting the lazy late-spring aromas induce a sleepy reverie. What does happen to us? And what do we do once we know it’s happened?

  I once developed a sci-fi story about a minimally evolved species of primate on a rock somewhere who didn’t feel safe sleeping in the open, so they decided to sleep in little boxes. Eventually they became really good at box making. Soon their boxes were big enough for the whole family. Then a smoke-hole were added, and soon there were fewer and fewer reasons to ever leave your box. Soon you had clusters of boxes, then clusters of clusters. Life became about your box. Who had the biggest one or the one located nearest the really important boxes. There were work boxes that everyone reported to, and entertainment boxes, and boxes where you went to buy things for your box. Finally little mobile boxes came along that took everyone from one box to another. There were boxes where you were born and boxes you were put in when you died, so you never really had to be without a box. Unless you belonged to the lowest rung of society. The boxless. Of course there were neuroses and illnesses that came with always being inside a box, but not to worry. There were enormous boxes where all the broken monkeys were attended night and day—that each might someday return to his or her own box. Sometimes after a round of drinks, one monkey might inquire of others whether they had any interest in the outdoors. The reply was nearly always yes, as the outdoors was a popular notion among people with really nice boxes.

  For some reason, that story was never published. I was told the premise was too unbelievable.

  I steal a glance at Phoebe. Her eyes are closed. I wouldn’t mind kissing those eyes. I like her nearness. Her faint scents. The soft breathing. The way it animates the two unseen breasts. I note that the swelling around her cheekbone has all but vanished. The bruising has begun to fade.

  “What you do?” asks Phoebe suddenly, eyes still closed. “Where you go after everything over?”

  “To a high-school baseball game,” I reply sleepily. “I’ll buy a bag of unshelled peanuts and choose a bleacher seat along the first base line, behind the women in the lawn chairs. I’ll listen to what they say to each other about their sons and the coaches and their doctors. I’ll watch the boys line up in the mud in their cleated shoes to drink from the water faucet. I’ll hear that perfect popping sound that leather makes on leather.” I blink. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  Phoebe Sternbaum’s hair is a tangle of temptation. She shrugs listlessly. “See the game, eat the peanuts, I know this.”

  I laugh at her and she looks at me in surprise. I think we’re both surprised. As I watch, the perfect amber face spreads in child-like pleasure. “Ju! I never hear you laugh before.”

  She rolls toward me and the top of her head digs into my chest, Suddenly her head is resting against my shoulder. My long arm encloses her waist. By tender degrees, my thoughts dissolve into what they have been all along. Nothing.

  My breath catches. Alarmed, I open my eyes and look around for Ling. She is a perfect picture of poise, seated on a log and gazing across the lake. A soothing sight. My eyes roll closed. Maybe I’m nodding off just a little. Suddenly Phoebe is standing over me.

  “Ju? We go now buy the petrol eat some restaurant okay?”

  Reluctantly, I stretch my body. My bruised kidney flinches. I decide to take my time rising to my feet.

  “I have a funny dream,” Phoebe tells me. “Funny dream about some big place, lots of people and some girl help us. Ling!”

  “What girl help us?” I ask.

  “I don’t know this girl. Ling!”

  Ling, scampering far ahead of us, stops to wait. “Somebody need help us,” mutters Phoebe, her face suddenly dark.

  “What about those people you know in Beijing?” I say.

  “Not talk about this now,” says Phoebe. “Ling!”

  We join Ling at the foot trail to retrace our steps along the shadowed cleft. The sun is half fallen to the horizon. We’ve lost two hours, more or less, but maybe we’ve gained the heart to continue. All night hopefully. Two days and we’re not yet halfway to Lillian.

  I gaze at Ling, again scampering ahead. Now she stops and awaits us. When we rejoin her, she insinuates herself between Phoebe and myself and grabs our hands. Now she’s pulling us toward a side trail. “This way,” she insists.

  I don’t argue. Ling all but dragging us, we enter a denser neck of the forest.

  As the treetops close over us, I feel a fresh pang of worry about Tree. I’d like to blame Tree for all this, but if Lil and I hadn’t come to China, none of this would have happened. And Tree wouldn’t be where she is now, wherever that is. I feel a pull toward Beijing that’s almost palpable. The imagined scent of the place is enough to make me shiver.

