Chasing the Monkey King

by D. C. Alexander

  “We just got to China. How about Chinese?”

  “We’re going to have nothing but Chinese for days. Maybe weeks.”

  “Yeah, but Chinese restaurants always have lots of choices.”

  “Why do you even ask?”

  “Huh?”

  “What I want. You ask, but we always end up doing what you want.”

  “No we don’t.”

  “You’re a deft manipulator.”

  “I am not. The hell are you talking about?”

  “I tell you I want Japanese, we end up at Mexican. I tell you I want a Reuben sandwich, you’re steering me toward Chinese.”

  “We’re in China. What better place to get it? Plus, the only time you get sick in China is when you eat Western food.”

  “Exactly. You always explain exactly how it makes more sense to do what you want. You’ve always been like that, ever since college. I don’t know why you ever bother asking my preference on anything—especially when it comes to food. We always end up doing what you want.”

  “We eat what you want all the time.”

  “Name one time.”

  Zhang couldn’t. And a few minutes later, Zhang was leading them through the front door of a lavishly decorated Chinese restaurant on Nanjing Road where they were dealt with in short manner by a rather grumpy female server as they ordered and gorged on too many platters of traditional but not particularly good Chinese food.

  *****

  It was still only 7 p.m. Shanghai time when they finished their meal, so they decided to hop a cab down to the Bund and the Huangpu riverfront for another walk. It was a short ride. All along the riverside walk fronting the old European buildings of the Bund, proud, smiling families were posing to take pictures with the spectacular Pearl Tower—Shanghai’s answer to Seattle’s Space Needle—in the background, across the river.

  The river itself was roughly the breadth of the Potomac where it flowed between the Lincoln Memorial and Arlington National Cemetery. The water was muddy and brown, giving off a complex, organic aroma that formed an exotic mishmash with the terrestrial smells of frying food, the diesel exhaust of passing trucks, the perfume of passing businesswomen, and the body odor of passing laborers. Unlike the quiet Potomac, the Huangpu teemed with a haphazard, seemingly endless parade of vessels motoring up and downriver. Skinny barges and one-off, makeshift craft of all sorts, carrying machinery, stacked crates, livestock, or exposed piles of bulk goods—produce, grains, raw ores, chemicals, soil, the crumbled concrete and bent rebar of demolished, outdated buildings. The river thronged with life, much as it probably had for millennia. Watermen scratching together an existence working on any sort of improvised, jimmy-rigged boat they could weld or nail together and keep afloat. Working with whatever they could get their hands on to make ends meet—to get ahead. In a moment of fanciful silliness, Severin imagined that they all came from some sort of Wild West, pirate-run port hundreds of kilometers upriver, inland, in the ancient interior of China. A dusty, desert town akin to Mos Eisley from Star Wars, complete with a raucous cantina where one could find China’s version of Han Solo. A place where captains and crew drank away their paychecks with reckless disregard, only to set sail again the next day, looking for a new load of cargo to carry back down to Shanghai.

  Then Severin remembered the river was only 70 miles long.

  *****

  Darkness had fallen by the time they got back to the hotel, so they figured they’d return to their rooms and at least try to sleep despite the 12-hour time difference from D.C. and the complicating factor of their intermittent slumber on the flight over. After checking to see that his door wedge was still in place, Severin stretched out in his bed and remained there for two hours, wide awake, before getting up and, in another fit of paranoia, getting right up close to both the dressing and bathroom mirrors and attempting to peer through them. Testing whether they had any gaps in their backing to facilitate one-way observation or filming. He found nothing and got back in bed, where he once again found himself thinking back to his days as an undeclared spy and courier with diplomatic cover as a legitimate U.S. Customs agent. He’d never met any of his contacts—merely dropped messages for them and collected the products of their treason. He wondered how many of them there had been, whether they’d had families, whether they’d been young or old, male or female. He wondered whether they were truly committed to freedom and capitalism, or whether they had instead been blackmailed or strong-armed into service by one of the American or other western intelligence agencies somehow. He wondered whether they were still alive, or whether their lives had ended in horrific fashion after their fingernails were torn off in one of the many damp, dark, subterranean, hell-on-Earth concrete dungeons of the dreaded Chinese Ministry of State Security—the MSS.

  *****

  Eventually, between 2 and 3 a.m., he decided a hot bath might help make him drowsy. He soaked for a good half hour, then wrapped himself in a hotel robe that was a foot too short. With his mind a jet-lagged, whacked out, paranoid whirlwind of incongruous thoughts, he switched on the television to see some sort of Chinese musical play or opera on the first channel he turned to. Players ran about the stage in brightly colored costumes, bearing wicked-looking painted-on masks with exaggerated facial expressions, dancing around to the odd pinging and banging sounds of unfamiliar, unseen instruments, pausing periodically to recite lines of dialogue in highly stylized singsong tones of voice. The old cop in him reflected that all the color and sound and weirdness of it would probably have sent someone under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms or LSD into a terminal fit. He sat on the edge of his bed for nearly 10 minutes, somewhat disturbed but utterly transfixed by the show, bizarre and novel as it was for him. A quick return to the television service’s channel guide revealed that the program was the Beijing Opera’s presentation of something called Journey to the West: Legend of the Monkey King.

