Flower Net

by Lisa See

  Hulan’s strategy had the desired effect. A hostess came to the table and asked them to follow her. They retraced their steps back down the corridor toward the entrance, stopping at one of the closed doors. The hostess hesitated. Hulan didn’t speak. Finally the girl opened the door and the three of them stepped into the room. Cigarette smoke clogged the air, but the smell of American tobacco was clouded by the pungent aromas of perfume and hard liquor. Someone who had been singing stopped abruptly, and the conversation died.

  The hostess backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. Even in the tenebrous light, David could see that everyone was looking at them. Still, Hulan waited, saying nothing. Finally, a man dressed from head to toe in leather stood, crossed the room, and said in English, “Inspector Liu, I see you brought with you the American lawyer. We wondered how long it would be before you came to see us.”

  “There are no secrets in Beijing,” she said. “We have no such thing as a windproof wall.”

  The young man laughed and the others joined in.

  “I am Bo Yun,” the young man boomed out, bringing a fist to his chest.

  “Yes, you are,” Hulan said.

  Bo Yun and his friends laughed appreciatively. “No secrets, right, Inspector? You know us. We know you. We are all friends.”

  “We are here to talk…”

  “Good, good. Come, join us. Sit down. Here, here.” Bo Yun took David’s arm and led him to the red banquette that ran along the room’s perimeter. “What would you like to drink? We have orange juice. We have Rémy Martin. A hundred and fifty dollars U.S. a bottle.”

  Now that Hulan’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she could see perhaps two dozen people in their early twenties lounging on the banquettes. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. Numerous bottles of brandy and cognac, pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice, and glasses filled with these drinks littered low lacquer tables.

  The taizi smiled a lot. They laughed boisterously when their leader made a joke. They wore Rolexes, carried beepers, and at least two were talking on cellular phones. These were the youngest of the Red Princes and Princesses. They were corrupt yet forward thinking. Surveying the room, Hulan began to recall who they were and what they did. Some, of course, didn’t work at all. Others had been handed cushy jobs—chairman of a factory, manager of an international hotel, deputy governor of a bank, director of an arts organization.

  Once again, Hulan wondered if David understood what he was looking at. He probably saw innocent faces, harmless kids out on the town spending their allowance. He couldn’t possibly know the power they wielded or the money they received just through the luck of their birth. The young man who was associated with the hotel was known to charge American businessmen up to $100,000 U.S. for audiences with his father. The young woman seated to David’s right was wearing a bracelet worth more than what an entire peasant village might earn in a lifetime.

  Between David and Bo Yun sat Li Nan, whose grandfather served on the Central Committee. The Chinese press had not been kind to Li Nan. She was allegedly worth $20 million. She was reputed to have a large collection of American pornographic videotapes with which she stimulated innocent young men. She liked to bathe in champagne. She owned a fleet of classic automobiles but preferred to be driven around the city in a white limousine.

  Hulan had recently heard a story about how Li Nan had ordered a hundred-dish “emperor’s banquet,” featuring such delicacies as camel hump, moose nose, and bear paw. Hulan’s co-worker had lavished particular attention on the bear paw. It was one of the eight most precious ingredients in Chinese cuisine; the left front paw was recognized as the most tender and sweet because it was the one that the bear used to extract honey from bees’ nests. The meal cost $100,000 U.S., the investigator had told Hulan, and was totally illegal, since the bear meat and several other ingredients were protected by Chinese environmental laws.

  This kind of story could circulate only because Li Nan’s grandfather had been accused of corruption. Hulan suspected Li Nan, like Henglai and everyone else in their circle, had bank accounts, stocks, and real estate in the United States, Switzerland, and Australia. If Li Nan had any brains, she would understand the old saying—as soon as the guest leaves, the tea becomes cold—and abandon China for her penthouse in New York before her grandfather lost all of his power or his life.

  Hulan knew too well that Li Nan and her friends were powerful only in the sense that they had protection. If their father or grandfather died in disgrace, they could lose everything. Even the secure ones would have to wait for the older generation—men in their sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties—to die before they themselves could assume real power, political power.

