Year of the Tiger (20 page)

I wake up around nine
A.M.
It’s the best I’ve slept in a while, which is strange, because usually, when I’ve had that much to drink, I don’t sleep well at all.

It’s just so comfortable here.

Then I think about last night, about how drunk I got, what an ass I probably made of myself.

If I’m lucky, maybe I can sneak out without having to talk to anyone.

I look over at the chair where I left my clothes, and they’re gone. In their place is a new fleece robe and a pair of slippers.

This is what happens sometimes when you think you don’t care: you wake up the next morning and realize that you
do
care, but you can’t find your clothes.

What if I can’t leave?

Okay, I tell myself. Okay. Maybe there’s some other explanation, one from the planet of the normal people, like, the maid hung up my clothes while I was passed out.

I check the closet. No clothes. My stinky Pumas are there, though, which makes me feel a little better. Because if Harrison was planning on imprisoning me here in his luxury penthouse, he wouldn’t have left me my shoes, right? And my leather jacket’s hanging on a padded hanger, and my little backpack’s next to it as well.

I put on the robe and the slippers and cautiously pad down the hall.

I wander into the gallery. The trickle of the fountain echoes in the conditioned air.

‘Ellie. Good morning.’

Off to the right is a breakfast nook, a small dining table and a bar with tall stools that borders on a kitchen. Harrison Wang sits at the table, sipping a cup of coffee, typing a last word on his laptop. He’s dressed, of course, in a suit jacket and another one of his collarless shirts.

‘Hello,’ I say. I find myself clutching the collar of my robe together.

He indicates the chair across from him. ‘Would you like some coffee? Breakfast?’

‘Thanks.’

I sit. Out of nowhere, a woman appears with a cup of coffee. ‘Cream? Sugar?’

‘Black is fine.’

‘For breakfast? You would like eggs? Croissant? Congee?’

‘I, uh … whatever.’

‘Did you sleep well?’ Harrison asks.

‘Very.’

‘The housekeeper sent your clothes out to be cleaned. It’s her habit when she sees any clothes left out. They should be back soon. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you.’

‘No, it’s … nice of her.’

The coffee’s excellent, which doesn’t surprise me.

Harrison closes the lid of his laptop. ‘So, Ellie. What are your plans?’

‘In what sense?’

Harrison chuckles. ‘I was only thinking as far as today.’

I drink some coffee and try to think of how to answer.

I shrug. ‘Nothing much. You know, check some e-mail. Stuff like that. How about you?’

‘Meetings,’ Harrison says with a sigh. ‘Nothing very interesting.’

‘So, do you have some kind of business, or … ?’

‘Investments, mostly. Venture capital. Real estate.’ He smiles. ‘You can see why I collect art. It’s really much more satisfying.’

‘I’m starting to get that,’ I say.

The maid returns from the kitchen carrying a tray holding a bowl of congee, little dishes of condiments, and a croissant.

I flavor my congee with pickles and dried fish and screw up my courage. ‘You know a lot about Lao – Zhang Jianli.’

‘I know a little about his art,’ he says, watching me.

‘It seems like you know a lot,’ I say, and I try to smile. Like it’s a compliment. ‘I was interested in what you said last night. About community.’

Harrison nods. Waits for me to continue.

‘That doesn’t have to mean a real place like Mati. Does it?’

‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’

Oh, you know, like a secret society inside an online game.

‘Well, what you were saying last night. About …’ I try to remember through the haze of wine. ‘Post-democratic communities.’

‘Ah.’ Harrison waits for the maid to refill our coffees. ‘Forces of globalization tend to have an atomizing effect on traditional communities. The resulting clash and mix can be both exhilarating – and disorienting. One response is the rise of fundamentalism and nationalism. In Zhang’s work, I see an ideal of transcending nationalism and creating new forms of community that oppose globalization’s homogenizing tendencies.’

I had to ask …

‘When you say new forms of community … what does that mean?’

Harrison shrugs. ‘It can mean a number of things. But basically, I refer to people coming together for a common purpose. Lovers of opera, perhaps. Or for saving the pandas.’