  *****

  Just after 4 a.m., Severin gave up, dressed, and went downstairs to the bar, where he found Zhang reading a magazine and drinking a pot of tea.

  “This is ridiculous,” Severin said. “We need to find some sleeping pills, or we’re not going to be able to function during daylight hours.”

  “I haven’t slept a wink,” Zhang said. “Any ideas?”

  “You already know what I’m going to say.”

  “That we should drink? I’m inclined to agree.” Without another word, Zhang went to the bar and came back with two shot glasses filled with a colorless spirit.

  “What is it?” Severin asked, sniffing at his, pulling a face of revulsion. “Smells like chemicals.”

  “I’ve never known you to turn down a shot. It’s called Baijiu. The national firewater. Also the most consumed spirit in the world. It’s distilled from fermented sorghum.”

  “Sorghum again. The stuff of global conspiracy and intrigue. Not just for Tennessee biscuits anymore.”

  “Indeed. Now then, you need to learn how to say cheers in China. Could come in handy.”

  “How do you say it?”

  “Gan bei!” Zhang said, downing his shot.

  “Gan bei,” Severin echoed with less enthusiasm, tossing his own shot back with an all-too-well-practiced flick of the wrist.

  “It translates to dry the cup, which basically means don’t stop until it’s gone.”

  “Ugh! This is awful. I remember drinking something like this when I was stationed in Korea. Goryangju, I think it was called. A few more of these and I’ll either be ready for bed or a trip to the emergency room.”

  “It’s better than Jim Beam.”

  “Please.” Severin scratched his head. “I saw the craziest thing on television a little while ago. They said it was the Beijing Opera. But it didn’t look like any opera I’ve ever seen.”

  “Legend of the Monkey King?”

  “How did you guess that?”

  “It’s probably the opera here. China’s Barber of Seville or La Bohème or whatever.”

  �
�Why is it so popular? I found it mildly disturbing. All the weird faces and sounds and whatnot.”

  “I don’t know. Why is La Bohème so popular?”

  “You have a point. So what’s the legend then?”

  “Of the Monkey King? I can’t remember the story exactly. Something about a clever monkey who is happy until he realizes he’s mortal and that the gods don’t have any respect for him. Then he pulls a bunch of tricks on the gods to gain power and immortality. The gods still don’t take him seriously though, which royally pisses him off and motivates him to grab for more and more power until he becomes a genuine threat to the gods’ hegemony. Then he wreaks havoc. Or something like that.”

  “Huh. Greed, anger, arrogance, and a yearning for eternal life. The pillars of human existence.”

  Zhang made quick trip the bathroom. As he got back to the table, Severin said “I like to cook.”

  “Good for you.”

  “No, jerky. On the plane, you were asking what I like to do. I like to cook.”

  “You cook? Really? That’s hard to picture.”

  “Thanks. Truth is, I’m a great cook.”

  “What do you cook?”

  “Anything.”

  “What’s your signature dish?”

  “It’s hard to pick one. Maybe my brined and alder planked salmon. Or my beef Wellington. It’s the best in the world.”

  “So be a chef.”

  “I have no formal training. Can you picture them reviewing my resume down at Dahlia Lounge or Canlis? Hey Pierre, get a load of this. This guy’s claim to fame is that he cooks for himself, like a big boy, and likes to watch the Food Network.” Severin shook his head. “Nobody would take me seriously.”

  “Who takes you seriously now?”

  Severin was struck dumb.

  “Go to chef school,” Zhang said.

  “Costs too much.”

  “Use the money you get from this job.”

  “If we ever get paid.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with starting on a lower rung of the ladder? Don’t apply at Canlis. Apply at an Olive Garden or Spaghetti Factory or something.”

  “Screw that.”

  *****

  Four rounds later, they were starting to float.

  “Can we switch to something else?” Severin asked. “Anything else. Really, anything.”

  Zhang watched Severin contemplate and then gulp down his drink with a frown.

  “That business with the dead kids in Anacortes,” Zhang began.

  “What about it?”

  “It still haunts you.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Severin sighed and nodded. “Yes. Didn’t I already tell you that?”

  “Does it affect your health or mental wellbeing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

  “I talked to you about it.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “My captain referred me to a headshrinker who was supposed to be a specialist in recovery from traumatic experience or whatever.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Maybe a little bit. At first, anyway. I only went a few times. It didn’t really click for me. Plus, she wanted to put me on meds, which would have meant I’d have had to take a leave of absence. Wouldn’t have been allowed to carry a gun. Wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Well, now that you aren’t carrying a gun, maybe you should try again with somebody else. Maybe a behavioral psychologist or therapist instead of a shrink. Maybe they can teach you some coping methods or whatever.”

  “They’ll just tell me the same crap.”

