Chapter Thirteen

★

“What the fuck, John? What the fuck was that? And don’t tell me it’s . . . it’s killing the monkey to frighten the snake or something.”

“Something like that.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Oh, wait. You totally are.”

I’m sitting in John’s car, and I’m shaking. With anger, with fear, with whatever’s left after an adrenaline rush. My leg has started to throb.

I don’t like being blown up.

“I cannot fucking believe you did that. Do you know who’s going to get shit for this? Me. Not you. They don’t even know who you really are!”

“They have my card,” John says. He’s keeping his eyes on the road as we head back to Gulou. Doing that overly calm thing that pisses me off.

“Oh, yeah, your fake card with your fake name and fake business on it!”

Now he does look over at me.

“You want to catch them, right? Get justice for this girl?”

I have a flash again, of the picture Inspector Zou showed me, of that bruised, swollen face. And the thing is, I do. I want someone to answer for what was done.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want some justice. But . . . these people—do you understand who we’re dealing with here?”

“Yes. The Caos, one of richest families in China. And Yang Junmin. He was governor of Hubei, then party chief. Next he was party chief in Zhejiang. Now he is also member of Central Politburo. He is a powerful man. But if he is corrupt, then he needs to be exposed.”

John’s on a mission, all right. Straight into the kill box.

Jesus, this is a fucking nightmare.

“How is this gonna expose them? The only people it exposed are you and me. That we know about the dead girl.”

“You saw their faces. They know about her, too.”

I think about that scene. How everything stopped. Try to picture their expressions. Uncle Yang, eyes narrowed, and Tiantian, stunned, both staring at John. Gugu, eyes closed, like he was in pain, or maybe just really loaded. Marsh, patting Gugu on the back, eyes flicking up at me. And Meimei?

“Very sad,” she’d said lightly. “So many bad things can happen to poor girls in the city.”

“It is a problem with modern society,” Tiantian pronounced.

And everyone went back to eating.

Yeah, it seemed like they knew something. But how could anyone be sure? I mean, murdered girls dumped in a pile of garbage isn’t exactly polite dinner conversation.

“I will protect you. You must know that,” John says, and he sounds like a freaking Boy Scout, he’s so earnest.

“I wouldn’t need protecting in the first place if you didn’t keep fucking with my life!” I just want to punch him, but he’s driving, so I slam my fist into the seat next to me. “I swear to God, I am so done with men. And women. And people! Fuck it, I’m going to live out in the country with my dog.”

“You know the only way to help you is to find out who kill this girl.”

“You could’ve told me what you were planning, instead of sandbagging me like that! Thanks for making it real clear to me what you really care about.”

I mean, at least I know.

There’s a long silence as we turn down the alley to my apartment.

“I am sorry,” he says. “But I did not plan. I just was . . . I just was angry.”

“Why? Why does it make you so angry?”

We pull in to the parking lot of my building. John shoves the transmission into park, and the tires squeal.

“People like that . . . they take everything. They give back nothing. They use people like . . . like toys. If they break the toy, they just throw it away. They ruin this country. They ruin everything.”

“But it’s personal for you. Isn’t it?”

That muscle in his jaw works. I think he isn’t going to say anything, or say that I’m just imagining it.

He nods. “Yes. Maybe, a little.”

“You gonna tell me about it?”

“Maybe some other time.”

We sit in the car in silence.

He sighs. “Still . . . you are right, I should not have said what I said.”

“What do we do now?”

“Wait and see.”

“Wait and see if Uncle Yang sends out a hit man?”

“Someone will stay outside your apartment. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, because there’s nothing that makes me feel safer than some underpaid nark from bumfuck Shanxi or wherever watching over me.”

“Yili . . .” He does that thing where he scrunches up his face, like he’s getting a headache, and I think, Good. Because I want him to lose it. I want to make him mad.

Instead he just shakes his head and says, “I’m sorry.”

I let out a long sigh, my anger emptying out like a deflating balloon. I just don’t have the energy to be mad anymore.

But I have to do more than just “wait and see.”

“Betty,” I say.

“Who?”

“One of Gugu’s friends. She was at the party. I called her after it, just to make sure she wasn’t . . . you know, dead. I swear she was scared. Maybe she knows something.”

