Hour of the Rat (28 page)

Finally he gives in. Scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Okay,” he says. How about ten-thirty?”

“Okay.”

“Come by yourself,” he hisses. “Or there’ll be trouble.”

I shrug, to cover a shudder.

You don’t have to go, I tell myself.

H
OW DID
R
USSELL KNOW
I’d gone to Dali?

Here’s the thing: the Chinese government’s finding a foreigner most places in China, not a surprise. There are ways around it, but, for example, I have to show my passport every time I register at a hotel, and you’ve got to figure they have some means of tracking you with that.

Russell, though, wouldn’t have that information—that is, unless he’s working for the government.

I try to figure out the implications of that scenario, and it makes my head hurt.

Otherwise, if Russell really is a friend of Jason’s, then he could have known about Jason’s list of seed companies. Those were three locations: Guiyu, Dali, and Guiyang, in Guizhou. So he had a one-in-three chance of getting it right, and if he’s in contact with Daisy, a one-in-two, because Daisy could have told him that I’d already gone to Guiyu. And maybe he could make an educated guess that I might choose Dali over Guiyang, given the video evidence. No films by Langhai from Guiyang or Guizhou, not yet.

On the other hand, Russell really doesn’t seem that smart.

Erik, though …

I have this sudden flash of him sitting across from me at the table, studying Jason’s photo like he’s analyzing a poker hand.

Yeah, he’s smart.

I
CAN
’
T FIND A
regular taxi, so I end up in one of those three-wheeled motorcycle carts, sitting on a bench covered with fake fur under a canopy of orange-and-pink-dyed fabric strung up on skinny metal tubing that looks like it couldn’t bear the weight of a shower curtain. The driver is a woman who resembles one of the pot-selling grannies without the traditional dress—instead her round, wrinkled face is shaded by a New Orleans Saints baseball cap.

We head west, up into the foothills. The lights thin out, the houses, too, until it’s nothing but darkness, the occasional house with a lit window, a few passing cars.

“
Daole
,” the driver says. We’ve arrived.

A crumbling stone wall, a glimpse of peaked roof with weeds growing in the shingles. Dim lights. Faint music.

“Can you wait for me?” I ask. “I can pay you.”

She shakes her head. “I’m off work now. Going home.”

“So if I need to get back to town?”

“I think maybe foreigners come to this house all the time,” she says with a little grin. “So I think you can find a taxi.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

I pay her and get out. My heart’s pounding in my throat, and I have to steady myself with my Yangshuo walking stick.

I am not nearly drunk enough to be this stupid.

First thing I do is switch my iPhone back on, GPS and all. This is one of those situations where maybe I’d rather have certain people find me than just disappear off the radar and end up … I don’t know, as pig food. ’Cause you know pigs will eat anything, including people. And I think I hear pigs. Snuffling. Snorting. Or maybe that’s the music.

I open up the splintering wood gate. It’s so dark that I can barely see a foot in front of me. I wake up my phone, use it as a flashlight. There’s probably an app for that, but I don’t have it.

There’s a dirt path that leads up to what seems to be the main building, a grey shape in the dark. The roof I saw before is just some kind of shed or barn or something. Maybe abandoned. This doesn’t look like an active farm, from what I can see. There’s an ancient blue farm truck, though, and a newer lime green Chery parked off to one side, on the border of an overgrown field.

Holy crap, what a tremendously stupid idea this was.

Why am I doing this? What the fuck’s wrong with me?

I take a moment and go into my contacts on the phone. Hesitate, then find one. My finger hovers over the number. I don’t want to call it. But just in case.

As I approach the door to what I guess is the farmhouse, a dog starts barking like a pit bull in a crack den.

And the front door of the farmhouse slams open.

“
Shei laile?
” someone yells. Chinese. A skinny silhouette backlit by interior light. The dog at his side lunges forward. The music is louder now, with the door open. I’m thinking it might be Radiohead.

“
Ni hao
,” I manage. “I’m, uh … Russell invited me to come.” The figure hesitates. I still can’t make out his face. The dog growls.

“Okay,” he finally says. “
Qing jin.
” Come in.

When I get inside, I feel a little better.

It’s another converted farmhouse with whitewashed walls, now covered in a combination of graffiti murals and posters. There’s a Western guy, not Jason, with a knit cap, a Plastered T-shirt, and a backpacker beard, sitting next to a lanky Chinese girl wearing embroidered bell-bottoms and a fake-fur jacket. There’s the Chinese guy who opened the door—glasses, shaggy hair, red Li-Ning soccer jersey. A couple of guitars and a beat-to-shit drum kit, a battered amp. Empty beer bottles on flimsy
tables and the floor. Folding chairs. Fast-food containers. Overflowing ashtrays. A strong scent of pot.

It’s familiar, at least. I’ve been in a lot of rooms like this. And it’s generally worked out okay. Most of the time.

I put my phone back into my jacket pocket.

