Year of the Tiger (18 page)

Harrison Wang lifts his hand to signal a waitress, then orders more wine for the table. ‘Something special, this time,’ he says, with a mischievous smile.

Harrison Wang’s special bottle of wine tastes pretty good, so far as I can tell. We drink that, then he orders another, and I’m a little fuzzy on exactly what happens after that. It’s not like I intend to get hammered, but this stuff is easy to drink, and it feels so good to finally relax, to let go.

At one point, I remember Sloppy looking concerned and tugging on my sleeve.

‘Yili,’ she says, ‘why don’t you come with Francesca and me? Maybe get some sleep?’

‘Nah, that’s okay. I’m not tired.’

‘So, where you going to stay?’

I shrug. I’ll figure that out later.

The music gets louder. I laugh a lot, even dance a little, with the Chinese artist and the American professor, and I must be pretty drunk because that’s what it takes to get me to dance these days with my leg like it is. But I’m having fun for a change, so why not?

After a while, it’s like somebody flips a switch, and all of a sudden I just want to get out of here. Go home. Wherever that is.

I stumble toward the exit. I’ll catch a cab at the gate, I figure. There’s gotta be a cab, right? And I’ll go … someplace. Maybe Chuckie’s place at Wudaokou. They’re not going to think to look for me there. They think I moved out. It’s probably safe for one night. Maybe.

Or I could get a hotel. I know a couple cheap dives not too far from here. Maybe that’s a better idea.

‘Ms Yili? Are you leaving?’

Harrison Wang has appeared at my elbow.

‘Yeah. Yes. Thanks. I had a really great time. But it’s getting late, and …’

‘I hope you’re not planning on going to Mati tonight. That’s a long way.’

‘No. I’m staying in town.’

Harrison Wang hesitates. Cups my elbow in his hand, just for a moment. ‘I’m leaving too. Can I give you a ride?’

I shiver a little, and I’m not cold. He’s attractive and polished and rich. Everything I’m not. He’s way out of my league. And he takes advantage – that is, if I can believe Lucy Wu. Which is a big ‘if.’

I shouldn’t, I think. I’m drunk, and I know it.

‘Sure. I’d appreciate that.’

Harrison Wang not only has a car, a Lexus SUV hybrid; he has a driver.

‘Would you like a drink?’

The two of us sit in the back seat. I make a noncommittal noise. I know I shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t mind having another drink.

Harrison Wang reaches into a storage compartment behind the driver’s seat and pulls out two tumblers and a bottle of something – Johnny Walker Blue – and pours.

‘Cheers,’ he says, lifting his tumbler.

‘Likewise.’ Which is a stupid thing to say. Harrison pretends not to notice.

We drink. Dang. I could start drinking whiskey if more of it tasted like this.

‘Where can I drop you?’ he asks after we’ve both had a few sips.

‘Oh. There’s a hotel not too far from here. It’s, uh, it’s called …’

I can’t remember the name. It’s close to here, though. Greenish.

‘Do you have a room there already?’

‘No, I mean, I …’

‘There’s no need for you to find a hotel, Yili,’ Harrison Wang says gently. ‘I have an apartment in Chaoyang I use when I’m in town. Please, be my guest for the evening. There’s plenty of room.’

I know I can’t trust him. I’m just not sure that I care any more. Whatever happens, happens, right?

What difference does it make?

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That’s really nice of you.’

We drive south, deeper into Chaoyang District. I drink my whiskey and do my limited best to make conversation.

‘So, Harrison … you’re an art collector?’

Harrison shrugs. ‘I enjoy art. I try to support what I like.’ He freshens our glasses. ‘What about you? I know about your association with Zhang Jianli, of course. But what do you do here, in China?’

I snort. ‘That’s a good question.’

But it’s not one I can answer, really.

Harrison stares at me for a minute. Then he rests his hand on mine. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.’

‘Hey, it’s not prying till you ask me how old I am and how many kids I have.’

He chuckles. ‘I see you’ve spent a fair amount of time in China.’