  Gradually the trees part before us. We’re nearly back to the meadow and the parking lot, though by a different route. We’ve nearly burst into the meadow when—

  I pull Phoebe and Ling to a stop. A dozen meters before us, parked within the shadowy canopy of the forest, its nose facing away, is a late-model silver Toyota with two silhouettes seated inside. I pull Phoebe and Ling back into the shadows.

  “What?” says Phoebe.

  “Shhhh.”

  Lowering my head, I peer through a gap in the bushes. The Toyota sports a Guangdong license plate. I don’t like the look of it. I definitely don’t like the look of the six-foot whip antenna attached to the rear bumper.

  “Stay here,” I whisper.

  “But—”

  “Shhhh.”

  Carefully avoiding the mirrors of the Toyota, I pick my way ahead until the two men are in view. I don’t recognize the driver, a young Chinese man in sunglasses. The man in the passenger seat, though, rings a very definite bell. Hooked nose. Round black-rimmed glasses. Never out of style.

  I pick my way back to Phoebe and Ling. “Let’s go back the other way,” I whisper.

  “Why we go—” begins Phoebe.

  “Love session in progress.”

  Phoebe’s mouth falls open. She tiptoes, trying to see more, but I drag her away. We retrace the side trail, my mind racing. He uses lots of names, Ralpho told me about Bellamy. Belongs to Wen Jiabao. Everything you say around him goes into a report. It never made sense to me that China’s most important figure would take the slightest interest in my person. It makes even less now. But somebody’s sure going through an awful lot of trouble. I console myself that Bellamy and his driver don’t seem to have outright murder in their immediate plans. Certainly they could have done anything they’d wanted with us before now. Maybe it’s my scumbag father they’re after. Still it’s hard not to recall that lovely Chinese saying. Once the squirrels are dead, the dogs that tracked them will be cooked.

  It takes a lifetime to cross the meadow to the waiting Buick.

  “Give me the keys,” I tell Phoebe.

  “You want drive? Why you—”

  “I’m in the mood,” I say, yanking the keys from her hand. “Get in.”

  “What you so crazy? Take my keys like some kind—”

  “Get in, Phoebe. Ling, get inside the car.”

  Throwing the driver’s seat back as far as it’ll go, I collapse inside. Pouting, Phoebe takes her time walking to the passenger’s side. It’s a real effort not to squeal a doughnut and burn rubber out of there. I manage to drive more or less normally unti
l we’re out of sight of the parked Toyota. Turning left onto the highway, I stomp the accelerator. The Buick swerves so badly that an old man on a trike decides to take the ditch. We top a hill, and the Buick is practically airborne.

  “What you doing?” demands Phoebe.

  “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  I check the rearview mirror. No silver Toyota.

  “Someone follow us?” asks Phoebe, turning to look through the rear window. “Who follow us?”

  “There’s a silver car behind us. It’s important we lose them.”

  Scanning the highway ahead of us, I see a rough unpaved road ascending into a pine forest. I hit the brake pedal and yank the wheel. The Buick swerves onto the narrow road. A moment later we’re wheeling into an impromptu garbage dump among the trees. Confident we can’t be seen from the highway, I turn the Buick to face that direction and switch off the engine.

  Phoebe is staring at me, astonished.

  “Watch,” I tell Phoebe, pointing to the highway. “You’ll see a silver car with two men inside.”

  “You crazy,” she replies, turning in the seat to gather Ling into her arms. “I crazy as hell go Beijing with you.”

  “Just watch, okay?” I say, knowing already that the car will not appear. Ten minutes later, it’s official. No Toyota.

  “Nobody follow us,” says Phoebe. “You make me so scared I almost shit everywhere.”

  Ignoring her, I puzzle over the non-appearance of Bellamy. Why would he tail us all the way through southern China just to let us get away? It’s as though he has no doubt he can find us again any—

  Ah. The six-foot whip antenna. Decisively I yank the hood-release of the Buick and step outside.

  “Where you go?” asks Phoebe.

  “To look for something.”

  It doesn’t take long. The transmitter, hardly larger than a dime, clings magnetically to a wheel strut.

  Pocketing the bug, I begin walking toward the roadside below. “I’ll be back,” I tell Phoebe over my shoulder. Picking my way through the pines, I make my way to the roadside below. If I recall correctly, I spotted a gas station not too far from here.