The show is over. It’s the day after the last performance and the band are having their longest lie-in of the entire trip—apart from Bruce, who is up early and on the phone, making calls and negotiating contracts with other musicians in God knows which country.
At noon, Dongdong wakes up. After drinking a mouthful of chilled water from the fridge, he discovers that Lutao is not in his bed. At first he thinks the singer might be in the bathroom, a long morning discharge after that spicy Mexican food and all those beers last night; but fifteen minutes pass and no one comes out. He checks the bathroom, but there is nothing—no vomiting, no blood, no dead body. Then Dongdong realises something is missing from their room—the blue suitcase covered with star stickers which belonged to Lutao. Gone with his clothes and his newly bought leather shoes and Elvis Presley T-shirts!
Dongdong knocks on Bruce’s door and their manager’s face drains of colour when he hears the news.
“I should have taken everyone’s passports,” he says regretfully. And now it’s too late.
After lunch, they hang about watching the comings and goings on the street outside in silence. Mu is still wearing her pyjamas, sitting on Lutao’s empty bed eating an apple, as if what has happened means very little to her. It is Monday, cars are flooding onto freeways, pedestrians are milling in the streets. Even in a city like Memphis, the Monday traffic is not light. The boys stare at the people passing by, vaguely hoping they might catch sight of a Chinese man with a blue suitcase crossing the street. But there are no Chinese men, no Japanese men, no Korean men in sight.
“Well, good luck to him.” Bruce curses bitterly.
During the band’s remaining days, Bruce wants to show his hospitality, and invites everyone to stay for a few days at his family home near Boston. “Now it’s holiday relaxation time, you guys must come and have some chill out time with my parents. Free food! No more tipping and hotel service charges!”
There are cheers, from all except Mu.
Bruce shows them a photo of his family home. A roomy three-storey house with a garden.
“A great house, and good feng shui too,” Liuwei praises with a twinge of envy. He is the other member of the band who would have loved to disappear and remain in America.
“That’s why the American president has the loudest voice! They are paid better and live better than the president of any other continent!” cries Dongdong.
Bruce shrugs. “Well, if you grew up here you wouldn’t find it so interesting. That’s why I went to China.” He turns to Mu. “Listen, Sister, I can try to organise a reading for you at a Harvard student club. I think those young intellectuals will like your style.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Mu responds tersely. She’s stopped speaking in full sentences to Bruce now.