11
On the way back from Zhichunli, as he was passing the gate of the Foreign Languages Institute, Dunhuang got an unfamiliar phone call. A man said in a low voice, “I saw your advertisement, are you selling DVDs? I want something hard.”
Dunhuang hesitated before saying, “I’ve got that, how many do you want?”
“The more the better. The north gate of the Beijing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics, I’m wearing a gray jacket and a red tie.”
Dunhuang took the bus there. He saw the gray jacket sitting on the curb across from the university, his red tie was very flashy. Dunhuang approached with his bag on his back. “Want a movie?” The jacket nodded.
“Let’s find someplace quiet to talk.” They turned into an empty street and stopped. Dunhuang pulled three porn DVDs out of the side pocket of his bag.
“Got any more?”
Dunhuang put the bag down at his feet and pulled out another ten. “That’s all.”
The jacket looked into the open bag. “You’ve got softcore too?”
Dunhuang pulled five DVDs from the pile, his hand unerring. He didn’t have many, softcore didn’t sell well. As the jacket flipped through the packages one of his legs shook continuously. Once he’d looked through them all closely, he suddenly yelled, “I’m a police officer!” Dunhuang blinked, then laughed. “Come on, brother, don’t scare me, I have a weak bladder.”
“Don’t believe me?” The guy stuck his right hand into his pocket and pulled out his ID, flipping it open. He really was police. At the same time, his other hand was already closing on one of the straps of the bag. “I’m confiscating your DVDs!”
Dunhuang pointed at the ground and said, “Is that your money?”When the jacket looked down Dunhuang yanked the bag out of his hand and took off. The jacket tried to grab the bag with his other hand, but it was too late. The strap he was holding tore off, and he let go. He shouted, “Stop!” Dunhuang ran for all he was worth, the bag over one shoulder, DVDs flying from its open mouth. Luckily, he was a fast runner — the jacket gave up after fifty meters. Dunhuang didn’t stop until he’d reached the gate of the Science Academy, hastily zipping up the bag as he ran. He checked that the jacket was nowhere in sight before flopping down on the side of the street. His calves were trembling, cramped from fright. He was remembering Haidian Bridge.
But this time he’d gotten away.
It took him the rest of the day to get back to normal — what a fucking awful start to the morning. His heart wasn’t in selling DVDs; he was constantly looking around, afraid the police would leap out. He’d lost fewer than 30 DVDs while running, but it was still enough to hurt. In the aftermath, he was not only hyper-vigilant about the police, he also jumped out of his skin every time the phone rang — first was Kuang Shan, using someone else’s phone. He was calling just to say that the Korean movie he’d wanted, The Isle, had arrived and he could come and pick it up. Dunhuang had already worked himself into a state over whether to pick up the unfamiliar number. The second call was also an unknown number. Dunhuang gritted his teeth and picked up.
The caller said, with no preamble, “Is that you, Crow? You been hiding in Li Xiaohong’s underpants again? I haven’t seen you for six months!”
Dunhuang let out a breath. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Like hell I’ve got the wrong number. I’d know your caw if it came out my ass. Don’t ya play with me!”
“I’ll repeat myself: y’got the wrong goddamn number!”
“Huh? It’s really not you?”
“It’s your mom!” Dunhuang hung up. Whoever it was called again, and let it ring until Dunhuang finally picked up again.
The caller hadn’t even lost his temper.“I’m sorry I bothered you. Do you know Crow’s number? A friend gave me yours.”
“Sorry, try the Forbidden City if you’re looking for crows. I only know magpies.”
Dunhuang felt a little better after that, and he decided to concentrate on selling movies, it was almost evening. He cursed gray jacket as he went, bullshit cop, bullshit cop. . But a light bulb went on as he approached Haidian — there had been something wrong with jacket’s ID. He craned his neck, trying to latch on to the problem. The leather case. . the printing. . the font. . There it was: the last character of the title on the ID had been squeezed up against the margin. There was no way a normal ID would have been that poorly designed. The title had been squeezed on purpose. Bao Ding once got a job like that, and Dunhuang went with him to pick up the finished product. Bao Ding asked if something was wrong with the signature on the ID.The forger said they always did it that way for fake police IDs — they included an imperfection, leaving an out for themselves. It was like counterfeit bills, they always left something wrong in the details. Dunhuang remembered the guy saying, righteously, “It’s part of our moral code.”
Dunhuang thought carefully about the jacket’s ID. There had definitely been something wrong with it. His mood improved immediately, he’d been taken in by a fake! He swore loud enough to shake the sky, and continued on feeling practically carefree, even forgetting his annoyance at the guy looking for Crow. Who could say if it was a wrong number, maybe it was just a bored crank caller? At that point, another light bulb went on — why not use the same trick in his own search for Qibao? Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? Dunhuang was impressed with his own genius — the search was as good as done. What can you do? Sometimes you just get clever.
He turned on the spot and went back the way he’d come, looking for fake ID ads on the sidewalk, bus-stops, traffic control boxes, and trash cans. They read: IDs, internet connections, receipts, and each had a phone number. Dunhuang tore off each one he saw, and when he got home he started calling every one of the twenty-two numbers he’d collected.
If a woman picked up, he’d say, “Is this Qibao? I’m Crow.”
She’d answer, “No, you’ve got the wrong number.”
He’d continue, “Are you sure? A friend gave me this number. Do you know Qibao?”
“No, I’ve never heard of her.”
“Oh, sorry to bother you then. Thanks.”
If a man picked up, he’d say, “Hey, this is Crow. Have you seen Qibao lately?”
The man would say, “Who’s Crow? I don’t know you. Haven’t heard of Qibao either.”
“Sorry, wrong number! Thanks.”
Southern accents, northern dialects, half-cooked Beijing slang. Those with good tempers would grumble a bit before hanging up. If he got a mean one, though, he was in for a tongue lashing: asshole, bastard, idiot, go to hell, etc.
Then he’d start over with a new number.
He worked through all twenty-two numbers with no success. He wasn’t disappointed, though, this was still the best way to find Qibao. He would let the mountain come to Mohammad — he’d be the still point at the center. All he had to worry about was finding advertisements, and that was no problem: while he distributed his own, he could collect others’.
Dunhuang spent a week picking up ads, selling DVDs all the while. When he got home, he’d make calls — no less than three hundred in seven days. He didn’t expect Qibao herself to be among the three hundred, but if one of them had even heard of her, he’d be all set. He couldn’t expect to cover the entirety of Beijing’s fake-ID industry with three hundred numbers, but perhaps it would do for a half, or a third. It was only a matter of time before he found Qibao. He had to keep track of numbers he’d called twice, of course. There were ten or so of those — he’d forgotten which ones he’d already called. After getting a few earfuls, Dunhuang learned his lesson and made a rough list of numbers, checking them off as he went.