Year of the Tiger (28 page)

I had my backpack with my textbooks; I was making friends; I was doing a pretty good impression of a normal person. I still worried about getting blown up, but I started turning it into sort of a game. Like, oh, there’s a truck hauling giant cement cylinders and PVC conduit. You could pack enough explosives in there to blow up the Great Hall of the People. And how about that guy with the bicycle cart full of winter cabbage? Perfect cover for IEDs.

Then I’d laugh at myself and stop to buy a steamed bun from a street vendor.

I’d see Trey at night, after he’d get off work. We didn’t talk that much, but then we never had. Maybe the sex part wasn’t all that great or all that frequent, but he was busy. So was I, finally, for once.

I thought things were going okay.

Then came the day I left school early because I wasn’t feeling good. One of those gastrointestinal bugs I’d catch every couple of weeks when I first moved to China. Bad cooking oil, bacterial contamination, or god knows what else that had gotten into the food chain.

I felt so nauseous that I decided to take a cab home; I figured the traffic at that time of day shouldn’t be too bad, and maybe a cab would be faster than the train and the subway.

The traffic still sucked. Every time we’d get stuck behind some old beater, I’d get a whiff of raw exhaust that would send my stomach heaving.

I must have looked pretty green when the cab dropped me off in front of our building, because the cabbie patted my hand, told me to drink some warm water and go take a rest.

I thanked him and tottered inside.

Using this entrance, I could bypass the mall and go directly to the elevators that serviced the apartments upstairs. I pulled out my keycard, thinking: Pepto-Bismol, do we have any? Maybe I should go to the drugstore in the mall first and pick some up. But I didn’t, because by then I was really feeling like I was going to throw up.

I went into our apartment, tossed my keys and my keycard in the brass bowl on the table in the entry, and tried to decide if I wanted to drink some Coke or just head straight to the bathroom.

That’s when I heard something.

It was the middle of the day, right after lunch. It’s not the house cleaner, I thought. It was something moving around, coming from the master bedroom.

I approached, slowly.

I heard moans. A squeaking mattress.

The bedroom door was open. I stood in the doorway.

I don’t know why I even looked. I already knew what I was going to see: my husband’s naked ass pumping on top of some strange woman.

I stumbled backward, rushed blindly into the bathroom, and threw up all over the toilet seat.

‘Ellie?
Ellie
?’

I glimpsed Trey over my shoulder, now wearing a pair of boxers, and I was aware that there was this chaos going on – a woman gasping and making little sobbing sounds, Trey retreating from the bathroom and saying something to her in a low voice – but I was really too busy throwing up to process it all. Doors opened and closed softly; at some point she left, and meanwhile Trey held my hair out of my face so I could throw up some more.

After I threw up everything humanly possible, Trey made me take a Dramamine and some Pepto-Bismol and guided me toward the bedroom. Our bedroom.

I finally found my voice.

‘I am not getting in that fucking bed,’ I managed. ‘I’d rather lie on the fucking floor than in that fucking bed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Trey muttered.

‘Sorry? You’re
sorry
? You fucking asshole.’

I wanted nothing more than to walk out the door right then. Be some place, any place, other than there.

But, ha-ha, I was too sick to move. I parked myself on the futon in our guest bedroom, with Trey’s help. I threw up a couple more times. And then I slept the sleep of the utterly depleted.

Maybe I could have let it go. We were supposed to be building a life together. I know I would have tried.

Joke’s on me, as usual. Because when Trey and I did sit down to talk, for once, right before I packed up my duffel bag and split for Chuckie’s place, here’s what he said:

‘I’m in love with Lily.’

And that wasn’t all.

He sat there on our couch, staring at his hands. He wouldn’t look at me when he talked about Lily. At first I couldn’t say anything. Then I yelled. A lot. Called him every name I could think of.

After I’d screamed myself quiet, he did meet my eyes.

‘You don’t need me any more, Ellie,’ he said.

We arrive in Xi’an around six thirty
A.M.
I’ve had another shitty night’s sleep on a hard sleeper, kept up by a group of guys drinking
baijiu
and the thoughts in my head that won’t stop, like the little hamster on a wheel going nowhere.

I find a reasonably priced hotel down by the Big Wild Goose Temple. Have my second-to-last Percocet and a beer in my room and collapse on the bed, covering myself with stiff, clean sheets that still smell faintly of detergent.

I wake up around noon again. Take a shower. Put on one of my new Pingyao T-shirts.

This hotel is a cut above the other places I’ve stayed on this trip. My room has a fully stocked mini-bar and a fridge and a window that actually looks out onto the street as opposed to an airshaft or brick wall. Downstairs is a fancy lobby with marble floors and a coffee shop with decent coffee. There’s a gift shop selling reproductions of terra-cotta warriors, embroidered padded silk jackets, T-shirts, and jade bracelets. Tour groups gather by the front desk – Western retirees, most of them.

I sit by the rail that separates the coffee shop from the lobby and watch the tourists check their camera bags and purses under the soft spotlights, making sure they have sufficient batteries, money, and anti-bacterial wipes for the day’s expedition.

I finish my coffee. Time to go.

Outside, the air is dry, the sun diffused by dust.

I find an Internet bar close to the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, bordering a plaza/park with big water fountains and green lawns and statues where the locals like to hang out amidst signs that say things like ‘Enjoy the city sculptures with your intelligent eyes, but do not damage them with your hands’ and ‘The grass longs to grow up strong and healthy.’

