Dragon Day (7 page)

It's a virtual community, a secure environment that Lao Zhang created after he disappeared from Beijing last year, where he could make art, where it was safe to hang out and chat. I don't know who hosts it, where the servers are, who's paying for it. Better not to know, right?

At first it was just for the two of us—at least that's what he told me—but I don't know if that's really true. Other people showed up pretty quickly. Other artists and musicians and writers. He kept adding to the place, and so did the newbies, until there was a whole virtual village, with galleries, houses, nightclubs, stores, bizarre sculptures, performance pieces. A safe place to say what you wanted, be who you wanted.

Funny thing is, I never spent all that much time here, especially after it got busy. I never even gave my avatar a cool outfit. Just the same jeans and white T-shirt she was created with. There wasn't all that much for me to do here, other than chat with Lao Zhang. Some of the concerts were okay, and some of the art, but I wasn't making any art. Wasn't playing any music. The Great Community was just another place where I stood around and watched other people do stuff.

I figure I'll take the path along the cliffs that leads directly to my house. Usually the three-legged dog runs ahead, stopping now and again to wag its tail and bark, until I catch up.

This time the dog does something different. It turns inland, on a different path, the one that leads to the town square.

The last time I was here, there was lots of stuff going on. All kinds of avatars, text boxes popping up faster than I could read them. A poetry reading by a fountain that spouted multicolored sprays of gems, butterflies, stars. A couple of dinosaurs lumbering through the plaza. Who knows why?

Today it's empty. Hardly anyone here. The fountain is motionless, a pool of standing water. A lone avatar dressed in a samurai outfit stands by a building that looks like a cross between a cathedral and a rocket ship. As I pass, the building suddenly pixelates. Then vanishes. Just like that. Deleted.

The samurai avatar stands there for a moment longer. Then he, too, disappears. Pop. Gone.

I shudder. The real me, I mean. My avatar continues to trot through the deserted town, following the three-legged dog to the path that leads to my house.

The house looks the same.

Same stone house, same wooden deck, same pine trees around it. The orange cat sleeps in a spot of sun by the front door. Purrs when I cross the threshold.

Same as always.

I go inside. The lights come up as usual. I sit my avatar down on the couch facing the wall-size window that looks out over the animated beach.

There's no time for even the giant goldfish animation before the knock at my door—this script has sound, two hard raps on hollow wood.

I click on the door to open it.

In the Great Community, he's called Monastery Pig. My friend, Lao Zhang.

yili, ni hao,
appears in a text box above his head.

Like me, he never did anything fancy with his avatar. Just cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, and a beanie skullcap—the hat changes, from time to time. I've seen him in baseball hats, Mao caps, even in a cowboy hat once. But today it's the beanie.

ni hao,
I type back.

His avatar hovers by the couch.

qing zuo,
I say. Please sit.

He does.

It's weird, you know? It's like we're sitting next to each other on a real couch and I'm watching the whole thing outside my own body. Staring at a screen. And I know that he's somewhere—who knows where?—staring at a screen, too.

what's going on here?
I finally ask.

i'm coming to beijing. in a week or so.

why?

Truth is, I already know why. Or at least what he told me. He said he felt bad about the position he'd put me in.

it is just time.

you shouldn't
, I say.
it's not a good idea. anyway, i'm fine.

i need to
, he says.
time to finish the piece.

what piece?

the performance piece. the big one. made up from all the little pieces. the whole cycle.

what the fuck?!
I type.

I mean, I know Lao Zhang used to do performance art. Painting himself red and strumming a ukulele on top of the Drum Tower, singing the chorus to Nirvana's “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Steering a little boat through the Houhai lake with a statue of Chairman Mao in the prow. Whatever it meant. I wasn't always sure.

This time I don't have to know what the new piece is about to know that it scares me.

don't do it
, I type, pounding the keys.
just don't. it's not worth it.

of course it is.

