Beautiful Country (15 page)

It was hard to see much of anything beyond five or six feet from the door opening. Furniture was stacked on the sides so there was no room to move around except in the little rectangle of open space at the entrance. My eyes began to adjust to the dark and shapes gradually emerged from the darkness. We walked deeper into the building. A thin beam of light came through a small hole in the roof, and a colony of tiny dust particles, disturbed by our presence, seemed to celebrate. The air was thick and smelled faintly of incense. I felt as if I were breathing the dust of departed souls.

A hundred years ago the Forbidden City would have been filled with thousands of ministers, servants, courtiers, and
concubines—people whose behavior and freedom were determined by where they fit into a stratified structure. Now, except for the spaces that were open to the public, it was deserted. Perhaps more than any country, China's history was scarred with hardship and violent change. I was reminded of Victoria's comparing the past to a wound that had not completely healed. Some things were so powerful they could not be remembered. It was as if sentimentality didn't have a place in their culture. They just got on with it.

Our guide led us out of the courtyard back to the alleyway. He paused to push the large padlock shut and then went around us to regain the lead.

I asked Victoria why we were allowed to be in this area that had been closed off to the public for so long. “Maybe Mr. Zhang asked an official to do him a favor,” she said.

“He can do that?”

“Sure.”

“But why would the official agree to it?”

“That's how it works in China,” Victoria said. “Maybe before Mr. Zhang did something to help the official.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know, it could be anything. Maybe Mr. Zhang helped him get his job, or maybe he arranged for some money to be donated to the Forbidden City to repair damaged buildings. Something like that. Now, it is the official's turn to help Mr. Zhang.”

We followed the guide down the alleyway and around a corner to another gate that appeared identical to the one we had just passed through—same size, same color, same chain, same lock. It opened into a courtyard house that had been the home of the Imperial Noble Consort, the Emperor's favorite concubine. The
guide said we couldn't go in because the roof was falling down, but he led us around the building. In front of the building was one of the biggest trees I have ever seen. The trunk must have had a circumference of at least twenty feet and the tree's thick limbs canopied out above us, restrained only by the thick tendrils that stretched down to the ground like taut cables holding a hot air balloon in place. The guide pointed to the tree. “The same tree under which the first Buddha was buried,” he said. Victoria gasped when she heard this and raised her eyebrows. “
Zhende ma
(Really)?” she asked. The guide nodded, and Victoria dropped to her knees and began collecting seeds. The guide followed her lead. I asked Victoria what she was doing. She explained to me that they were the seeds of a holy tree and if you planted these seeds and they grew, you would have good fortune. “This tree is one thousand years old. These are valuable seeds!” She said, “Chase, you can sell these for a lot of money.”

Bowen looked at Victoria in surprise. “A lot of money?”

Victoria laughed. “Maybe. I'm joking,” she said. “It is better to keep them though.”

I followed their example and knelt down and pocketed a few seeds. I noticed that Bowen wasn't joining in. “You should take some seeds,” I said. “Who knows? Might help in a tennis match someday.”

He smiled wanly and looked down at his feet and waved both of his hands in protest. “No, no,” he said. “These are not for me. For you. I am only the guest.”

Our guide tucked his handful of seeds in his pocket, stood up, and spoke to Mr. Chen and then to Victoria. We followed him out of the courtyard. He went to lock the door to the temple, but the rusty lock jammed and the key became stuck. The guide
frowned and applied all his strength to the key but still it would not turn. He shrugged and said that this happened sometimes and that someone would fix the lock later. He led us down another long high-walled alley. The walls were so high and buildings relatively low that I don't know how anyone could find their way around this maze. Everything looked the same, and there were no numbers or signs to tell you where you were.

At some point we turned down a side alley and walked a hundred yards or so before the guide stopped in front of a door and fit a key into the lock. He opened the door and stepped aside with his arm extended and nodded for us to step in front of him. A small, seemingly perfectly restored courtyard house sat in the middle of a large square of land. The lawns had been meticulously groomed.

Our guide said something to Mr. Chen, and Victoria translated for me. “This is where our Premier has spent many hours with the President of America when he came to Beijing.” We walked inside the courtyard house. The first room was sparsely furnished with simple Chinese furniture. Along the wall, glass cases displayed Chinese ceramics. Bowen and Victoria walked around the room admiring the pieces on display. The guide stood in the middle of the room with his hands folded in front of him. He led us into an adjoining room that must have been the dining room. This room was sparsely furnished, too, with only a round dining table with eight chairs. Mr. Chen became quite excited when he saw the dining table and chairs. “It is rare to find a matching table and set of chairs dating back to the Ming Dynasty. Much of the furniture was destroyed in the Cultural Revolution. Very few sets exist.”

“How did this manage to survive? I thought most of the fur
niture in the Forbidden City was burned?” I asked Mr. Chen. He turned to the guide and asked him my question. He said he did not know, but I wondered if he did and did not want to say.