Or maybe it was a total coincidence and she’d just had a fight with her boyfriend.

“Okay. We can talk to her, then. I’ll call you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

I shrug and open the car door. “Okay.”

John stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Yili, please . . . do not do anything without me.”

“Right. Because it went so well when we did something together.”

When I get upstairs to my apartment, it’s dark, even though it’s only ten fifteen. There’s a note on the fridge from my mom: “Mimi and I are at Andy’s. Come over! The tortillas came out great!”

No way, I think. After that dinner I don’t have any appetite left, and though I’d kind of like to be hanging out with the dog, I don’t have the energy to make up some story for my mom about how great the evening was.

I crack open a beer and collapse on the couch.

I should change out of these fancy clothes, I think. Instead I just sit there on the couch, my thoughts in a whirl, and I can feel myself spiraling down.

Let’s see. DSD on my ass. Check. Lao Zhang coming back to town. Check. PSB looking at me for a murder. Yep. And now I’m in the sights of some Party bigwig, plus Sidney’s three kids.

And oh, shit, what about Sidney? Would he know about what happened tonight?

Okay, I tell myself, okay, calm down. If you murdered a girl, would you want your dad to know?

You would if you thought he could fix the problem for you.

Oh, shit.

From inside my fancy little leather bag, my phone makes that bamboo text tone. I don’t even want to look.

But I do. It’s my landlady. She lives someplace near Wenzhou, so almost all our communication is by text. I try to communicate with her as little as possible. Last thing I want to be is the pain-in-the-ass laowai.

yili, ni hao. sorry but i must raise rent starting in 1 month. new amount is 10,500 ¥.

Which is, oh, almost double what I’m paying now. More than I can afford, even if I could sell Lao Zhang’s art again.

On my craptastic disability pension? I could maybe afford the bathroom.

But hey, at least my landlady isn’t trying to kill me or have me arrested, right?

At least not so far as I know.

I have to wonder about the timing here. Uncle Yang or Tiantian couldn’t have moved this fast to fuck with my life, could they?

It’s probably just a coincidence. Rents have been going up like crazy in Beijing.

Still, how much more jacked up could things get?

The Suits could make an appearance, I guess. That would be one awesome FUBAR party.

I take a slug of beer, wishing I had something stronger in the house. Well, I have Percocet. This just might be the time for one.

I thumb back to the list of messages out of habit, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything else, because I do that sometimes.

I see Celine’s name there, and the message underneath: LettersFromTheDeepYellowSea.com. Her website.

Maybe you can learn more about modern Chinese culture.

And she was at the party.

Couldn’t hurt to take a look.

Celine’s blog is in English. That’s interesting, I think. English language blogs don’t get as much attention from the censors as Chinese language do. Which would make sense for the kind of China Sex and the City stuff I figure she’s doing from that “Yellow” in her blog title.

It is so boring sometimes, being a young girl in a city like Beijing. If you are not a member of their class, then you must be more attractive and more clever in your flattery when you are trying to get ahead in this place.

It’s best not to settle for a man your own age. They don’t usually have good jobs or incomes. Your best bet is to find a local official who is looking for a girlfriend. This has many advantages. For example, a parking place when you want it. Getting your phone and Internet hooked up quickly, making sure you breathe filtered air. Taking you to restaurants you could never afford yourself and ordering an emperor’s feast, with fine French wine to wash it down, and you must eat it, you must eat it all. Telling you not every girl deserves this.

This is what it means to taste the new life, in the new society. We must gather it into our mouths, rip into it with our teeth, and taste its raw, warm blood.

Ooh-kay. That was not what I was expecting from Celine. I was thinking more, lots of designer brands, parties, booze, drugs, and hookups. Not all . . . whatever this is.

She posted this entry tonight, it looks like.

I scroll down to the one before.

It is so wonderful to have tradition to fall back on. To fall into, into its cold, hard grip. Of course, you can have it your way, soft, fresh, and young, whatever you can afford. You don’t have to return it in perfect condition. Tradition is your foundation as well as your excuse.

The time stamp says she posted it two nights ago. Three nights after Tiantian’s party.