‘Huh,’ I say. ‘So, communities like that … people wouldn’t have to be in the same place, would they? I mean, you could have your panda lovers in Beijing and your panda lovers in San Diego. You know? And they still come together somehow. Like on the Internet. On Facebook. Or something.’

‘Certainly,’ Harrison says. ‘That is, if we are talking about pandas.’

There’s this energy between us, like a static charge.

‘I’ve never heard Lao Zhang talk about pandas,’ I say.

Harrison stares at me. ‘Pandas are something of a cliché in contemporary Chinese art.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

I stir a little cream into my coffee. ‘So … do you believe in all that? I mean …’

I meet his eyes. They’re hazel, verging on green.

I continue: ‘What Lao Zhang believes in?’

He blinks. It’s almost a flinch. Then he smiles.

‘I’m not an idealist by nature. But I appreciate the artistic results.’

Now the housekeeper has returned with a perfect cheese-and-chives omelet.

Harrison takes a sip of coffee and puts down his cup with an air of finality. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. Please don’t rush your breakfast. Stay here as long as you’d like.’

Seeing as how I don’t have my clothes, I’m not in a position to rush.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t have more of a chance to talk,’ he continues, ‘but maybe we can meet again later in the week, if you’re available.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’

He nods and rises. ‘Here’s my card.’ I take it. ‘Do you have one, or –?’

‘No, not right now. I’ll write down my information for you.’

‘Thank you.’ He extends his hand, clasps mine for a moment. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

I can feel myself blush. ‘Thanks again,’ I manage.

He turns to go. Then, almost as an afterthought, he says: ‘If you find yourself in town, and you don’t have anywhere to stay, feel free to use this place. I’m not here that much, and, as you can see, I have plenty of room. Just ring the bell. The housekeeper is always here.’

After Harrison leaves, I pick at my breakfast. Mostly I drink coffee and surf on Harrison’s laptop. I think about checking my e-mail, but I’m too paranoid. As soon as my clothes get here, I’ll find a random
wangba
and do that.

I don’t know what to think about Harrison.

A half hour later, the housekeeper comes in, bearing my clothes in a shopping bag, every piece folded and wrapped in paper, tied up with string.

‘Here you are, Miss,’ she says with a smile. ‘Sorry so slow.’

‘No problem.’

She hands me the bag and goes back out into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she comes back, bearing a small lacquer tray. ‘So sorry!’ she says. ‘These are yours also.’

On the tray are a few coins, a folded wad of bills, a couple crumpled receipts, and several business cards. The stuff that was in my pockets.

Here are the two cards from the Suits, William Carter and George Macias. Here’s one from Lucy Wu. And here is the card from creepy John – Zhou Zheng’an, representing a company by the name of Bright Spring Enterprises.

I tap the edges of the cards to line them up straight. I think about Harrison maybe having seen these cards.

I have a last sip of coffee, get dressed, and get out of there.

I walk until I see a China Construction Bank. I can use their ATM to pull some cash from the stateside account where my disability pension is deposited. I hardly ever touch it. I try to forget it even exists. It’s not enough to live on or anything. But I figure if I ever want to go home, at least I’ll have a little something socked away. Something I can use to start over.

That’s where I hit the wall every time. Start over, doing what?

The one job I was good at, being a medic, I don’t think I can face.

Standing there, waiting for my money, I feel a little nervous. I always do. Like they’re not going to give it to me. Like it’s not really mine, or I did something wrong. But the money slides out, just like it always does.

I stand there for a moment, shivering in the massive shadow of concrete and marble and glass.

I head in the direction of the Beijing Railway Station, which is a good place to pick up the local train to Mati and where there’s bound to be a few Internet bars. Sure enough, I find one within sight of the station’s entrance, between a McDonald’s and a Starbucks. It’s full of smoke, young guys wearing headsets and shouting curses when they get blown up, upholstered metal chairs with gaping holes in the cushions, and posters for the latest games: warriors and fast cars and half-naked women.

I sign in, buy a bottled Wahaha, and settle in at a terminal.

I check my e-mail. A bunch of spam for Viagra and stock tips. From my mom comes the latest in Jesus e-mail, one where you drag your cursor across snow to show God’s invisible footprints, because He always walks with you, and another that says ‘8 angels R sent 2 U, U must send them to 8 people including me. In 8 minutes U will! receive something U have long awaited. Have faith!’ This is apparently something I was supposed to have acted on a couple days ago for the angels to bring me my long-awaited whatever, so I guess I’m shit outta luck as usual.