Mr. Chen led us to one more room, which was lined with glass cases filled with bowls and vases. He led us around the room pointing out the pieces from various periods. As our guide explained, each emperor had his own kiln and on his death, he had the kiln destroyed. Each emperor emphasized different techniques and styles. One cared that the china be “the color of the sky after rain,” another wanted the china to be a pale cream and so thin that light could pass through it, another prided himself on the faux finishes his craftsmen could master. Our guide showed us one bowl that looked as if it were brass, another that looked as if it were enamel, and a third that looked as if it were gold.

Mr. Chen and the guide began to get into an in-depth conversation about the history behind the golden bowl and the emperor who had commissioned it. I wandered about the room on my own, checking out the various display cases. I came across a bowl with an interior decorated with a classical painting of an old man with long white hair and fierce eyebrows, wearing long, flowing robes. He was sitting on the ground, by a small fire, next to the stump of a tree. I could tell from his appearance and the tone of the painting that the man was most likely an ancient sage or philosopher. For some reason his face looked oddly familiar to me. I looked closer before I suddenly realized and almost burst out laughing. The philosopher bore an uncanny resemblance to our teammate Little Mao. I knew that Bowen would find this hilarious, and I turned to call him over.

It was then that I noticed that Bowen wasn't with us anymore. The only people in the room were Mr. Chen, Victoria, our guide,
and myself. I slipped back into the room we had just left to see if he was lagging behind. He wasn't there and so I went through the front door to the courtyard outside. Just as I stepped outside, I saw the courtyard's door crack open. The doorway was dark and hidden in the shadow of the overhang but I was able to make out a thin, shaggy-haired silhouette slipping past into the courtyard.

Instantly I recognized the figure as Bowen. He had his back turned to me and did not see me watch him as he pressed the door shut against the wall. I wondered why he had left and where he had gone. I was struck with the urge to hide so that he would not know that I had seen him. He turned and stepped out from the shadows and into the light and saw me before I could make a decision either way. For a fraction of a second I saw panic in his eyes—but it vanished and made me doubt what I had seen. He smiled and waved at me. “
Wo zhaobudao weishengjian
(I can't find the bathroom).”

The guide had pointed to the bathroom, which was inside to the right of the door. “It's inside,” I said and lifted my chin in the direction of the house. Why had he panicked? Why was he lying to me about where he had been? He smiled and walked toward me with his customary bounce of confidence in his step. As he got closer I saw that his tennis shoes were dirty and his tracksuit pants dusty and marked with dirt at the knees, and I realized that he must have gone back to the ancient tree to collect seeds for himself. He walked past me and into the house.

We rejoined the others in the last room of the house. Mr. Chen and the guide were still going on about the bowls, but Victoria had realized that we were missing and was walking through the doorway to look for us as we came into the room. “We were look
ing for the bathroom,” I mumbled to Victoria and walked past her to Mr. Chen and the guide.

As our guide led us out of the house, he turned and said that many important state meetings take place in this house. We followed the guide and Mr. Chen down a long passageway to a side gate where the drivers were waiting with the cars. Mr. Zhang was on his cell phone by the SUVs. As we neared the cars, he paused his conversation. “The Forbidden City goes on and on,” Mr. Zhang said to me. “I will now take you to a place for you to tell your father about.”

As we left the Forbidden City behind, I could not get one thought out of my head. Why had Bowen lied to me?

We traveled straight north from the center of Beijing. After over an hour we arrived at a large area that had recently been cleared of all buildings. It was at least the size of Tiananmen Square. It felt like a graveyard without headstones. Mr. Zhang got out and pointed to the northern part of the land. “The Olympic Stadium will be there.” He turned and looked behind him. “This is mine. I am going to build five apartment buildings with courtyard houses on top. There is already a waiting list for them. They will be in the shape of a dragon. So when you are at the Olympics and look at my buildings you will see a dragon.”

No one knew what to say. Finally I asked, “How long will it take to build?”

Mr. Zhang held his fingers in the shape of a peace sign.

“Eleven years?”

“Two,” he said. “At the top of the dragon building I will have a luxury hotel.” His cell phone rang, he answered. He asked the listener to wait and lowered his cell phone and held it open against his pant leg. “You will now go and look at my houses.” He raised his cell phone to his ear and returned to his call.

Mr. Chen turned and offered me a fat folder of brochures.
I took a handful and then held out the folder for Victoria and Bowen to take some. Mr. Chen shook his head. “No, those are for you,” he said.

I shuffled through the brochures. There was a combination of apartments in high-rises and detached houses in suburban-like settings. The high-rises had names like
La Forêt
or
Upper East Side
or
Park Avenue
; the suburban “villas” had names like
Yosemite
,
Ascot
,
Beijing Riviera
, and
Grand Hills
.

We were back in the car heading to the eastern part of the city to view some of Mr. Zhang's “showcase” developments. The first one we came to was called Grand Hills. Bizarrely the landscapers had shaped mounds of earth to create a rolling hill effect around a large drainage ditch that was masquerading as a lake. The water level was far too low. It needed at least another three feet of water to cover the brown sludge of its slopes. The brochure noted that the interiors ranged from “tasteful to rather opulent.” The driver brought us to Number 10 Grand Hills. It was a two-story house with a double-height portico with spindly columns. The house clearly had never been touched by an architect with any knowledge. Its symmetrical facade was marred by the placement of a disproportionately large garage that had been attached to the front of the house in the area generally reserved for the front lawn.