I feel that prickling on the back of my neck I get when I’m close to something I want to know but that I know is dangerous. And I’m wondering just what Celine saw, that night at Tiantian’s place.

So many girls think they want a rich lover. It is true this is a cruel country to be poor in. But I know a girl who has a tuhao boyfriend, and she is not so happy. She can never feel secure. He buys her nice gifts, but he can buy anything, including other girls. He only wants to fuck her now and again, and it is all for his pleasure, not for hers.

But the parties, she likes the parties. She likes the presents he gives her, the designer bags and the jewelry. She likes riding in his Lamborghini, she likes being seen with him. He is important, and if she is with him, then she must be important, right? But she knows she is not. She is nothing. She is just another thing he bought, and when he gets tired of her, he can just throw her away.

Tonight I will go to a party with my friend and her rich boyfriend. We can drink the best champagne, we can take E or K if we like, and we can dance on our private dance floor for hours and hours, and everyone will admire her for her good fortune. But if I ask her if she is happy, I know how she will answer.

The date on that entry lines up with Gugu’s party, the one at Entránce.

I skim a couple of others. Cynical, funny descriptions of Beijing’s privileged class, of parties and expensive champagne, of designer clothes and bags, of sex and drugs. But nothing that’s quite like those two posts at the end.

I wonder if Betty’s the girlfriend and Celine’s the observer or if Celine’s the girlfriend and she’s just describing things like they’re happening to someone else. Sometimes it’s easier to think about things that way.

There’s a place to sign up to receive blog posts by email. I do that, using a Yahoo! address that isn’t linked to my real name—at least I don’t think it is. You never really know. One thing I’ve learned is that nothing you do is really private anymore, if someone wants to find out bad enough.

Should I call her? It’s after 11:00 p.m. Probably not late for Celine, given all these late nights with the rich folk she’s blogging about.

I find her on my messages and press call.

A burst of music, some Mandopop. “Duibuqi, nin bodade yonghu zanshi wufa jietong, qing shaohou zai bo.” Sorry, the subscriber you dialed is busy. Please try again later.

I disconnect.

I decide to write a text. Something simple.

i read some of your blog. i enjoyed it a lot. i’d like to talk to you about it.

And I hit send.

After that I change into my sleeping T-shirt and sweats. Toss my party clothes into the hamper. I am so done with all this shit. I pad around the living room, beer in hand, thinking if I get arrested or deported, at least I won’t have to look for a new apartment. Because I’m going to have to get a new place. No way around it.

I guess it won’t be so bad. Hardly anything here is mine. Most of the furniture came with the apartment. I’ve got some kitchen stuff, a computer, a TV, a few pieces of art. I could move to a smaller place, easy. I don’t really need this much room. There’s my mom to think about it, but truth be told, she’s practically living with Andy as it is. I’m tempted to ask her how this squares with the whole Christian thing, but she told me once she has a weakness when it comes to men, and I guess if Christ forgives us our sins, hers are pretty small in the scheme of things. Hey, I remember when I was going through my Christian phase, I wasn’t exactly chaste.

For all the bullshit we’ve been through, she’s a good person. I know that. And the crazy thing is, she’s happier than I’ll probably ever be.

Sometimes you just have to go for it.

I’d go for it if I had a clue what “it” even was.

I can’t fall asleep.

I keep hearing things, sounds out in the hall, random creaks, and I think I should’ve gotten Mimi from Mom and Andy. She’d keep watch for me. Because no matter what John says, no matter who he has staking out my place, Uncle Yang’s budget for hit men is probably bigger. As is Tiantian’s. Or Gugu’s. And let’s not forget Meimei and crazy Dao Ming.

The wind’s howling, too. Coming from the north, and they say the dust will come with it.

I lie in bed and wonder how can I suggest to my mom that she just move in with Andy already. It has to be safer for her with him than living here with me.

Even if she’d be just across the hall.

Maybe I can talk them into a vacation. Preferably out of the country.

I’m finally drifting off when I hear the chime of an incoming text. I fumble around for my phone.

Celine.