I lean back in the padded leather seat and watch the lights on the sagging skyscrapers go by, the ones built twenty years ago that already look like they’re about to fall down. Billboards for expensive watches, medicinal herbs, fancy shoes, cars, new housing developments with names like ‘Good Fortune Silver City’ and ‘Laguna Beach Resort Lifestyle Homes’ flash by like we’re in some howling, neon-encrusted canyon.

Harrison lives off Jianguomennan Dajie, not too far from the Ancient Observatory, in one of those luxury complexes perched on top of a Hong Kong-funded shopping mall. It’s so easy when you have money. The driver pulls up to the private apartment entrance and drops us off. We go up in a brass-lined elevator to the penthouse.

‘Here we are,’ Harrison says.

The elevator opens onto a foyer, for proper
feng shui
purposes. He leads me past the sculpture there, a parody of revolutionary imagery, which, instead of featuring your typical stalwart peasants and soldiers, has a guy carrying a briefcase and a woman talking on her cell phone, both casting beatific gazes towards the left of heaven.

He wasn’t kidding about having plenty of room.

We step into a living room where the entirety of one wall is given over to a huge picture window. Below us are the lights of Beijing, glittering in their Christmas-tree colors. I see a sign for China Rail, the encircled hammer. Next to that, the golden arches of McDonald’s. And, of course, a Starbucks.

‘Nice,’ I say stupidly.

Harrison shrugs. ‘It’s all rather crass. On the other hand, there’s no escaping reality.’

The floors are polished granite. A fountain runs down the middle of the space, channeled over an arrangement of boulders tumbled near the window wall. On the other walls, paintings are hung, lit by discreet spotlights.

‘I just keep a few pieces here,’ Harrison is saying. ‘The rest are at my other houses and in storage.’

I don’t know what to say to this. I wander through the living room – gallery space is more accurate – sipping the remains of my whiskey.

Huge canvases, bleeding landscapes, gaping mouths and eyes and grasping hands. Toy tanks marching across cartoon geography.

I try to keep it all straight. In focus. My eyes burn. Just close them for a minute, I think. Rest.

‘Can I show you your room?’

Harrison has appeared at my side.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

We go down a hall hung with smaller works, a few statues tucked into alcoves.

Here is my room, a large bedroom with a picture window shuttered by automatic blinds, a bathroom off to one side.

A maid lays out a pair of silk pajamas on the turned-down bed and smiles at me nervously as she ducks her head and backs out of the room.

‘You should have everything you need,’ Harrison says, ‘but if not, just call for the maid.’ He points to a button on a small console sitting on the nightstand.

I stand there awkwardly for a moment. ‘Thanks, Harrison,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate this.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

With that, he leaves.

I somehow manage to undress and change, even fold up my clothes and place them on a chair, because it seems wrong to leave any kind of a mess in this pristine space. I brush my teeth (there’s a fresh toothbrush waiting for me in the bathroom) and swallow a couple of aspirin and vitamins from bottles conveniently left out for me on the counter. Then I crawl into the king-sized bed.

For a couple of minutes, I play with the console, which not only calls the maid but also controls all the lights, the blinds, and the electronics.

No disturbing images hang on these walls. A wash of color here, a traditional nature scene there, some delicate purple flowers, a few stalks of bamboo.

I switch off the lights and open the blinds. Here is Beijing, around and below me, the harsh neon diffused by the treated glass and by distance. Across the way is another penthouse, muted lights softly glowing. It’s quiet, so quiet. No noise but the breeze-like whisper of the penthouse’s conditioned air.

I close the blinds, and then I close my eyes.

I just wanted to sleep.

Trey and me were lying on the cot in the Admin Core. I didn’t want to be there. It’s not him, I told myself. This isn’t some random hookup. I love him. It’s this rusty cot, the scratchy blanket, this stupid little room.

I didn’t like doing it there. Didn’t like walking into the Admin Core, past the guard, with a wink and a nod.

I almost said something then. I should have. I didn’t.

‘What did this used to be?’ I asked instead.

‘This building?’ Trey shrugged. ‘A government complex.’

‘But it’s not, like, the mayor’s office or something. It’s not even in town.’

