Dragon Day (4 page)

“People like Zhang Jianli, making art, people who say truth in newspaper or on Internet, he wants to arrest people like that. Why?” His voice rises. “Why? Because they threaten China? No. Because of corruption. Because he benefits the way things are now. He doesn't care about real security, for China. He doesn't even know what that means.”

“Wow, John,” I say. “Keep talking like that, maybe
you'll
be drinking tea with him.”

Now he chuckles. “Maybe. Maybe not. He is not even very important. Just a
. . .
a little man who wants to be a
da wanr
, a big shot. He thinks bothering you and bothering Lao Zhang can help make his name big.”

“So what do I do?” I ask. Because I can laugh at John, I can do my best to piss him off, and there's no way that I trust him, but I still need help. And out of everyone I know in China, for this situation? He's the best person to ask.

“Stay out of trouble. Don't do foolish things. I think, if I have some time, I can maybe do something about this guy.”

“Do something?”

He waves his hand, that dismissive gesture I see Chinese men make combined with a little head shake, like when you try to get a taxi driver to take you someplace he doesn't want to go.

I probably don't want to know.

“Yili, but I must ask
. . .
” He hesitates.

“What?”

“Zhang Jianli. You really don't know where he is?”

He stares at me, his dark eyes steady, his expression concerned.

“No. I don't.” I stand up. “Thanks for the beer. And fuck you.”

I head for the door.

“Yili, please, wait.”

I half turn, and I see him reach for me, and he catches my wrist. I pull away.

“Wait,” he says again. “I just—”

My hand's on the doorknob, and I'm twisting it to open, and his hand grabs the fleshy part of my shoulder, and he pulls me toward him. I stumble a little, and my tits brush against his hard chest, and then we fall into each other. Before I know it, his mouth finds mine, tongue slipping between my lips, and I'm trying to slip my hand beneath the waistband of those snug jeans. Finally my fingers find his nice, firm butt cheek.

I so was not going to do this.

At least he bought a bed. Okay, a futon, but it's a queen. By the time we land on it, my shirt and bra are off, and he's got my pants pulled down below my ass and his fingers hooked on the band of my panties. I am looking forward to those fingers. I know what he can do with them. Meanwhile I'm trying to slide his T-shirt over his head, but it's caught on one arm, thankfully not the one with the hand that's tugging down my underwear.

I get his shirt off at about the same time that my panties reach my knees, and I'm sucking on his nipple while his fingers stroke and probe, and meanwhile I'm doing my best to release his brave little soldier from the confines of his jeans and boxers.

“Yili,” he manages. “No, wait—”

“Would you just fuck me?” I say. “I don't want a marathon tonight, I just—”

His finger thrusts, and I shut up.

Well, that was dumb.

I'm lying on the futon next to John, both of us sweaty and spent. His hand rests lightly on my breast, like it's a shy cat that he wants to pet.

John is not your boyfriend, I tell myself. He's not even a friend with benefits. You can't trust him. The last thing you need to be doing is sleeping with him.

It felt pretty damn good, though. I'm sure way more relaxed than I was when I got here. I don't even feel the need for a Percocet.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs.

“Huh?”

“For asking. About Zhang Jianli.”

Things are so much better when he doesn't talk.

I let out a sigh. “If I did know, I wouldn't tell you. But I don't.”

We're facing each other now. “I just ask because
. . .
I need to be sure,” he says.

I laugh softly. Because it occurs to me that maybe John doesn't exactly trust me either.

Fair's fair, I guess.

“So are you? Sure?”

He slowly nods. “I don't want anything bad to happen to him. I'll help him if I can. But
. . .
” He reaches out his hand and touches my cheek. I feel his fingertips there, warm, a little rough. “If it's you or Zhang Jianli, I help you.”

My stomach does a kind of flip. Part of me is mad, hearing him talk that way about Lao Zhang. Another part of me feels all teary, because, you know, I believe him. Which means he really likes me.

Don't go there, McEnroe, I tell myself. Just don't.

“I don't want you making some kind of deal,” I say. “I mean, me for Jianli. I don't want that.”

“I know.” John rolls over onto his back. “Anyway, you don't know where he is, no deal to make.”

I lie there and think about what I'm going to say next. My heart's pounding. Because I don't know where he is, but I do know something.

What I say is, “Why do they even care? He's an artist. He's not trying to overthrow the CCP. You know that.”

“Maybe because his work has political theme.”

“Come on, lots of Chinese artists do work with political themes.”

John stares at the ceiling. “What they do with Zhang Jianli, it's just a way to remind everyone who is master. Like with dog. With Mimi you have that leash, the kind you can let out and make long. Dog can run around. But you always can control. Can bring the dog back. She can only run so far.”

Silence fills the room. There's this big thing that we both know that neither of us is saying.

So finally I say it.

“What about the Game? Did you tell them about it?”

The Game is a video game. Sword of Ill Repute. Kind of like World of Warcraft, based on Chinese mythology, with a lot of magic swords, wise dragons, and flying monks. Completely harmless, right? You create an avatar for yourself and go storm castles or whatever.

Except Lao Zhang figured out a way to use the Game to talk to people privately. To organize.