  “Ning Ning, Di Di, sing us a song,” Bo Yun called out. A lovely woman, the daughter of China’s most famous opera singer, and a raffish fellow, the youngest son of a general, stood and went to the center of the room. The soft strains of a romantic melody filled the room as a giant video screen lit up with the image of a beach at sunset. A Chinese girl walked in the surf; a Chinese boy sat on a rock nearby. Ning Ning and Di Di each took microphones, then sang of love as the Chinese ideograms appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  Bo Yun took a gulp of brown liquid from his snifter. He sank back into the banquette and beamed contentedly. “So, you want to talk about Guang Henglai. What can we tell you?”

  “What do you know?” Hulan asked.

  “He was rich,” Bo Yun said.

  “Don’t try to be clever,” Hulan said. “His father was Guang Mingyun.”

  “No, I mean Guang Henglai was rich.”

  “Maybe his father spoiled him. He was an only son.”

  “Henglai made his own money. Don’t you know that?”

  “How?” David asked.

  “He didn’t tell us these things.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  Bo Yun lit a Marlboro. Ning Ning and Di Di were holding hands now, mimicking the lovers on the screen.

  “I used to see him,” Li Nan said. “But that was over a year ago.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Bo Yun exhaled a great gust of smoke and put a possessive arm around Li Nan’s shoulder. “Actually, we didn’t see him much anymore. He kind of disappeared after he broke up with Li Nan.”

  “You mean he wasn’t welcome here?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Li Nan said.

  “She’s right, you know,” Bo Yun agreed. “We all liked Henglai.”

  “And Billy too,” Li Nan added.

  “Billy Watson?” David clarified.

  “You bet,” Bo Yun said enthusiastically. “He was part of our crowd. It’s good for us to be friendly with the American ambassador’s son.”

  “For guanxi,” David said.

  “You have learned the ways of our country very quickly,” Bo Yun said.

  “Guang Mingyun also told us that his son and Billy were friends,” David said.

  Bo Yun shook his head. “No, no, more than friends. They were business partners. Pretty soon, they are too busy making deals to spend time with us. Between you and me”—Bo Yun leaned forward confidentially—“none of us like to work too hard.” He fell back on the cushions and laughed. His friends, once again, joined in.

  “What kind of deals? What were they into?” Hulan queried.

  “You think they’re going to tell us? We might steal their ideas!” Bo Yun chortled. “You know something, Inspector Liu. We are honored by your visit, but you are talking to the wrong people.”

  “You were their friends…”

  “Were, Inspector Liu. We were their friends.” Bo Yun addressed the group. “Pour another round. Come on, David—can we call you David in the American way? Come on, David, have a drink with us, maybe sing us a song, and we will tell you who to talk to.”

  As Ning Ning and Di Di’s serenade came to a sorrowful close, Hulan gently laid a hand on Bo Yun’s knee. The young man didn’t wince or allow his eyes to be drawn to its de
licate presence. Instead, he turned to face Hulan, looked her directly in the eyes, dropped his carefree manner, and spoke in an even voice. “I said you are talking to the wrong people. You need to talk to the Gaogan Zidi of your generation, Inspector Liu. They know Billy and Henglai. You know how to find those people just as you knew how to find us.”

  “The Black Earth Inn?”

  Bo Yun looked over at David and said, “That is why she is an inspector.” Then he brightened again and called out, “Ning Ning, Di Di, another one. Sing us an American song. What’s that one? ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree’?”

  A few minutes later, David and Hulan said their good-byes and headed for the lobby. “What kind of business could those two boys have been involved in?” David asked.

  “I don’t know. It could be anything.”

  “Smuggling the immigrants?”

  “I don’t see it, David, but whatever it was probably got them killed.”

  David thought for a moment, then asked, “What’s the Black Earth Inn and how does it fit in?”

  “It’s a Cultural Revolution-nostalgia restaurant, but all kinds of people go there—Japanese tourists, corporate pirates, even triad leaders. It’s a place for people in trouble, people who want to get in trouble, and people who just want to do business. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

  They whisked through the revolving doors and out into the brisk night air. Peter jumped to attention, stubbed out his cigarette, and opened the rear door to the Saab. Hulan extended her hand to David, which he shook without thinking. “I think we accomplished a lot today, Attorney Stark,” she said, once again adopting her formal tone. “Investigator Sun will drive you back to your hotel.”

