“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?”
John stares straight ahead. “I don’t want to.”
“But you will.”
“Someone will.” He grinds the heels of his palms against his temples. Maybe he really does have a headache. “I have to think of way… think of way we can be safe.”
“Who? You and me?”
His hands drop. “All of us.”
I almost believe him.
“But mostly you.” Now he does look at me, but it’s so dark that I can’t really see his expression. “Because you have connection to Zhang Jianli, if they think you lie…”
I shudder. And then I shrug it off. “They’ll kick me out of the country. Whatever.”