We sit there in silence for a minute.

what's happening here?
I type.
where is everyone? why are things disappearing?

i told them they should go. if they build it, they should decide whether to delete it or leave it.

but why should they go?

because maybe this is not safe place anymore. or won't be soon.

Like after you get yourself arrested for some dumb-ass performance art?
I want to scream.

But I can't scream. I can only type it with the
caps lock
on.

A series of laughing emoticons appears in Lao Zhang's text bubble.

i promise it will not be dumb-ass
, he says.

Finally I have to ask it. Even though I kind of hate myself for asking. Because what's the point? I know it's not going to end well.

can i see you?
I type.
before?

There's a long silence. His avatar blinks on the couch.

maybe not a good idea.

why?
I type. Though I think I already know.

because maybe they are watching you.

I snort with laughter.

Yeah, you think?

Chapter Seven

★

Fuck, fuck the
fucking fuck.

I walk out of the coffee bar, and my head's spinning.

Sure I'm being watched. By my very own personal spy.

Do I tell John about this?

I know Lao Zhang, I say to myself. Whatever it is he's planning on doing—his final “piece,” I mean—he wouldn't hurt anyone. He's not going to try to blow something up or anything like that, right?

He wouldn't. That's not who he is.

Not who he
was
, anyway. I haven't seen him in over a year. I don't know what he's been doing, what he's been going through.

How well did I really know him before, for that matter?

Don't go there.

If I can't believe that Lao Zhang's the man I thought he was, what has the last year of my life been about?

I pass the rows of little shops selling incense and Tibetan Buddhist tchotchkes: gilt statuettes, sandalwood beads, prayer flags, and cards. I bet at least a couple of them have postcards of the Dalai Lama behind the counter.

Whatever it is that Lao Zhang plans on doing, it's got to be some big, stupid gesture that gets him into trouble. I mean, he's already in trouble, right? By coming back, it's like he's giving up. He knows what's going to happen. Maybe not the details, but that it's nothing good.

I'm getting teary-eyed, which I really hate.

And for all he said it was about taking the pressure off me, well, I know one thing about so-called superpowers—they hate being embarrassed. There's no way I'm not going be on the receiving end of some blowback from this.

By the time I'm on the escalator heading down to the Number 2 subway, I'm really pissed off.

All this time I've been doing what Lao Zhang wanted me to do. First, going on that crazy hunt through China last year, following clues he'd laid down for me, getting my ass kicked from one end of the country to the other. Then managing his art. I'm still not sure why he picked me for that.

Yeah, he told me he thought it was good for me. That I needed something to do. Which, okay, was true. I needed a mission. Something to take my mind off the Great Wall of Bullshit that had been my life to date.

But how is
this
going to help me? Being the front woman for a dissident artist determined to get himself in deeper shit than he already is.

So he thinks he's going to make some big gesture and that it's going to mean something. Like those Tibetans lighting themselves on fire to protest the regime. Does any of that help? Does it change anything?

And fuck it, I'm not Chinese. This isn't my country. It's not my business trying to change it.

And further, I'm sick of being a good soldier on someone else's mission.

You know what I could really use? A guy who's actually there for me when it counts. Not some flaky artist who—okay, I know he cares about me, at least I think he does, but I'm never going to be first. Or even close to it.

I swipe my card at the turnstile and take the escalator down to the platform. Stand there and feel a wash of stale air from the tunnel. It's not too crowded at least. Middle-school kids in tracksuits, a couple of European tourists examining the map enclosed in Lucite that details the exits, a cluster of PLA soldiers in square-cut, baggy fatigues who don't look much older than the middle-school kids. A subway worker, an older woman in a blue uniform with gaudy gold buttons, sweeps the tiles with a straw broom.

Too fucking late, I think. I already signed up for this.

I swear, if I make it through, this is the last time I go out on someone else's mission. Next time I'm working my own.