  “Can’t we be alone?” he asked, keeping his voice low so Peter wouldn’t hear him. “I want to be with you.”

  Hulan ignored the desire in his voice. “Investigator Sun will call you tomorrow morning to say what time he’ll pick you up.” She pulled her lavender coat tight around her, nodded good night, gave a slight wave to Peter, and turned away. David watched the lavender apparition step onto the sidewalk and slowly disappear into the ever-present sea of people.

  9

  FEBRUARY 1

  The Black Earth Inn

  At eleven-thirty the next morning, a Saturday, Peter pulled up to the three-story Black Earth Inn. At the entrance, the owner had put up a display of Mao buttons and T-shirts silk-screened with the Black Earth slogan. That slogan was also rendered as a Cultural Revolution-style big-character poster on one of the walls: IN THOSE YEARS OUR SWEAT WAS SPRINKLED ON THE GREAT NORTHERN WILDERNESS; TODAY WE MEET AGAIN IN THE BLACK EARTH INN. Unlike the usual Chinese restaurant, where a single hall might accommodate a wedding banquet for four hundred, the inn’s dining rooms were small and decorated to resemble rustic log cabins.

  The inn catered primarily to the former Red Guard of the Cultural Revolution—those who had been sent as youths to the countryside for reeducation in the late sixties and early seventies. The patina of time and age had tinged their memories with longing for a past where everyone knew their place and the young felt they were part of something exciting.

  David sensed people watching them as he and Hulan followed a hostess to a table for two. Even he could see just how different the people in this restaurant were from the taizi of the night before. These patrons were rounder, softer, older—mostly in their forties and early fifties. Their clothes were not showy. The men wore hand-tailored suits, while the women dressed conservatively but expensively. Even on a Saturday, everyone here seemed to be networking, meeting with clients, or making deals.

  David suspected that, as she had the previous night, Hulan wanted the two of them to be noticed, and just as they sat down, a man called out, “David Stark! Hello there! Too many years!” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but David didn’t recognize the chubby man who hurried to their table. “David! It is you! And here you are with Liu Hulan! Ah, just like old times, no?”

  “David, you remember Nixon Chen,” Hulan said.

  David looked at the man again. He remembered Nixon Chen as a skinny, earnest young lawyer who worried a lot. Here he was, ten years later, plump, happy, obviously well-to-do.

  “You’re not going to sit here! Come! Come to my table! You’ll see some of the old gang!”

  Nixon Chen grabbed both of their arms and guided them through the restaurant to a private dining room. The whole time he kept talking. “I hear you are in Beijing! I am thinking the inspector wants to keep you to herself! I am thinking, Hulan forgets that David Stark has other friends in China, that she should arrange a banquet for old times’ sake! I am thinking, Hulan always keeps her head in the clouds! She’s too busy to think about friends! But no! Here you are! I see you walk past and I think, Ah, that Liu Hulan, she is bringing me our old friend David Stark! Here, you sit next to me. Liu Hulan, you sit there. Everyone, move over, make room for our guests!”

  The round table had been set for ten, and now twelve squeezed together. Looking around at the faces, David didn’t think he recognized anyone, but he wasn’t sure. Nixon Chen wasn’t giving him any hints, except that he wasn’t switching from English to Chinese. All the while, the other guests were chattering so fast that David could barely catch what they were saying.

  “Liu Hulan, too many years!”

  “Liu Hulan, we don’t see you enough.”

  “Liu Hulan, come and eat memories.”

  “So many old friends here,” Nixon Chen allowed. “Right, Hulan?”

  Hulan nodded.

  Nixon turned to David. “We know Hulan since we are all of us children. Did you know that when we were at Phillips, MacKenzie? No?” Nixon laughed good-naturedly. “Well, you know it now!”

  The first dishes began to arrive. David had been to plenty of Chinese restaurants, but he’d never seen a meal like this. On the table were placed primitively made ceramic bowls filled with pungent sauerkraut, steaming whole yams, beef tendon stew, and sorghum. Instead of rice, the waiter brought out corn bread and flat peasant loaves. The lazy Susan in the middle of the table spun as the group dipped their chopsticks family-style into the communal dishes.