My pulse picks up. I get that feeling again: I’m on the track of something. Weird thing is, I’m starting to like it.

glad you enjoy my blog. sure, we can talk about it.

great, I type. when?

now?

okay, I type. i’ll call you.

better to talk in person.

This does not strike me as a great idea.

it’s pretty late, I type. how about tomorrow?

i’m busy tomorrow. come to my apartment tonight. i’m in caochangdi, you know caochangdi?

Caochangdi is a Beijing suburb just northeast of 798 Arts District, a little village that used to be a commune and turned into an art center all its own, thanks to Ai Weiwei building a bunch of studio spaces there. It hasn’t gone completely upscale the way 798 has, so there are some actual working artists there, galleries, too.

sure, I type. i know it.

so come.

it will take a while, I type. maybe we should just talk on the phone.

i don’t want to talk about this on the phone.

about what?

about the party. about what happened.

I don’t reply. I just stand there staring at the screen of my iPhone.

you want to know about it, right?

okay, I finally type. send me your address.

Here’s the thing.

I may be a fuckup, but I’m not totally stupid.

I never actually talked to Celine. She, or whoever was texting, didn’t answer the phone and then wouldn’t talk to me. Who knows if it was actually Celine at all, or if this is even her address? I’m just supposed to hop into a taxi and run over there after midnight?

I don’t think so.

But I do want to know.

I’ll go tomorrow, I decide, in the daytime. Do some recon before I go all knock-ops on her door.

If it was her, and she wants to talk to me, she’ll talk to me. If it was somebody else? They won’t be expecting me. Or maybe they’ll be gone.

I’m out in the kitchen at 7:00 a.m., which for me in recent years might as well be oh dark thirty. With all the dust in the air right now, it’s still darker than it should be.

I’m sucking down some coffee when the doorknob rattles. I hear Mimi’s whine, so it’s probably Mom and not one of Uncle Yang’s hit men.

I wander out to the living room with my coffee as Mom and Mimi come through the door.

“Oh, hi! I was just . . . walking Mimi.” She’s a little red-faced. Like I care that she’s semi–shacking up with Andy.

“Thanks.”

Mimi’s dancing around, ready for breakfast. She dashes over to me, stands up on her back paws, and braces her front legs on my pelvis, runs back to my mom. One of us is bound to feed her.

“So windy out today,” Mom says.

“Yeah. Supposed to be a dust storm coming.”

“Well, good thing we got our walk in already, right girl?” Mom ruffles the scruff around Mimi’s neck. “You’re up early,” she says to me.

“I have a . . . a meeting. To look at some art.”

I go back to the kitchen to heat up my coffee and give the dog some food. Also to avoid my mom. Because I have to say something, right? Let her know there might be some bad guys out there with me in their sights and that she’s better off being out of range.

But where would I start? And do I want to deal with the resulting freak-out?

“So what are you guys up to today?” I ask.

“Well, we’re going to visit a few more potential locations for the restaurant.” She grabs a mug and pours herself a little coffee. “One of them’s near Workers Stadium. The other’s by Dongsi Shitiao.”

“Oh, cool,” I say. “Because . . . there’s maybe going to be some work going on in the apartment today. So I was hoping you could take Mimi and . . . not be around. Because, you know . . . workers don’t like dogs.”

Her forehead wrinkles. She takes a sip of coffee and gives me a sideways look. “If you’re going to have workers in and out of here, wouldn’t it be better if I kept an eye on things?”

Well, okay, that was not one of my better lies. But it’s way too early, and I’m only on my first cup of coffee.

“Normally, yeah.” I take a big gulp from that cup, scalding my throat in the process.

“Okay,” I say when I’ve stopped coughing. “Here’s the thing. I need for you and Mimi and Andy to not be around the apartment today. There’s this kind of . . . weird situation I’m involved in, and . . . it’s just really better if you’re not here.”

My mom rocks her head back a little. “Oh. Sure. I understand if you need your place to yourself.”

She gets this sly smile on her face. “Are you still seeing John?”

Oh, so not that! I want to scream.

Instead I say, “Yeah. Kind of.”

Not good enough, I tell myself, over and over, hugging a pole on the subway out to Caochangdi. Yeah, I might’ve kept her and Andy and Mimi out of my apartment for a day or so, but is that really going to protect them from Uncle Yang or the Caos?