My eyes are so glazed over from reading another one of these Jesus missives that I’m hovering over the ‘delete’ button before I notice the ‘P.S.’ at the end of the e-mail.

‘Some changes at the office,’ my mom writes. ‘Probably best if you don’t call me there or use my work e-mail. Love you, honey. Write soon!’

Fuck. What’s that mean?

I can’t worry about it, I think. My mom can take care of herself. It’s not like I can take care of her. Given that I’m not doing such a bang-up job of taking care of me.

Here’s an e-mail from Lucy Wu, complete with cool flash animation of … art, I guess.

‘Ellie, hello. Hope this e-mail finds you well. Are you able to have lunch later this week? I’m anxious to move forward on an exhibition of Jianli’s work. Of course, I understand the difficulties, given the current situation, but I have a few ideas how we might proceed.

‘If nothing else, we can at least have lunch! I know a fun place by the Drum Tower.’

And here’s an e-mail from Trey.

I stare at my inbox. Do I really want to open this?

Finally, I click on the e-mail.

‘Ellie, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep ignoring me. Okay I know some bad shit happened and that some of it was my fault, but that was a long time ago. Are we just supposed to keep going on like this? With nothing changing and nothing getting decided? You know I tried to help you but nothing I did was good enough so it’s clear I’m not the man for you anyway. So okay it’s time we both move on and try to have better lives for ourselves.

‘You don’t want help from anyone Ellie but you can find help if you want to because Jesus is always here for you. If you let Him back into your life He will heal you and take away your pain. I know He can because He did that for me and I’m a worse sinner than you could ever be.

‘Please call me Ellie. It’s better if you do. Things are kind of heavy and I don’t know if you understand that yet. You don’t want to get in the middle.

‘Call me when you get this. Trey.’

I sit back in my chair. I chug my water like it’s wine. I wish it was.

There are so many things I want to say. So many that I can’t think of anything at all.

I start to type.

‘So you get to do whatever you want and Jesus makes it okay? Well, it’s not okay, you don’t get to just make it okay like that. You act like you did everything you could, and that’s bullshit, because you could have just loved me and that would have been enough. And you said you did and that was just another lie. You don’t even know the meaning of the word, you selfish piece of shit.’

My mouse hovers over the send button.

Instead, I press down on the backspace key, watching it swallow every one of my angry words, the cursor gobbling up my bile and rage, and I think, this is what the Chinese mean when they talk about ‘eating bitterness,’ about how life is a struggle and you just have to accept your fate because you don’t have a choice about it.

‘Trey,’ I type. ‘I know we need to talk. I’m busy right now. I’ll write you later. Ellie.’

Busy. That’s a laugh.

I have to figure this out, I think, have to figure out what I’m doing. At least what I’m doing next.

I log on to the stupid game.

It’s not like I’ve learned anything by playing so far, but, still, it’s the closest thing I’ve got to a clue.

I figure I’ll give it one more shot, and that’s it. And this time I’m going to be direct about it.

After logging on, I go to the Yellow Mountain Monastery, make myself anonymous, and type ‘Hail, the Great Community!’

Mist drifts down from the mountain, swirling around my legs. I walk up the path. Water drips from condensation on the pine needles.

Nobody’s responding. No Cinderfox, no Monk of the Jade Forest. No Water Horse or Golden Snake.

And no Upright Boar, that’s for sure.

Goddamn it, Lao Zhang. Do you even have a clue what kind of mess I’m in?

‘Okay guys,’ I type. ‘It’s me, Little Mountain Tiger. Anybody out there?’

Just an animated owl, flapping its speckled wings and landing on a pine branch above my head.

‘I did everything you asked me to. Can you just give me a hint? Who I should talk to? What I should do? What do you WANT, anyway?’

The owl sitting on the branch above me hoots: once, twice. Then the bird swells to about twice its original size, and some kind of energy beams shoot out of its eyes.

‘Hey,’ I mutter. Fucking NPC. I raise the shield above my head, which protects me from the beams, and the owl dives at me.