The girl’s first boyfriend was a very loyal partner and had made great contributions in maintaining her wealth and kingdom. However, she did not love the first boyfriend. Although he loved her deeply, she hardly took notice of him!
One day the girl fell ill, and she knew her time was short. She thought of her luxurious life and wondered, I now have four boyfriends with me, but when I die, I’ll be all alone.
Thus, she asked the 4th boyfriend, “I loved you the most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?”
“No way!” replied the fourth boyfriend, and he walked away without another word.
His answer cut like a sharp knife right into her heart. The sad girl then asked the third boyfriend, “I loved you all my life. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?”
“No!” replied the third boyfriend. “Life is too good! When you die, I’m going to marry someone else!” Her heart sank and turned cold. She then asked the second boyfriend, “I have always turned to you for help and you’ve always been there for me. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you out this time!” replied the second boyfriend. “At the very most, I can only walk with you to your grave.”
His answer struck her like a bolt of lightning, and the girl was devastated. Then a voice called out, “I’ll go with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.”
The girl looked up, and there was her first boyfriend. He was very skinny, as he suffered from malnutrition and neglect. Greatly grieved, the girl said, “I should have taken much better care of you when I had the chance!”
In truth, you have four boyfriends in your lives:
Your fourth boyfriend is your body. No matter how much time and effort you lavish on making it look good, it will leave you when you die. Your third boyfriend is your possessions, status and wealth. When you die, it will all go to others. Your second boyfriend is your family and friends. No matter how much they have been there for you, the furthest they can stay by you is up to the grave. And your first boyfriend is your soul. Often neglected in pursuit of wealth, power and pleasures of the world. However, your soul is the only thing that will follow you where ever you go. Cultivate, strengthen and cherish it now, for it is the only part of you that will follow you to the throne of God and continue with you throughout Eternity.
Thought for the day: Remember, when the world pushes you to your knees, you’re in the perfect position to pray.
Below this my mom has added, “Andy says he knows some guys who can take care of the toilet!! XOXOX, Mom.”
I order another beer and call Lucy Wu.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“OH, IT’S NOTHING SO serious.”
I hear glasses clinking, conversation, jazz playing underneath. I’m guessing Lucy Wu is at some nice bar or fancy party.
“Just… wait a moment.” She moves somewhere quieter. “The authorities came to the gallery, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
A pause. “They asked me some questions about Lao Zhang. If I knew where he was. If I had any contact with him.” In the background someone laughs. “I don’t, of course, and I told them that. Then they asked if I could provide them with sales records for the last year. I told them I could.”
“And…?”
“They left. For now.”
I can picture her elegant shrug. Lucy Wu is one of these perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed, delicate, sexy Chinese women who make me feel like a big hot mess.
In spite of that, I kind of like her.
“Who were they?”
“Shanghai police.” Another pause. “That’s who they said they were anyway.”
The implication being: who the fuck knows who they really were?
“I get it.”
“It’s all so disagreeable. I’m just trying to run a business. Support art.” I hear footsteps, the sharp click of heels, like she’s pacing. “The government talks about promoting China’s culture in the Five-Year Plan, and this is the sort of thing they do. I’m a gallery owner, that’s all. An art dealer. Not some kind of dissident.”
She sounds pretty pissed off.
“Yeah,” I say. “So what are you going to do?”
Lucy sighs. “Well, I have some business in Hong Kong. I think I’ll go ahead and attend to that. Then maybe I’ll visit my cousin in Vancouver for a while.” She laughs shortly. “That is, if they let me leave the country.”
WE TALK A LITTLE longer, and Lucy confesses that she’s had a Canadian bank account for years, “just in case.”
“You know, you can’t always depend on things here,” she says, sounding a little defensive.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“Of course, you have an American passport. You can always go home if you want.”
“Yeah. Right.”
IT’S DARK NOW. STILL early, just after seven, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. I settle up and hobble out onto the street. Take a walk. Test out my leg. It feels better, I tell myself, but the pain’s still pretty bad. I’m running low on Percocets, too. The majority of my stash is back in Beijing.
Yeah, I could go home. Back to the States. But what would I do there? I’ve been following the news. The recession. The unemployment. What kind of work could I possibly get? What would I do with myself?
I have a life here. I have work. Friends. An apartment. Where my mom is currently living. And if I go home, what’s she gonna do?
Fuck it. I need a drink.
I WALK FOR A while, the farthest I’ve walked since that asshole in Guiyu took a whack at me. It’s cool out, but not freezing or anything, and I’m fine in my jacket and a knit hat that I bought off a blanket from some guy near the Beijing Forestry University. I need my Yangshuo walking stick for support, but I’m feeling pretty good. The walking helps get me out of my own head, a little anyway.
This is a pretty town. Not a lot of traffic. I find myself heading east, toward the lake. The street looks familiar, like maybe I saw it from the taxi this morning. Where the hipster couple from the train got dropped off. A few bars and coffee places stuck in between local businesses and houses. Quieter than the main tourist drag near where I’m staying.
Except this place. I can hear the music thumping faintly as I approach. An old building, decrepit façade painted black.
There’s a signboard with a cartoon monkey grinning over his shoulder, red ass cheeks thrust out like an invitation.
The Cheeky Monkey.
That’s where the hipster couple said they’d be tonight, I remember.
I hesitate outside the door. I still don’t do well with a lot of noise. It makes me nervous. And the hipster couple, I mean, they were nice enough, but it’s not like I’m dying to see them again.
On the other hand, I could go in there and have a couple of beers. It’s something to do. And tomorrow I’ll question the manager at the Dali Perfect Inn, see if she can tell me anything about video director Langhai, maybe even go to the new city and check out the Modern Scientific Seed Company. Or not.
Because a part of me thinks I’d better punch out. Deal with my own shit. Of which there is much. Turn over the leads I have to Dog, or to Natalie anyway, and let them decide what to do.
But in the meantime I could have a beer, I guess.
I grab the door handle, feel the rough carved wood against my palm and fingers, open it, and go inside.
The smoke hits me more than the music does; the air is blue with it. The walls of the bar are painted black, with Day-Glo graffiti on them, lit up by black lights. The place is pretty small, like a hutong bar, with a combination of small sprung couches and old wooden chairs. The music’s not bad. Modern trance stuff, British, I think.