I’ve got to tell her the truth, or some version of it anyway.

I will, I tell myself. I will. Just as soon as I deal with Celine.

I make it to Caochangdi around 8:30 a.m.

I figure a party girl like Celine probably doesn’t get out of the house too early. I sure had a hard time getting here. For one thing, the subway only gets you as far as Liangmaqiao, and from there it’s a bus or a taxi. I opt for the taxi. Easy enough to find at the subway stop. The way back I might not be so lucky.

Finding anything in Caochangdi is kind of a hassle. Most of the streets don’t have names. The address I have is just “Focus Space, 草场地村, 468-3，艺术区内, C区内.” Which is basically “No street name, just a number, Inner Arts District, C Section, Caochangdi.” I’ve never heard of Focus Space, but that’s not saying much; things are changing fast in Caochangdi like they are nearly everyplace else in Beijing, with all kinds of construction and new galleries popping up everywhere, plus a sudden increase of Audis and Beemers parked in front of them. I do know, sort of, where the Inner Arts District is, which is more than the taxi driver did. So I had him drop me off at a gallery complex I’ve been to before. Someone will know where this place is. I hope.

The gallery’s not open yet, but the little coffee shop/bar attached to it is. White walls and concrete floors like the gallery, decorated with posters from various exhibitions they’ve put on. I could use another cup of coffee anyway. I order an Americano from the girl with the spiky, blue-streaked hair behind the counter, and then I show her the text from Celine.

“Do you know where this is?”

She studies it and nods.

The wind is still howling, and the air is so thick with yellow dust that I hardly cast a shadow. I feel the sand hitting my face, and my teeth are crunching grit. I take out a bandanna and tie it around the lower half of my face, bandit style, like I used to do in the Sandbox. I’m jumpy like I was back then, too. Outside the wire you never knew what was going to happen. Of course, inside the wire plenty of bad shit happened, too, like my getting blown up, for example.

Focus, McEnroe, I tell myself. Don’t get lost in those times. Don’t start seeing stuff that isn’t there. Focus on the here and now, because you don’t know what you’re walking into.

Supposedly the place is about fifteen minutes away on foot: You just go down this big road, then at the second cross street you turn right. Here’s hoping.

I’ve reached the second cross street, so I hang a right. A small road, narrow, not paved. A cluster of shops, mostly two stories, cement and white tile, clusters of wires droopily strung from one side of the street to the other, the wind making them swing and snap. Art supplies, a couple hole-in-the-wall restaurants, cell phones, groceries. A bike-repair shop. Not a lot of people out, but who would want to be out here right now, swallowing dirt? A stray dog trots down the street, tail low, finally taking shelter in a doorway.

I keep walking. The sky looks like something out of a science-fiction movie, all yellow, an alien planet. A plastic bag floats by like an airborne jellyfish, a paper cup tumbles into the road. The businesses thin out. I pass a newer-looking redbrick complex, stark squares and skinny windows, obviously some kind of art space. But not the one I’m looking for.

New apartments. Half built, only ten stories, not the kind of crazy high-rises you see everywhere in China, with a design that mirrors the art space.

Funny. This isn’t where I would’ve pictured Celine living, in an art village like Caochangdi. Sure, it’s pretty hip, and I get the feeling she’s into that, but not in the center of things for Beijing, hard to get to, and hard to get out of if you don’t have a car. Though maybe she does—I mean, I have no idea. I don’t know much of anything about her, other than what I read on her blog, and that she hangs out with Gugu and Marsh.

Gugu, whatever else he is, he’s got his pretentions, right? Not that he’s the upholder of Confucian virtues, like Tiantian fancies himself, but that he’s a creative guy. An artist of sorts, even if he says he’s only interested in making trashy movies. The kid who Sidney wants to manage his art collection. Maybe Gugu hangs out here, and it’s where he met Celine.

Stuff I think I’ll ask her about when I see her.

Here’s what looks like an old factory or a school: grey wall with thick pillars on either side of the entrance, painted white concrete buildings, faded gold calligraphy announcing whatever it used to be—okay, that says factory—and a newer signpost with placards for the various galleries and studios inside it. Some brass, some professionally printed, others deliberately hand done.

