Tiantian’s place.
The real giveaway’s the guys in black suits wearing earpieces standing on either side of the door. The Caos tend to travel with a security detail.
They check my name against an iPhone app that has my photo on it-shit, for all I know, it takes a retinal scan. I pass, apparently, because one of them tugs on the thick brass ring to open the heavy red gate.
Well, okay, it’s a Chinese palace. Of course it is. Not a huge one, just your basic Chinese minor-prince kind of size. Behind the gate is an entry hall open at the back. I jog left then right, toward the main gate that faces north. Limp up the two granite steps that lead to the entrance to the courtyard I know is on the other side and step over the red wood that cuts across the bottom of the double doors. There’s a huge black-lacquered screen with gold calligraphy on it that’s almost as wide as the entrance and as tall as the ceiling. You have to go around the screen; you can’t just walk right into the place. I think it’s maybe supposed to stop bad spirits, because they can only move in a straight line.
I walk around the screen. Before I even turn the corner, there are young women in qipaos, and not cheap restaurant polyester ones either. These are beautiful, form-fitting dresses, red with silk embroidery. One of the women holds a lacquer tray bearing tiny crystal flutes. The other makes a polite little bow and hands me one.
Moutai. Of course.
I smile and nod and hold it up to my mouth, because it would be rude not to, and I’m actually almost getting a taste for Moutai, you know, if I drink it quick enough.
On the other side of the entry hall is a courtyard with three more halls in a U shape around it-your classic Beijing siheyuan built for a wealthy owner. In the center of the courtyard, there’s a big granite boulder, all jagged and knobby, a dozen or so feet high. I’ve heard these things called “strange stones.” Usually there’s some calligraphy on them, some proverb about wisdom or changing seasons or whatever. Spaced around that are small twisted pines in marble planters, party guests, and more serving girls in qipaos. All the girls are pretty, I notice. That’s not surprising either. China has a lot of pretty girls, and guys like Tiantian can afford to pay for them.
There are halls left, right, and center, single- or two-story at most, grey stone and red wood and glazed curved roof tiles. I spot the source of the erhu music, now mingling with a pipa, a yanqin, and the occasional slap of percussion: a quartet set up on the other side of the strange stone. While it’s true that your basic subway erhu player often sounds like he’s strangling a cat, a badass player can shred with that bow and two strings. I’ve also heard some amazing stuff on a pipa, which is sort of like a medieval guitar-a lute or whatever. These guys sounds pretty good, if you like that traditional stuff. I swear I’ve seen the erhu player jamming with a punk-rock band at Mao Live House. Maybe the pipa player, too.
“Oh, so you came.”
I jump a little. Marsh.
He’s wearing all black: slouchy black jacket, black jeans, black boots, and a designer black T-shirt. It goes well with his designer stubble.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was invited.”
“I’ll bet.” He sips his drink. Whatever it is, it’s not Moutai. Something amber, in a tumbler.
I shrug. “You know, it’s this museum project.”
One of the waitresses approaches with a platter of appetizers. Tiny designer jiaozi nestled in paper cups.
“Dumpling?” she offers. “Pork and black truffle juicy?”
“Sure,” I say. Whatever. I take one and bite into it. This intense, almost buttery mushroom-and-pork-fat flavor explodes in my mouth. I manage not to drip the juice on my shirt. Barely. Only because I don’t want to waste it.
I look up, and I see that Marsh is watching me.
“Xiaojie.” He halts the waitress with a light hand on her elbow and grabs a dumpling off the tray. “Have another,” he says, extending his open palm out to me, the dumpling perched on his fingers.
I so want another one of those dumplings.
“That’s okay,” I say. “You should try it.”
He smiles and shrugs. Pops it into his mouth and chews with a satisfied smirk. Flicks a glance to his right. “Interesting crowd.”
“I guess.”
I mean, I guess it is, actually. A weird mix. There are a lot of thirty-, forty-something people dressed in expensive designer gear, the conservative kind, like they came from an after-work function or an awards banquet. Some of them are wearing interpretations of traditional Chinese clothes: silk mandarin-collar jackets, sleek versions of qipaos. Tiantian’s posse maybe.
Then there’s Gugu’s group: giggly younger women in sequined T-shirts and denim short-shorts and fuck-me stilettos, guys with wispy goatees, fedoras or sideways ball caps, and visible tattoos.
I’m not sure which Meimei’s crowd is. If she even has one. Maybe the athletic twenty-somethings hanging around the edges or the ones wearing high-fashion labels, all that Gucci Pucci crap that looks like money.
Funny thing is, I realize that Marsh and I are dressed almost exactly alike.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asks.
“It’s okay.” I shrug. “I’m not that into parties.”
“But if they have good drinks and nice food and rich people who might throw a few crumbs your way… you’ll drag yourself here. Right?”
He’s got his tumbler in one hand, and he lifts it in a sketch of a toast before he brings it to his reddened lips and tosses the rest down.
“Like I said. It’s this museum project.”
He snorts. “Right.” Raises his empty glass. “Xiaojie,” he calls out, a little louder this time, so he can get his drink quickly. Then he leans toward me.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he says. “I recognize those labels you’re wearing. Don’t tell me you don’t like nice things.”
I stare back. Lock my gaze on his hooded, bloodshot eyes, and I don’t look away.
“Yeah, well, it’s a recent development.” I toss my head in the direction of the main hall. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to find the head.”
Motherfucker.
Okay, I’m pretty sure this guy is bad news, and I’m not just saying that because he’s right about my recently liking nice things.
What do I tell Sidney?
First do no harm. That’s been my mantra since I got any leftover gung-ho bullshit blown out of me in the Sandbox.
If I tell Sidney what I think about Marsh, what kinds of consequences am I willing to shoulder?
On the other hand, there’s my ass to think about. I have to tell Sidney something.
I head toward the hall on my left. Not the main hall, if I remember how places like this are laid out-that would be the one perpendicular, the northern house, and the grounds here look big enough to have additional buildings behind that.
This one’s shutter-style wooden doors are flung open, welcoming you inside. Even with the open doors, they’re running some kind of air conditioner that feels more like a cool breeze blowing from inside.
A few guests have drifted in here. A big rectangular room with high ceilings, framed in wood and a lot of black and red and lacquer. Worn stone floors dotted with old, expensive-looking woven rugs. Chinese brush paintings and scrolls hang on the walls. Expensive ones, from what I know, not that I’m an expert. Sometimes you can just tell. One of those green-and-yellow Tang-dynasty horse statuettes, which I’m guessing is a real one, sits on a fancy inlaid cabinet. Some classic Chinese furniture and some modern interpretations of it, because you know those Chinese chairs and benches look cool, but they aren’t all that comfortable. Hardwood chairs grouped around small square tables and this giant carved wooden bed thing with a little table on top of it. A couple of hipster types lounge on the bed thing, smoking something in long-stemmed pipes, their drinks on the little table. They’re not wearing shoes, and I wonder if I should take mine off, too.