As soon as we pulled up, a real estate agent opened the door. She was young and wore spike heels and held out a silver tray of champagne flutes. I was struck how this agent carried on in the face of this incongruous appearance of two teenage boys and a twenty-something Chinese woman wearing jeans and Converse sneakers. The tour of the houses went from silly to absurd. We were asked to admire the white marble floors and a bathtub with a cascading water feature.

After Grand Hills we went to Beijing Riviera a few miles away. I have no idea how they landed on the name Beijing Riviera as it certainly wasn't on the coast. There was no water anywhere except for a small fountain with a statue of three cherubs that sat somewhat incongruously behind the entry gate. Beijing Riviera was just another subdivision of houses that all pretty much looked the same. There was nothing French about them. They were cheaply made. The walls were so thin we could hear everything from any room. All were painted white, and as far as I could tell, all the furnishings were white, too. Despite the suburban setting, no one seemed to have moved in. There were no cars or children on bikes or soccer balls left on lawns. It looked like a hastily constructed movie set. The estate agent kept emphasizing how wonderful these houses were for entertaining. After the tour of three suburban developments we went to one high-rise, La Forêt
.
There all of the furnishings were Lucite, even the bed. The dining room of the apartment had what appeared to be a structural support column placed off center, making it impossible to accommodate a traditional dining room table.

Mr. Zhang's firm had obviously appropriated all the American and French names they thought evoked a level of quality and exclusivity, and they did so without much knowledge or discrimination. The idea that anyone would buy a landlocked house in a subdivision called Beijing Riviera or think that a high-rise called La Forêt with Lucite furniture was worth going to see seemed so naive it was almost charming.

The real estate agent led us into a kitchen stocked with brand-new appliances. Victoria asked her a question about the size of the bedrooms and the agent beckoned for Victoria to follow so
that she could show them to her. Bowen and I were left alone in the kitchen. When the real estate agent was safely out of earshot, I joked with Bowen about the names of the developments. But he failed to see the irony of the names. I tried to explain it to him, but he didn't seem to care. He ran a hand over the plastered walls and shook his head. The lack of craftsmanship seemed to agitate him.

“No good,” he said. “My father should be working here. He is known for work that is very high quality. His work in Tianjin is a waste. They make him use plaster that has very bad quality. Very bad . . .” he struggled to find a word. “I don't know how to say but it's like
kongqi wuran
(air pollution). He has to wear mask.”

“Fumes?”

“Fumes. Yes, maybe fumes. The fumes are for five days or more. They make him sick. And his salary is very small. Very, very small. To pay for one ticket to Mei Guo he would have to work for more than one year. Maybe two years. Here they get paid more than two times more.” He pointed to the walls. “And their work is no good.”

“Why doesn't he find a job in Beijing?”

“It is not so easy. He's from Tianjin, not from Beijing. He has no Beijing
hukou
(work permit), so to find work here is not so easy. The risk is too big. If he goes to Beijing, and there's no work, and so he wants to come home but maybe someone takes his job in Tianjin. In Tianjin no care about quality. Anybody will do.”

“I could ask Mr. Zhang about it for him.”

Bowen raised his hand. “No. Maybe that would be not so good. In China if you ask favor, you must be able to give some
thing back. My family has nothing. Maybe he thinks we are try to cheat him.”

“You sure?” I asked. “It seems like such a simple thing . . .”

Bowen pulsed the palm of his hand down like a traffic cop signaling cars to slow down.

Victoria couldn't stop talking about all of the houses. She thought each development more beautiful than the last. She kept saying how they would be such lovely places for children to grow up in. She said it was very difficult to find a good place for children in Beijing. Here they had space to run around and play games outside, and it was safe, too. The real estate agent happily agreed with Victoria and said that they had already presold a lot of units to young families. The agent said that these houses were perfect for young professional couples who wanted an elegant home that was ideal for entertaining guests. I noticed that this was probably the fifth time I had heard the agent talk about hosting parties. When the agent was out of earshot, I asked Victoria why she kept emphasizing entertaining. “Most people who live in Beijing, their apartments are so small that they are embarrassed to have people over. Most people don't entertain at home. They always go out to restaurants with friends. To have a home like this and to be able to invite guests over is rare. A real symbol.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Because at home there is no room to do it. Ask your father if he has ever been a guest at someone's home.” Victoria pointed to the picture of Number 10 Grand Hills. She said she would now dream of living in one of them. She doubted they would ever be able to afford one, but she said she still liked to dream. I said to her that if she and her husband combined their salaries
and saved they might be able to afford one in the future. Victoria shook her head. She explained that they both sent money—half of what they made—back home to their parents. “They still work, but they do not make enough money. They rely on us now. It is our responsibility.”