  “You want Peking duck, you go to Sick Duck, Big Duck, or Super Duck Restaurants! You want a meal like what we ate in the countryside during the Cultural Revolution, you come to the Black Earth Inn. They give you all the food of those days. Do you remember, Hulan? How we used to talk all day, all night in the countryside about the special meals we would eat if we ever got home?”

  “I remember you always talked about food.”

  “And look at me today!” Nixon Chen laughed, patting his stomach. “Ten years ago, you never see someone fat like me in China. Today, I am a fat cat, no?” He beamed, pleased that his comment had different yet similar meanings in English and Chinese. “Today we eat our simple meal to bring back old memories. Tomorrow, we go to Laosanjie and order the Educated Youths Reunion Platter. You’ll like it, Hulan! It has all those delicacies we craved—shrimp, sea slug, squid, pineapple, bitter melon.”

  “I’m sorry, Nixon, we are too busy,” Hulan said.

  “On Sunday?” Nixon shook his head. “You should be taking David to the Great Wall or the Summer Palace, not making him work!” Nixon addressed David. “Liu Hulan never changes, no? I remember when she is a girl. She was always serious. Then we are sent to the countryside. Well, we didn’t all go. Some of us here were too young,” Nixon said, motioning to some of the others at the table. “But those who were old enough went to the countryside. Not to the same place! Some of us are sent to different provinces, some of us together. Some of us”—he gestured around the table—“we are crying. We are missing our families. We are missing school. We are even missing our teachers!”

  “And we are thinking about all the bad things we said in those dark days,” interjected one woman. “The things we said against our own parents…”

  David saw a shadow cross Hulan’s face.

  Another man positione
d his mouth over his plate, spit out a piece of gristle, then asked the group, “Remember when we denounced our teachers as old farts?” He turned to Hulan. “Do you remember that day?” When she didn’t respond, he went on. “Mr. Stark, Hulan was only ten years old, but she was the bravest and most eloquent among us. She called Teacher Zho a pig ass. She said that his family was not red. She said he had come from the landlord class and that he lived in a honey jar. She said that to listen to him lecture was to betray our great Chairman. Her words were so strong.”

  “I remember,” said another, “when we went to the commune. Was that two years later?”

  “How can you forget?” asked Nixon. “It was 1970. We are sent to the Red Soil Farm. We thought the peasants were making a political statement with that name, but no. The earth was red and dry. For centuries they tried to make that earth yield a crop with no luck. Then they sent a bunch of city kids to ‘learn from the peasants.’”

  The first woman shook her head at the memory. “We were only twelve years old then. We had struggle meetings every day. Always Liu Hulan stands tall. Always she is firm. She did not allow leniency. She did not forgive even the most minor transgression. You remember that?” the woman asked the table at large. A couple of people nodded appreciatively.

  “Our Hulan is named for a famous revolutionary martyr,” said Nixon Chen. “But she never speaks of that Liu Hulan. No, she is the one who studies Lei Feng, a bigger hero. She memorizes all of his slogans and can quote his sayings to suit any situation.”

  “Eeee, remember that time? We are all still together at the farm. In the last struggle meeting against our group leader, Liu Hulan stands up and speaks the words of Lei Feng. She holds up her arm just so.” The speaker raised his arm as if declaiming and continued in a voice filled with conviction. “‘Treat individualism as the cold autumn wind sweeps the fallen leaves.’ That put an end to our group leader’s capitalist-roader activities!”

  Everyone except Hulan and David laughed at the recollection. Nixon Chen wiped tears from his eyes and said, “We also remember the day Mr. Zai comes to the collective. It is 1972 and your President Nixon has come to China, but we didn’t hear about things like that on the farm. We are fourteen years old and we have been away from our families for two years already. We have been working so hard—up before dawn, working in the fields all day, struggle meetings at night. We are brown from too much sun. We are dirty and tired and homesick. One day we are digging up stones from a field and we see a cloud of red dust coming toward us. Finally a big black car comes bumping across the dirt. It is Mr. Zai. We know him. He is from one of the old families. He takes Liu Hulan away. He says she is going to America to study. We are thinking…”