‘Yeah.’ Trey tapped out a cigarette and offered it to me. I took it. Between the cigarettes and the dust, my throat was raw all the time, and my chest nearly always ached. ‘Well, it was a Baathist complex. You know? They had a company of Republican Guards garrisoned here, to keep the LNs in line.’

LNs = local nationals. Trey was hitting the acronyms pretty hard at the time.

‘Oh.’

I remember staring up at the ceiling, at the yellow waterspots and peeling paint.

‘You know, sometimes I think this place is haunted,’ I said.

Trey frowned and lit a cigarette. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

I forced a smile. ‘Yeah, I guess.’

I was so tired all the time that it was like a weight in my bones: from the weird work schedule, from the mortars and RPGs going off every night – which hadn’t stopped, even if we
had
caught the muj in charge.

Sleep felt better than anything. Better than being awake ever felt.

Better than being with Trey.

I was sleeping in my bunk one late afternoon when Trey’s OGA buddy Kyle came around.

‘Hey. McEnroe. Ellie. You in here?’

‘Yeah. What?’

I’m thinking: fucking Kyle. Because I was actually alone, for once. I didn’t know where Greif and Pulagang were, and I only cared inasmuch as I was hoping they wouldn’t come back for a few hours so I could sleep uninterrupted by Pulagang slamming shit around or Greif’s constant tapping on her keyboard and muttering Arabic phrases to herself.

‘Hey, Kyle,’ I said, sitting up slowly. I was wearing a T-shirt and panties and nothing else, so I pulled the sheet around myself. ‘What’s up?’

Kyle was doing this thing with his hands, slapping his open palm over his fist. ‘So … you’ve been helping Trey out with the PUCs, right?’

I had to think about this for a minute.

‘Oh. Yeah.’

‘Great. ’Cause usually we use Hilliard, but he’s still OC.’

‘OC?’ I asked, as it was an acronym I’d never heard before.

‘Off campus. You know, he was evac-ed out.’

‘Oh, right.’

Hilliard was the guy with dysentery, only whatever was causing it we couldn’t knock out, and he kept getting sicker until all of a sudden he was exhibiting signs of toxic shock: so good-bye, Hilliard.

‘So now we have this situation with one of the PUCs,’ Kyle was saying.

‘Oh. Okay. Give me a minute.’

I kicked Kyle out and got dressed, threw on my field jacket because it was close to dusk and the weather had finally started to cool. We’d even had rain once, turning the dust briefly to mud.

I started heading toward the aid station to pick up a medical bag, but Kyle stopped me. ‘We’ve got a kit on site,’ he said. ‘It has everything you’ll need.’

Kyle and I entered the Admin Core the same way Trey and I did, passing a soldier standing guard who’d seen me there before. I could tell what he was thinking, me going in with Kyle, and I wanted to say: that’s not it, it’s nothing like that; but it’s not like I could really say anything.

We walked down the familiar hall, past the rooms with the file cabinets, until we came to the wider corridor that I’d always passed by before. This time, we turned down it.

I’d always seen a few soldiers down at the end of this corridor, and they were there tonight too, three of them, hanging out around a card table they’d set up, drinking water and shooting the shit. They were guys I’d seen around the base, in the DFAC for chow, playing pool in the MWR. I’d treated one of them for a sinus infection two weeks ago.

Just ordinary guys.

‘Hey, McEnroe,’ one of them said, ‘what are you doing down here?’

‘She’s helping me out with Sneezy,’ Kyle told him.

‘Oh, man. Did you tell her to bring a facemask? ’Cause he’s just reeking.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Kyle patted me on the shoulder. ‘McEnroe here’s a pro. Nothing she can’t handle.’

I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t say anything. I tried to smile, to show I was one of the guys.

We turned the corner, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know any more.

‘So this was, like, the jail?’ I asked. ‘I mean, before.’

My voice sounded small. Weak.

‘Yeah. Not for car thieves or burglars or that kind of thing. More for regime opponents. Draft-dodgers. Or folks who pissed off the local sheik.’ Kyle grinned. ‘Pretty convenient, huh?’