And there’s Focus. I almost miss it because it’s done in these overlapping typefaces that are different colors and seem to make the word shift and blur. Cute.

I walk in the direction of the sign.

The path takes me past old concrete and brick buildings, some plastered, some raw. All kinds of flyers and posters pasted up on the walls, layers of them, for exhibits, for bands, for film showings. I pass a life-size wooden tank, with faces and gargoyles and I don’t know what carved into it, along with the block letters victory! in English. A little farther down the path, some giant calligraphy statues that spell out 为什么? “Why?” A couple of people with scarves wrapped around their faces scurry across the grounds, looking for shelter. The wind isn’t getting any better. Dust hits a window with an audible rattle; a tin sign on a wooden stake topples over and scrapes against the pavement.

Finally a grey brick building with the same graphic as the signpost by the gate—focus—bolted to the wall next to double metal doors. I do a little recon. One small smoked Plexiglas window to the left of the entrance. I don’t see anything useful, just high ceilings and some statue shapes I can barely make out.

Weird. It looks like a gallery. Celine can’t really live here, can she?

I don’t see a doorbell or anything like that. I jiggle the door handle. Unlocked.

Okay, I think. It’s nine fifteen. A little early for a gallery, but not out of the question. Just because it’s the middle of a howling dust storm, that doesn’t mean there’s anything so weird about my being here, right?

Right.

My heart’s doing double time as I open the door.

If the gallery’s open for business, it doesn’t look like it. It’s dark, with just some dim yellow light filtering in through the skylights. Enough for me to make out the shapes I glimpsed from outside.

Bodies. Limbs and trunks and heads. I let out a gasp, then tell myself to get a grip. They’re too big to be human. They’re doll parts. Giant doll parts that look like Chinese Barbies. Like a rubbery pink Barbie torso that towers over me, then another wearing a sailor blouse and a skirt that ends that just above its swollen pink crotch. There’s a pair of legs, one bent backward at the knee, like my friends and I used to do when we were kids. Arms, hands with painted red nails. Heads. Blank eyed. Cascades of shiny plastic hair: black, blond, and red.

Why couldn’t it have been fluffy kittens and puppies, you know?

I pull the bandanna I’m wearing down around my neck. “Ni hao,” I say. My voice cracks a little from all the dust. “You ren zai zheli?”

Anyone here?

No one answers.

To my left there’s an alcove with a desk and a computer, behind it shelves with books and exhibition catalogs. The computer’s off. At the back of the gallery, a doorway, a dark rectangle. Blue light flickers from inside—a TV?

I hesitate. Listen. Howling wind, things creaking and thumping, the crackle of grit hitting glass.

None of it’s coming from in here. I don’t think.

Okay, McEnroe, I tell myself. You have one of two choices: keep looking or turn around and walk away.

I almost leave. It doesn’t feel like anyone’s here, and the whole thing’s off anyway. This can’t be where Celine lives. The text messages last night, whoever sent them wanted me to come here. But why?

It’s that question, the “why?” that makes me keep walking. Which is pretty stupid. Because one of the answers I come up with would inspire a sane person to get out, right now.

I’ll just go look in this next room, I tell myself. That’s as far as I’ll go. I’ll check it out, and then I’ll leave.

Sometimes I’m really a dumb shit.

It’s a smaller gallery. Dark because there’s no skylight. A bedroom, I guess, a girlie, Barbie kind of bedroom: pink and red, anime eyes and hearts on the walls, lit by a huge flat-screen TV playing some Chinese soap with the sound turned off. It smells like somebody took a dump somewhere close by.

Over on the bed, there are more larger-than-life dolls. The first is another Chinese Barbie. She’s lying on her back with her legs spread. There are three others, all men. I guess you could call them Ken. Unlike Barbie, they’re clothed. Two are Chinese Kens. One’s a Westerner. They stand there surrounding the bed, seeming to stare at the doll lying in it.

My eyes move right, past the bed, past the giant stuffed Hello Kitty.

Next to the Hello Kitty, propped up against the wall, at first I think it’s another doll.

Celine.

Oh, shit.