“What do you do now, Ellie?”
“Call my mom. Answer some email. Take a nap.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. I just… I know you’ve got things you need to do, and I’m… I think I want to just get some things done, like I said.”
“If you’re sure.” He stands there with that slightly awkward, hands-jammed-in-his-jeans-pockets posture that makes me think he’s a different guy altogether, the guy I thought he was the first time we met: kind of cute, a little clueless, maybe even sort of shy.
“I think it’s okay,” he says. “I don’t think Beijing police or Yang Junmin will bother you now. But… I can’t be certain.”
“I know.” I swing my daypack off my shoulders and zip open the main compartment. Reach in and get the envelope I’d given Lucy Wu, just in case.
“Maybe this is something you can use,” I say.
I did a lot of thinking on the train. An offshore company that Celine knew about, that involved somebody at Tiantian’s party. I thought about what she was likely to know and how she could have learned about it. She hung out around Gugu, and she hung out around Marsh. Marsh palled around with Gugu, but he worked for Tiantian.
I fix things for Tiantian, Marsh said. Help him move money around.
And who really needs help moving money around, way more than the son of a Chinese billionaire?
A high-ranking CCP official who needs to do it all off the books.
I hold out the envelope to John. “I’m not sure, but I think this might help you get Tiantian. And Yang Junmin.”
He takes it. “Thank you.”
“I’m just going to ask you to promise me something. If you use it… keep Sidney and his other kids out of it, if you can. Sidney’s going to be in business with people I know. Besides…”
I think about Sidney’s art collection, and I wonder: Will he follow through with it? Will he build a museum for regular people to enjoy? Give away his ghost city and his estate? Bring some beauty to people’s lives, like he said he wanted to?
“They’re…” I let out a sigh. “I don’t know. They’re not all bad.”
John nods. “I promise.” He folds the envelope and tucks it in his pocket. “I call you tomorrow. Or if you change number, you call me.”
“Okay.”
It’s funny. I suddenly want to hug him and not let go. But I don’t. Because now that he’s finally seeing who I really am, I don’t think he wants me to.
Anyway I don’t deserve it.
Chapter Twenty Nine
★
The apartment looks just how I left it. Some mess in the kitchen from one of Mom’s taco experiments that’s starting to smell. I clean it up. Make myself a pot of coffee. Think I should call my mom.
But I don’t know if I can face talking to her just yet. How am I going to tell her about what I did?
Easy, McEnroe, I tell myself. You don’t. Just like you never told her about what happened in Iraq, before you got blown up.
She doesn’t need to know that stuff about me. What I’m capable of. What I’m not able to do.
So I text. hi, back home.
And then I strike “home.”
back in bj. everything’s fine. probably a good idea if you stayed with andy’s family a few more days. is that ok?
A minute later: what happened?! u sure ur ok?
fine. just a misunderstanding. all fixed.
we’ll be home asap.
no really. stay there a few days. i
Think about what to say.
need some time to
I stare at the screen. It’s like I’ve finally run out of lies, but there’s no truth to take their place.
work a few things out, I finally type.
It’s a minute or so before my mom replies. I imagine she’s thinking about what to say. Or typing things and changing her mind.
ok. we can stay a few more days. love you.
love you too, I type.
I check my email.
Shit, go away for… How many days was it? Whatever, there’s a lot of email.
I delete the spam, the newsletters, the invitations to gallery openings, jokes sent to me by some friends in the US, also cute animal photos, even though I like to look at those. At least I’m not getting so many Jesus emails since my mom’s actually living with me.
Here’s one from my landlady in Wenzhou:
Just to remind you, rent rises in 1 month. If you want to continue lease, let me know.
“Thanks for writing,” I type back without even thinking about it. “I’ll be leaving. Best, Ellie.”
It’s suddenly clear. Just like that. I’ll be leaving.
I keep going through my email. Just because… I don’t know, I’d like to have an empty inbox. Leave things clean.
Here’s a note from some buddies of mine from the Sandbox, Palaver and Madrid, with a new picture of their kid, who’s over a year old now. “So cute,” I type. “Thanks for sending.”
Huh, here’s an email from Francesca Barrows. She’s this British art critic I met a year ago, when the whole craziness happened with Lao Zhang disappearing and the Uighur. I think she might be a part of the Great Community, but I never found out for sure.
It’s been a while. Tried to call, but your number’s not working. Can you give me a ring when you get this? A project’s come up I think you might be interested in.
Right. I delete the message.
Funny thing. Up next is an email from Sloppy Song. She’s an artist I know from Mati Village, where I met Lao Zhang. I always figured she was in the Great Community, too. But it was kind of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” situation.
Hi Ellie, long time no see. Can you call me? Want to make sure you go to this new performance piece, I heard about it recently.
Okay. I’m starting to get that buzz, that tickling up and down my spine. Especially when, after scrolling through a few more newsletters and petition requests, I see an email from Harrison Wang.
Call me as soon as you can.
I don’t have to go down too many more emails in my in-box before I see what prompted all this.
The email is from “Boar Returning from Mountain.”
It has to be Lao Zhang.
Join me to fly a kite. Meet north of Mao’s last erection. Tomorrow, 12 p.m.
I check the date of the email. “Tomorrow” is today.
Mao’s last erection-that’s what some expats I know call the Monument to the People’s Heroes. I told Lao Zhang that once.
The Monument to the People’s Heroes, in Tiananmen Square.
I have an hour to get there.
You don’t have to go, I tell myself. Whatever’s going to happen, you can’t stop it.
I’m done fighting.
I lean back in my desk chair. All I want to do is close up shop here. Go someplace peaceful. Just be for a while.
But I already know what I’m going to do.
“Just one more fucking time,” I mutter.
Tiananmen Square on a hot, smoggy Tuesday in May. A mega-mall parking-lot-size expanse of pavement. Chairman Mao’s memorial hall behind me to the south. The National Museum and the Great Hall of the People to the east and west. The broad expanse of Chang’an Avenue and, across that, the entrance to the Forbidden City to the north.
In the middle the Monument to the People’s Heroes.
They’ve chased the vendors out, the guys selling Mao singing lighters and Little Red Books; now they cluster as discreetly as they can by the entrances to the pedestrian tunnels that lead into the square. Tourists wander around, Chinese and foreign, snapping postcard shots and selfies. There are a lot of uniformed police and obvious plainclothes, too, single men with close-trimmed hair who don’t seem to be doing anything besides watching other people.