"Water resists fire. You need the help of water," Bright Moon says calmly.
Then he points to a mole on Lulu's cheek. "You need to have the black mole beneath your eye removed. That is a crying mole, it will bring you many tears. In addition, you like wearing black, but black is unlucky for you. Your yin is already very strong to begin with. In the future, you should wear more colorful clothes. And you had best use a red pillowcase."
After Lulu hears this, she is all smiles.
When they are leaving, Bright Moon finally exhorts Lulu, "You should be grateful in your heart and have some reverence for the gods. If you don't have faith, things will be even worse. I would encourage you to go to Xiang He in Hebei to pay your respects to the ascetic Taoist holy woman there who attained the true light. Eight years after she died, her body still hasn't rotted. When you see her, you will understand everything in the darkness is long ago preordained."
Lulu nods her head constantly.
"Do you also believe in Buddhism?" I ask Bright Moon.
"I do not distinguish between Buddhism and Taoism. Faiths are all interlinked." As Bright Moon is leaving, he gives me a copy of the I Ching. "Go home and study this. I can see you are someone who understands."
Lulu does everything according to Bright Moon's recommendations and installs the computer Beibei and I have bought for her. Lulu decides to leave behind the hurt caused by Ximu. She writes me an e-maiclass="underline" "I want to be just like the phoenix, to fly out of the ashes of my own body and be reborn."
CHUJI JIEDUAN: The primary stage of socialism, the Chinese Communist Party's description of the current political system in China.
MEINU ZUOJIA: Literally, a pretty female author; in actuality, one of a group of average-looking female authors who like to include flattering photos of themselves on the covers of their books. Just as so-called political analysts such as Bill O'Reilly and Ann Coulter appear on the covers of their sensationalized books in the United States.
BAZI: "Eight characters," the Taoist reference to the year, month, day, and hour of one's birth.
24 The Last Aristocrat
Thirty-five-year-old Weiwei is my family's friend. He often claims to be the last aristocrat in China. When the government and the media promote the "noble spirit," he says to everybody, "Do you know what China lacks the most? Noble people. Too many peasants and too many nouveaux riches who drape themselves in Rolexes and gold chains. Nobility is in your blood. Money can't buy it. I'm the only Chinese aristocrat left." Although I am not sure about Weiwei's claims of aristocracy, I must agree with his critique of modern Chinese society.
Like my mother, Weiwei has Manchurian blood. Weiwei's grandfather was one of China 's most famous linguistics scholars. Many of the classical Chinese university textbooks were edited by his grandfather. Weiwei's father is a famous poet and translator. When the American poet Allen Ginsberg visited China in 1984, Weiwei's father was his host.
The long-haired Weiwei is a failed artist and musician. In the past, he used to sit alone in his room all day listening to classical music and conducting along with a baton, or talking to Van Gogh through his paintings. But lately he is filling in as a part-time DJ at a bar called the Loft, playing techno music. The Loft was designed by a couple of Chinese brothers, both of them performance artists. It reminds me of those bars in Manhattan that have a similar metallic, warehouse feel.
"Niuniu, you've come back to China and you haven't called me. I've heard you've been partying like crazy. Hanging out at night in bars and discos! Is that right?" Weiwei greets me at my mother's house.
"It's all rumors. I'm working hard to serve the people," I say as I put my hand over my heart.
Weiwei laughs. "You still remember the old Chinese slogans! Anyway, when it comes to partying, I, Weiwei, am indeed your elder. These days everyone has money, everyone can party. I started hanging out in bars back in the 1980s. In those days, hanging out in bars was a privilege of the rich. While I partied, you kids were still walking around in diapers!"
"It seems to me the one thing Beijing does not lack is braggarts like you who'll boast about anything!" I tease Weiwei.
"Niuniu, you were still young back then, you don't remember. Once, in the mid-1980s, I sold my first painting, to a Japanese. Three thousand yuan in foreign-exchange certificates. In those days, three thousand yuan was like one million today. I made the deal at the Shangri-La Hotel. Then the Japanese took me home in a Toyota Crown, the classiest taxi at the time. First, I bought myself a pair of Nikes. Then, wearing my new Nikes, I took all my mates to the disco at the Peace Hotel, which was all the rage then. The cover charge was 150 yuan. I remember very clearly. Later we all started going to the Kunlun Hotel disco. And then we were always hanging out at Nightman Disco!"
"Nightman? Who goes there anymore?" The banter continues.
"Don't look down on Nightman just because it's not as trendy as Rolling Stone or Hard Rock or those other discos opened by Americans. In the 1980s, Nightman was fantastic. The people going in and out of Nightman with the diplomats were all high-class people. If you don't believe me, ask your mother Mei. Of course, I must admit that now Nightman is like a former social butterfly who's reached menopause – past its prime."
"Real heroes don't brag about their past bravery. Tell me where you've been hanging out lately," I say to the loquacious Weiwei.
"Too many women are chasing me. Girls from the art institute, the music institute, the drama institute, the film academy, the medical university and big-nosed foreign students from the Beijing Language and Culture University. They're chasing me all day, telling me they want to live with me, want to marry me. Why do girls today stick to people like plaster? I tell them I'm disrespectful, will go to any lengths for sex, am irresponsible, inconsistent, change my mind the minute I see something new, and accomplish nothing, but still they don't let me go. They say they like my honesty. It seems that there are very few men with aristocratic qualities in China, so everyone wants me."
I know that Weiwei loves boasting about women chasing him. But I can never work out whether it is true or all in Wei-wei's imagination. Some women like wisecracking men like Weiwei; some women like the silent type. I think of Len. He is exactly the opposite of Weiwei: quiet, unsure, extremely polite to the point of humility. But perhaps his humbleness and politeness are a better way of showing off?
"I was told that you're a computer expert now. Are you still into it?" I ask Weiwei.
"Nope. Lately I'm hooked on cars!" says Weiwei. "Audi, Shanghai Buick, and Guangzhou Honda are following the German, American, and Japanese routes, respectively. German cars have a European prestige and quality. American cars are big, because there are many fatsos in the States. Japanese cars are economical and reliable and suit someone who wants to save money. My favorite is the BMW Z8."
"That little two-seater sports car that James Bond drives?"
"That car is exciting, sexy, and passionate, a totally new concept. Pure BMW thoroughbred, not some joint-venture hybrid. The wheels are wide, the trunk is small, the driver's seat is big. The first time I saw it, I wanted to jump right in. The body is made of aluminum alloy; the rear bumper is made of impact-resistant polyurethane. The Z8 can go from zero to one hundred in under five seconds. From one hundred kilometers per hour, it can stop in less than 2.5 seconds. Damn, our Chinese cars don't even come close." Weiwei sounds like a well-versed car salesman trying to close a deal.