More to the point, the Dali Perfect Inn is featured in “Dali Scene.” I’m guessing Langhai stayed there, or if he didn’t, maybe they know where he is.
I’m dozing off in the car, but when I open my eyes now and again, I see flashes of an immense lake, mountains, deep blue skies. Then an old-fashioned city wall, stark white in the glaring sunlight.
“Ming dynasty,” Porkpie Hat Guy tells me.
They get dropped off on a quiet section of a street close to the lake, lined with traditional buildings, grass growing out from between the grey roof tiles, by a produce store with vegetables and fruits spread out in plastic tubs and a bar with a bright yellow door, called Lazy Bastard.
“We’re going to Cheeky Monkey later,” Lei Feng T-Shirt Girl says. “Maybe see you there?”
I force a smile. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
The Dali Perfect Inn is west, toward the mountains. It’s cool and crisp out, hat and jacket weather and nothing like the overcast damp of Yangshuo. We wait at an intersection for a mob of Chinese tourists to pass, all wearing identical turquoise baseball caps, led by a guide, a woman barely into her twenties, with a giant pennant and a battery-operated bullhorn. It’s not even eight-thirty. “Tourists like to walk on this street, Fuxing Lu,” the driver explains. “Go from south gate to north gate.” I tell myself to avoid Fuxing Lu.
The road we’re on slopes gently upward. We pass another narrow street lined with traditional houses turned into pizza places, coffeehouses, bars. “Yangren Lu,” the driver says. Foreigner Street. Most of the people I see on it look Chinese, though. A riot of sloping triangular roofs, wooden shutters of red and gold, painted eaves, carved signboards against a sky that’s a deep, sharp, almost desert blue.
You want to talk quaint? This place is quaint on steroids.
Finally we arrive at Dali Perfect Inn.
It’s a small building tucked away on another narrow street, two stories of weathered grey stone and wood. It looks old, but you never know for sure in China; they create fake old stuff all the time. You know, after they knock the real old stuff down.
“Room number twenty-one, here is key, and you can have a breakfast until nine A.M.”
I look around the lobby. It’s elegant, almost, with world clocks set in carved panels, Ming-dynasty-style furniture, stone floors. You can find plenty of cheaper hotels in Dali, less than the Perfect’s thirty dollars a night. Not quite the backpacker dive I’d figure was Jason’s kind of place. But the kind of place that looks like it has the money to sponsor a video.
“Zhege lüguan, zhen piaoliang,” I say. Your hotel, it’s very pretty. “I saw a video on Youku recommending it.”
The woman behind the counter is slim, young, wearing what I guess is Bai traditional dress-this red tunic thing with white sleeves and an embroidered trim. She smiles.
“Oh, yes, ‘Dali Scene.’ ”
“That’s the one. It’s a very good video.” I hesitate, not sure how far I should push this right away. “Do you know the person who made it? Because maybe I would like to hire him to make a video for me.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I myself don’t know. But my manager, I can ask her later.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
It’s a start, I guess.
I limp up to my room. It’s on the second floor. There’s this covered walkway that runs alongside the rooms, with stone arches and a beamed ceiling, making a horseshoe shape around a central courtyard. When I get to my room, it’s all wooden shutters, wooden furniture, a bed with a carved wooden frame, a canopy, and embroidered pillows on top of a puffy quilt.
Fucking quaint.
I kick off my shoes and collapse on the bed.
When I wake up, it’s late afternoon, I have a headache, and I’m hungry.
I make myself an instant Starbucks coffee, stand in the shower for a while, dress in jeans, a semi-fresh T-shirt, sweater, and jacket. I head outside.
After Yangshuo the light still feels bright here, the shadows sharp-edged. The wind has picked up, and I zip my jacket against the chill. I’m thinking pizza. Or… I don’t know, a burger. The street parallel to this one is full of all kinds of restaurants, outdoor cafés, some with free Wi-Fi, each with its carved wood, arched roofs, and postcard-ready façade.
“Ganja? Ganja?”
I turn. There’s a little old lady wearing traditional clothes, a tunic and this black headdress with embroidered flowers and beadwork hanging off the back. She’s about five feet tall and has sidled up next to me. She mutters again, “Ganja? Ganja?”
You know, I’m kind of tempted, because I’m starting to feel hungover all the time from the Percocet I’ve been taking. Also constipated. Maybe a little ganja would help, but even though pot’s not a super big deal in China, I can’t afford the risk.
“Xianzai buyao,” I say, and continue my search for a likely restaurant.
I SETTLE FOR INDIAN food, and after I’ve eaten, I do what I do in every place I’ve been: find a coffeehouse/bar advertising free Wi-Fi, order a beer, and get out my laptop.
I sip my beer-I splurged for an imported Sierra Nevada-and check my email.
Spam. Messages from various artists. One from Torres, another buddy of mine from the Sandbox.
One from Dog Turner.
“Heya baby doc hows it going? Any joy yet on my bro? if you see him tell him to get his ass home ok?”
I hesitate. I’m using the VPN, but I still feel uneasy. This whole thing, it’s another one of those situations that feels way bigger than me, where there’s stuff going on that I don’t know about, stuff that could come back and bite me on the ass.
Your basic iceberg of shit.
I mean, if Jason really is this wanted guy, considered a terrorist to boot, just because I’m using a VPN, that doesn’t mean that Dog’s end of the communication is secure.
“Hey, Dog,” I type. “Sorry, nothing to report. Have been tied up with business stuff. Not sure I can really help. Let’s talk next week, okay?”
I feel like shit, because I’m lying. There’s plenty of things I could tell Dog. And he’s going to read the email, and he’s going to think that I’m being a Fobbit, afraid to go outside the wire, afraid to take a risk to help a buddy.
Then I think, I’m such an asshole, because I’m more worried about what he’s going to think about me than how he’s going to feel about what I said.
Next an email from Harrison.
Dear Ellie,
I hope this finds you well and that you are enjoying your vacation.
The possibility that we may be facing some of the complications we spoke about during our last dinner is looking more likely. I’ll see what I can do on my end. There’s no immediate crisis, but the situation is complicated. If you have a chance, give Lucy Wu a call. She can fill you in.
Best,
Harrison
Great. Fucking great.
Finally, the latest from my mom:
Once upon a time, there was this girl who had four boyfriends.
She loved the fourth boyfriend the most and adorned him with rich robes and treated him to the finest of delicacies. She gave him nothing but the best.
She also loved the third boyfriend very much and was always showing him off to neighboring kingdoms. However, she feared that one day he would leave her for another.
She also loved her second boyfriend. He was her confidant and was always kind, considerate and patient with her. Whenever this girl faced a problem, she could confide in him, and he would help her get through the difficult times.