  “You don’t know that. It’s worth a try.”

  “Is it? I tend to think that things are what they are, and you either carry on, or you don’t. Hopefully, over time, the edge comes off.”

  “That’s a crock. Let me tell you something. You’re one of those types who think they know more than they do. I am too. But someone once convinced me to talk to someone—someone professional—and it made a huge difference in my life. In my state of mind.”

  “Did you talk to them about your innermost feelings, Wallace? About how your parents only loved you when you got A’s in math?”

  “I’m being sincere. Try again. If it doesn’t click, then try somebody else. Keep trying until you find the person who gets you. Who tells you things that make sense to you. Things that actually help.”

  “Who has time for wild goose chases?”

  “It’s like hiring an architect or something. Just because you don’t like the designs the first one gives you doesn’t mean you give up and just design your own house. We’d all be living in leaning shacks with leaking roofs.”

  “Do you know how expensive psychiatrists and psychologists are? Do you know how much of that kind of thing my crap medical insurance would cover? Jack squat.”

  “Then go to a therapist, like I said. They’re less expensive, right?”

  “I was raised to think of therapists as the chiropractors of mental health.”

  “That’s an outdated way of thinking. There are good ones out there. You just have to keep trying until you find one you like.”

  “Right. Thanks for the lecture, Sigmund. It’s exactly what I needed four Baijiu shots into a self-prescribed insomnia recovery regimen after a 20-hour flight.”

  *****

  Sometime later, just after falling asleep, Severin woke from his recurring nightmare of the murdered family and the dark void to yet another episode of heart palpitations. This time, it took him nearly two frightening, obsessively pulse-checking hours to get back to sleep.

  NINETEEN

  The next day, Severin rose just before noon, ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and took a long, hot shower. Once dressed, he took the elevator down to the lobby and went out into the bustle of midday on Nanjing Road. As he walked, he dialed the number Andrew Bergman had given him for the Commerce team’s interpreter, Yu Lin. On the pretext of being an American tour operator who, having heard good things, was interested in possibly contracting with her to serve as interpreter and guide for periodic Shanghai bus tours, Severin set up an afternoon meeting with her at a café conveniently close to her home in the nearby French Concession neighborhood.

  *****

  As Severin and Zhang walked from the hotel to the café in the French Concession, they crossed, rather abruptly, from a zone of modern Shanghai into a markedly older neighborhood with buildings that looked as if they belonged in a Western European city of the early 20th century. It was relatively quiet—extremely quiet compared to Nanjing Road. Large, old plane trees lined the avenues, their enormous branches leaning out over the pavement, creating a tunnel-like canopy of leaves. Narrow alleyways led off to courtyard gardens and restaurants. There were numerous French and Belgian-style bistros and sidewalk cafes. There were antique stores, quaint boutiques, and art galleries.

  “I was digging through more of the case record earlier,” Zhang said as they walked.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  “Well, first of all, you know how I told you the new kid assigned to the YSP case accidentally emailed us the full proprietary version of the case file?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, it included a big analysis memorandum the Commerce Department put together. The memo includes a bunch of customs data covering several years of U.S. imports of sorghum syrup, and goes into detail describing and analyzing the total U.S. sales volumes and per-kilogram prices for each of the four Chinese companies that were being investigated.”

  “And I give a crap about such minutia because why?”

  “Last year YSP was the Goliath.”

  “Again, so what?”

  “It’s just weird. I mean, YSP had by far the highest sales volumes of any of the four companies Commerce investigated.�
�

  “That’s weird?”

  “It’s weird because, according to the data in the memo, in previous years the four Chinese sorghum manufacturers had roughly equal U.S. sales volumes. It’s weird because all of a sudden, last year, YSP rocketed ahead of the other three. And it’s especially weird because YSP did this after almost doubling the prices of its U.S. sales. Basic economics, Lars. Have you ever heard of a company’s sales figures suddenly jumping way up after they double their prices?”

  “Maybe they have a superior product.”

  “Lars, it’s sorghum syrup. A product that’s about as sophisticated as canned corn. How much variation could there possibly be?”

  *****

  A smartly dressed, middle-aged Chinese woman immediately rose from her table as they entered the very European café.

  “Mr. Severin? I am Yu Lin. It is my pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you. This is my associate, Wallace Zhang.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Zhang. May I order something for you?”

  Though they each requested straight black coffee, she asked them a bunch of questions about whether or not they might like this or that natural or artificial sweetener, this or that dairy product—running through the list from skim milk, to whole milk, to cream, and finally non-dairy creamer—perhaps in an effort to impress them with her knowledge of English. Then, the moment they sat down, probably with the idea of making a good impression as a potential tour guide, she jumped straight into a thumbnail history of the French Concession neighborhood in which they sat.

  “You probably noticed the European-looking architecture on the blocks between your hotel and this café.”

  “We did,” Zhang said, tempted to get to the point, but restraining himself in accordance with Severin’s instruction to let her talk, establish rapport, and get comfortable with them before they raised the curtain on the real reason they were there.