It wasn't supposed to be anything political. At least that's what Lao Zhang told me later. “The Game, it is another community. A place where you can express your personality, make friends, have common goal. No one say you have to go on quest, collect treasure. Instead maybe you can build something else. Make art. Talk about ideas. Use this Game to play your own.”

Lao Zhang was Upright Boar. I was Little Mountain Tiger. Before the Game was compromised.

John had been there, too. And I still don't know the whole story. Whether it was all about spying for the DSD or if he really believed some of it.

And right now
. . .
I don't know if I want to know the truth.

He lets out a sigh, a hiss between his teeth. “I had to tell them.”

I guess I'm not surprised. I'm not even really disappointed. It's what I expected.

He turns to stare at me. His dark eyes look liquid, like water at night.

“I tell them it's just a game.”

There's this hard knot in my gut, and I feel like it's uncoiling. I resist it. You can't relax, I tell myself. You gotta keep your guard up.

“Why?”

“You need to ask me this?” He sounds pissed off.

“Well
. . .
yeah.” I sit up. My tits are bouncing around, which I figure maybe is not best for a serious conversation, since John seems to find them distracting. I pull up the sheet. I'm a little cold now anyway.

“Look, do I have to remind you about the night we met? About our first ‘date'?” I make the finger quotes. Because now
I'm
kind of pissed off. “Everything you told me was a lie, and then you just kept lying. So why am I supposed to believe you now?”

At this he bolts up, tense and angry again, and I shiver a little and try not to show it.

Sometimes I forget, he's kind of a scary guy. And here I am in bed with him.

“You and me, together like this, and you still think I lie to you?” He sounds insulted. Or like he can't believe it.

“I
. . .
” I take in a breath, and I ask myself, what
do
I think?

I have no clue.

I manage a shrug. “So we fucked a couple of times. You know what that means in my life? Either nothing or a great way to get screwed.” Tears are starting to dribble down my face, which makes me even madder. I throw off the sheet. Catch a glimpse of the familiar scars on my leg, the missing chunk of flesh, purple in the dim light. “I need to go.”

John doesn't say anything. He watches me pull up my jeans, fumble around for my bra, turn my T-shirt right side out. My panties I wad up and stuff in my pocket—I'll throw them in my bag, wherever that is. In the living room, somewhere, with my jacket. My shoes
. . .
?

“Hard to find a cab now,” John finally says.

“I'll find something,” I mutter.

“I'll take you. Just to the subway, if you want.”

I almost say no, just out of habit. But it's closing in on ten thirty. I might not even make the last train home.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

He ends up driving me all the way back, in his nice shiny Toyota, because yeah, I missed the last train. As long as he doesn't try to come upstairs, I think, as long as he doesn't do that and my mom doesn't see him, because my mom thinks he's cute and nice and that I should be going out with him. Hah. She has no idea who he really is. I'm thinking about what he did to me the night we met, and what the fuck is wrong with me for ending up in bed with him not once but twice? That's just beyond fucked up, I think.

Though he did wash my dishes. And save my ass. And take care of my dog.

At least he doesn't talk on the long drive back. It's like a replay of the last time, I think. We have some fun—I mean, it's weird, but basically good. He acts like it's a big deal. I get mad. He gets mad. Then we end up not talking to each other and finally go our separate ways.

This is bad, I tell myself. I have to stop doing shit like this.

We're almost to my place, heading west on Dongzhimen, the red lanterns in front of all the hotpot restaurants on Ghost Street still lit, when John breaks the silence.

“I will do what I can, about this situation.” He sounds formal. Like it's the end of a business meeting or something. “Just remember what I tell you. Give me some time. Don't look for trouble.”

“I don't exactly look for it,” I mutter.

John actually snorts. “No. Always these troubles just find you.”

I almost snark back. Yeah, like that whole thing with Lao Zhang and the Uighur and the Game was something I looked for. Like I wanted to get blown up in Iraq, or get involved in my ex-husband's shit, or even come to China in the first place.

But then there's the other stuff, the stuff I did seek out, or when I stumbled on it, I didn't run far enough or fast enough.

Like I needed the buzz.

“Believe me, I don't want any more trouble,” I say.

It's not until John turns up Jiugulou Dajie, the main street that leads to the
hutong
where my building is, that I finally have to say it. I'm not sure why I feel like I do. Just
. . .
I don't want to be keeping so many secrets anymore.

“Zhang Jianli says he's coming back to Beijing.”

John's head whips around, and he almost misses my alley. “What? You talk to him?”

“Email.” Which is only sort of a lie. “I don't know where he is. I really have no idea. But yeah, we email sometimes.”

“Tamade.”
Your all-purpose Chinese expletive. John scrunches up his face like he's getting a sudden headache. “Why? Why does he come back?”

“He felt bad I was having problems, I guess.”

“He is here now?”

“I don't think so. Not that I know of anyway.”

“If he is somewhere safe, he should just stay away.”

“I know. I told him not to come. He won't listen.”

“Did you tell him what happened today?”

I shake my head. “I tell him that, it'll just make him come back faster.”

We've reached the gate in front of my building, manned by the usual night guard, a middle-aged guy named Dongfeng with a thatch of greying hair and sleepy eyes who spends a lot of time playing Angry Birds on his smartphone.

“When he comes back, Yili, you have to tell me,” John says.

“Why? So you can turn him in?”