Like I have a clue what kind of mission that might be.

I'm pretty sure that my mission of choice would
not
be meeting Cao Meimei for dinner at a pretentious restaurant on the top floor of a five-star hotel in the Central Business District.

The name of the restaurant is Estasi. Italian, maybe? I can't tell from the decor. It's just a lot of bullshit marble, fancy light
ing, dark wooden alcoves with carvings of grapes and vines.

Just going into the hotel lobby made me want to run the other way. Marble everywhere, more gold trim than the Lama Temple, perfectly conditioned air, and the faint hum of Muzak. There's an atrium that goes up a few stories with a giant fountain in the middle puking illuminated sprays of water. Rich people hanging out in the lobby, checking in, meeting for drinks in the downstairs bar, wearing well-cut suits and cute little dresses and hundred-dollar T-shirts, branding themselves with Gucci and Vuitton and Coach.

I'm hoping that Meimei beat me to Estasi. She has a reservation, and I'm supposed to join her. Otherwise I guess I'll sit at the bar and nurse an overpriced glass of wine, because it's not like this kind of place serves the local Yanjing Beer.

I approach the hostess station. A marble desk surrounded by a carved wooden screen depicting cherubs toting bunches of painted grapes.

“Ni hao,”
I say to the hostess, your basic young, elegant, gorgeous Chinese woman. “I'm meeting a friend who has a reservation. Cao Meimei.”

It's funny to watch. The hostess, already a paragon of good posture and polite attitude, still manages to straighten up, put a brighter smile on her perfect face.

“Welcome,” she says. “Please, follow me.”

We weave our way through the restaurant. Past plush wooden booths and more public tables that are covered in linen and decorated with silver candles and delicate sprays of fresh flowers. I'm wearing my designer duds from Sidney, last night's shirt still wrinkled and smelling like cigarette butts. Maybe it's dark enough so no one will notice.

Finally we reach what has to be the best table in the house. A table for two against a huge expanse of window looking out over the lights of the CBD.

The hostess clasps her hands and does a little bow to the figure sitting at one end.
“Cao xiaojie, ninde keren laile.”
Your guest has arrived.

If I didn't know better, I would've thought Meimei was a teenage boy, a pretty one, like a Korean pop star. She wears a white silk suit with a silky sky blue T-shirt beneath it, her short hair slicked back from her face.

She smiles and gestures at the seat opposite.

I sit, trying to do it gracefully, trying not to groan. I manage with a wince and a grunt.

“What would you like to drink?” Meimei asks.

I stretch out my leg. She has a wineglass to her right, half full of something white. Next to the table is a silver ice bucket on a stand with a partly submerged bottle inside.

“Whatever you're having would be great.”

Meimei turns to the hostess.
“Zai lai yige jiubei.”

The hostess nods and quickly retreats. I swear it's less than a minute before a waitress hustles over with a wineglass and pours me some of whatever Meimei's drinking.

Meimei lifts her glass. She's lounging in her chair with one arm draped on the chair back. I lift my glass in return. Sip.

It's wine. White. Tastes great. That's all I need to know.

“I hear you are a soldier,” Meimei says.

This is not what I was expecting.

“I was in the National Guard.”

“Is this not a soldier?”

I shrug. Take another sip of wine. A large one. “We're supposed to defend the home front. Bunch of us ended up in a war instead.”

“Ah.” She sips her wine. “So you were in combat?”

I'm twitching like I'm hooked up to a live current. I hate talking about those times. “I was a medic.”

“But you got hurt. How did that happen?”

“Mortar.”

“I see.” She looks a little disappointed. Why? Because I wasn't out killing bad guys when I got blown up?

“I was outside the wire plenty of times,” I mumble. Like that matters. Like that makes me some badass.

Outside the wire wasn't where the worst shit happened anyway.

“I envy you this experience.”