The device Chuckie gave me looks like a flash drive. It masks the IP address I’m coming from and automatically finds proxy servers to operate through. So if the Suits or the PSB have some kind of tap on my e-mail account – and I assume they do – at least they won’t be able to figure out where I’m logging on from.

I have way too many e-mails. A lot of them are junk: spam that makes it past the filter, horoscopes, petitions, shopping deals, cool downloads. Messages from various mailing lists: my high school, some veteran’s groups.

Here’s an e-mail from Lucy Wu, an invitation to her latest opening, with a note saying she hopes we can have that lunch soon.

And here’s my e-mail from Trey.

‘Ellie, hope you’re doing okay. Heard you got in touch with our friends from the office. That was the right thing to do. You help them out and they’ll help you out for sure. Anyway hope you’re doing okay and that you’re watching out for yourself. Let those guys do the heavy lifting, okay?

‘Love you, Ellie. I know you don’t believe that and I guess I haven’t shown it very well, but I do. Take care.’

He’s right. I don’t believe him.

Then there is the latest in Jesus e-mails from Mom:

The Concert

The concert was about to begin when the mother returned to her seat and discovered that her child was missing. Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the beautiful Steinway on stage. In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’

At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy’s ear, ‘Don’t quit. Keep playing.’

Then, leaning over, the famous pianist reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obbligato.

Together, the old master and the young novice transformed what could have been a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience.

The audience was so mesmerized that afterwards they couldn’t recall what else the great pianist played. Only the classic, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’

Perhaps that’s the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren’t always graceful flowing music. However, with the hand of the Master, our life’s work can truly be beautiful.

The next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully. You may hear the voice of the Master, whispering in your ear, ‘Don’t quit.’ ‘Keep playing.’

May you feel His arms around you and know that His hands are there, helping you turn your feeble attempts into true masterpieces.

And remember,

‘Don’t quit.’

‘Keep playing.’

It goes on to say how, since the lives of the people we touch are more important than the things we acquire, I should reach out and touch a few people by passing this message along.

But above all this is an actual message from my mom.

‘Hi Honey,’ it begins. ‘Hope things are going okay with you. It’s been really hot here this week, and the air conditioner isn’t working that great. So I’ve been spending a lot of time at Sunrise. Actually, there’s an opening in the bookstore for an assistant manager, and I’m thinking about applying. You know things at the office aren’t that great lately. They say there’s going to be another round of lay-offs, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m on that list to go. So even though the Sunrise job won’t pay as well, I am thinking that it might be a good move for me. At least I would be in a Christian atmosphere 24/7!’

As I read this, there’s that pull on my gut, like I’m feeling the black waters below. No job’s stable any more; you’re lucky to have a fucking job; I get that. I grew up with that. But my mom, my mom’s fifty; she’s worked like a dog for more than twenty-five years, busting her ass for shit money, for lousy vacations, for health benefits that don’t cover anything; she’s got a crappy townhouse that’s falling apart in a complex with an underfunded condo association that doesn’t fix stuff and a used car she can’t afford to drive.

‘I sure do miss you, Honey. I take comfort in knowing that you’re living with a Godly man. Even if we’re half a world away, I know that Jesus holds you in his arms, and I hold you in my heart.

‘Love, Mom.’

Okay, I never exactly told my mom about the problems Trey and me were having – I would have ended up with twice as many Jesus e-mails and even more pleas to get my sorry butt home.

And I don’t want to go home. Go home to what?

For a moment I sit there, shaking. Then I go back to my inbox.

Finally, here’s the e-mail I’ve been waiting for:

‘Best stock options! High growth, hot stock! Sinogram Medical Devices. Shanghai Exchange Best Pick!’

It’s from Chuckie, the signal we agreed upon. And it means that Little Mountain Tiger is back in the Game.

Armed with my turtle shield, a Korean version of Red Bull, and a bottle of Wahaha, sitting in an Internet bar by the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, I’m ready to kick some ass.

I log on.

I’m not dead, and I’m not in Hell, and I don’t have to deal with Horse-face and Ox-head.

Instead, I’m back on the path leading to the Yellow Mountain Monastery, right where I was before I got killed.

I back out, go to my profile and change my password, then head to the Midnight Bazaar for some Mutual Rings, in case I need to kill another Nine-Headed Bird.

The Midnight Bazaar is really jumping, in spite of the fact that it’s just after two in the afternoon here in Xi’an. All kinds of avatars cluster around the various booths, shopping for weapons and spells, checking out the fare at the Food Court. I buy some Mutual Rings, and then I think I should get Little Mountain Tiger some
jiaozi
. She’s got to be hungry after being killed and getting resurrected.

So I find a
jiaozi
stand, and as I’m coming out of the Food Court, an avatar approaches me. Female, copper armor that hugs her body like scales. Gold letters sparkle above her head.

Golden Snake.

‘Hail, Little Mountain Tiger.’

‘Hail.’

‘You’re not anonymous,’ she points out.

‘Had to buy some stuff.’

‘Can we talk?’

‘Okay.’ I guess.

I start to type the anon/group command.

‘No need,’ Golden Snake says quickly. ‘Let’s talk like this.’

The anon/group command means only members of my Guild, the Great Society, can see me.

So, does Golden Snake want someone else to see me?

‘How come I got killed?’ I type.

‘Ask the Monk.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I wasn’t involved.’

Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t know.

‘What about …’

I stop there. I’m afraid to type his name. Even his avatar’s name. Because I don’t know who’s watching.

‘What about our friend?’ I type. I don’t know if she’ll get that or not.