I feel this rush of anger so strong that I'm sure it shows on my face. I swallow hard. Don't fuck this up, McEnroe, I tell myself.

“There's nothing about it to envy,” I say. And I drink.

She leans forward, her face lit up with a weird enthusiasm. “But you serve your country. You prove yourself in challenging situation, like a man. I think this is admirable.”

If she knew what I did during the war
. . .

“It's not what people think it's like,” I finally mutter.

I glance to my right, at the view of the CBD and the night sky. Lights and neon, giant characters and logos, skyscrapers like ghosts, softened by smog. For a moment I feel like I'm floating in space.

“I fly small planes,” she says. “In fact, I have thought about applying to China's air force.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Flying is wonderful.” She pauses abruptly. “Shall we order appetizers?”

“Sure.”

What I want is another drink. I'm feeling rattled. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she knows something about my history. Sidney's got the money to hire any kind of private detective or private spy he wants. So does Meimei, I'm guessing. She would've had to have worked fast, but with all the information that's out there on the Internet? It wouldn't take much time.

I let Meimei order the appetizers. I'm not hungry, and I don't know what half the stuff is anyway. (“Duck Liver Terrine with Sweet Kaffir Lime Liqueur.” “Truffled Capicola with Lenticchie di Montagna and Chopped Preboggion.” “Crispy Sweetbread and Lobster Ragu.”) It all tastes good, but mostly I just want to drink.

Except not too much. I can't afford to lose it.

“So you help my father with his museum project,” Meimei says after doing the swirl-sniff-taste of a new wine, a red one this time. She nods at the waitress, who pours fresh glasses for both of us.

“I'm
. . .
consulting.” Which seems as good a way as any to put it.

“Interesting. I know that you represent some modern Chinese artists here in Beijing.”

I nod. I've got this hollow feeling in my gut, like she knows all about Lao Zhang and the trouble he's in. If she had me checked out, she'd have to know something. There've been a few articles, here and there, about the “disappeared” Chinese artist, the rumors surrounding that, and I've sure been asked about it enough times.
Is he in jail? Is he in hiding? Is he in trouble? Do you know where he is?

Meimei holds her wine up to the table light, tilting it and watching the rivulets of wine run down the inside of the glass. “The legs,” Harrison explained to me once. Though he never did explain why anyone was supposed to care about this.

“Art is not really an interest of mine,” she says. “Of course I like to have nice things. But my father is really obsessed about this. Don't you think?”

“He's . . . uh, an enthusiastic collector.”

For the first time, she smiles in a way that suggests she might actually be amused. “Yes. I think he always hoped Gugu would take an interest in this, too. Art is not for Tiantian. And it is not for me. But Gugu, he has this artistic temperament.”

And here's where I need to think fast. Because this whole thing started as a pretext for me to evaluate Gugu's creepy American friend, Marsh, and now, somehow, the whole crazy family's involved in a museum project that I pretty much pulled out of my ass.

“I think your father would just like to see the three of you work together on this, a little. I mean, it's his life's work, and it's not like it needs to be yours. But he sees it as . . . you know, his legacy, and you're his children, and
. . .
”

Which is where I totally run out of things to say.

“Yes, yes,” she says with a dismissive wave. “I can call Tiantian. Even though he does not approve of me. Shall we order our
primo
?”

“Sounds good.” Whatever it is.

Meimei pays for dinner. No big surprise there. I thank her as enthusiastically as I can fake.

“It was my pleasure,” she says, taking my hand. “You are an interesting person, with interesting experiences.”

“Not really,” I manage. “That's nice of you to say.”

She lets go. I reach into my little black leather messenger bag, another gift from Sidney (Vicky didn't dig the old canvas one I usually travel with) and pull out a card case, extract a card. “In case you need to get a hold of me,” I say, doing the two-handed handover.

She studies it politely. “I think I will. For our meeting with Tiantian.”

★ ★ ★

What a fucking waste of time.