“Is Russell here?” I ask.

The Chinese guy nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

The Western guy takes a hit off a joint mixed with tobacco and coughs on the exhale. “Hey, Russell!” he yells. American. “You got someone here looking for you.”

The Chinese guy indicates a chair. “You can sit if you’d like.”

I sit.

The Chinese girl hangs out by the American guy, leaning against him, taking a hit off the spliff. The Chinese guy paces. His dog, which is some kind of yellow mutt with a curled tail, noses his leg, whines.

“
Zou, zou, zou
,” he mutters, grabbing the dog’s rope collar and hauling him toward the front door. “Go!” he says, one more time, and shoves the dog outside.

I sit there, my daypack on my lap, throat parched, wishing I had a beer. Or a Coke. Or something.

Mainly I wish that I was somewhere else. Like on a bamboo raft, floating down a river. Or in my hotel room. A train. Anyplace.

From across the room, Russell emerges from a dark doorway, beers in hand. “Hey, Ellie,” he says, teeth bared in an attempt at a grin. “You made it. Beer?”

“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”

“This is Ellie,” Russell says to the others. “She’s a friend of David’s.” He turns to me. “Right?”

“A friend of his family,” I say, taking a long pull on the beer.

“Where is he anyway?” the American guy asks, his voice slurring. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Russell jerks his head, shoots the guy a look. “He’ll be here. I just talked to him.”

“Oh. Cool.” He mimes a drum pattern. “Be good to play a little.”

The Chinese guy paces in short, sharp angles. He’s amped. I can see from here that his pupils are dilated.
Bingdu
, amphetamines of some sort, I’m guessing.

“When’s he coming?” I ask.

“Few minutes, half hour,” Russell says with a shrug. “No worries, he’ll be here.”

The American guy stands up, wobbling, with the Chinese girl on his arm; goes over to the drum kit and almost falls onto the stool; picks up some sticks and tries to play in time to the music. The Chinese guy keeps pacing.

“Hey, is there a bathroom I can use?” I ask.

The Chinese guy stops pacing for a moment. He points at the door where Russell came in. “That way.”

I push myself to my feet with my Yangshou stick and limp back there.

The door leads outside. There’s a small cinder-block building that I’m guessing is an outhouse. I have a real flashlight in my daypack, one of those agro LED models I picked up at the Pearl Market. I get it out and turn it on so I can see what I’m doing.

Sure enough it’s a squat shitter, framed by grey brick. I go inside. Squat and pee, hoping I’ll be able to get up again, the pain in my leg like someone’s stabbing me in the thigh, over and over. Maybe Russell, with his
shanzhai
Ka-Bar.

While I’m doing this, the yellow dog slinks inside. I hear a low growl.

Great.

I use my Yangshuo stick to boost myself up, my jeans still puddling around my ankles, the dog showing its teeth and growling.

“Fuck, dog, come on!” I mutter. “Your boss invited me inside. Doesn’t that count for something?”

The dog sits back on its haunches. I can’t really see its eyes in the dark, but I think it’s watching me. I tug my jeans up over my ass.

Funny thing, the outhouse smells like shit, obviously, but that’s not all I’m smelling. I fumble the last button on my jeans and look around.

It seems pretty straightforward. Low ceiling. A latrine and a faucet that drains into an iron sink. I look behind me, aiming my phone to cast whatever dim light it can.

There’s a wall and a tiny window, like a vent. I’m not tall enough to see into it. But there’s a tin bucket by the faucet.

I grab it, turn it upside down, get my good leg on it and haul my ass up.

My eyes are just at the level of the little window. From what I can tell, there’s another room at the back of the outhouse. I aim my flashlight.

Some bags piled against the back wall. Bags about a foot and a half long, a foot wide.

My first thought is New Century Hero Rice. But these bags are burlap, from what I can see. No logo.

I press my nose up against the window. Breathe in deep.

I’m not sure, due to the ambient odors, but I think what I’m smelling in there is ganja.

Maybe this is where the local grannies get it.

I lower myself, sneaker sole catching on the rim of the tin bucket. Get my balance. Turn toward the door I came in, and the dog is there, waiting. I shine my light at it. It’s like one of those bad flash photos, where the object lit up in front doesn’t look real.

“Okay, dog,” I say. “You don’t bite me, I won’t hit you with my stick. How’s that sound?”

I inch my way forward: flashlight in one hand, stick in the other.

When I reach the door, the dog shakes itself and trots away.

Back inside, American dude is still banging his drums. The Chinese guy’s picked up one of the guitars and strums at it like he’s jerking off. The girl sits back in one of the folding chairs smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, Russell,” I say. “So when’s David getting here?”

Russell frowns. He’s sitting in a chair next to the girl, hunched over like a letter C.

“Soon, like I told you.”

“See, thing is, I can’t really hang out here much longer. I got stuff to do.”

Russell uncoils and fishes a phone from his jacket pocket. Stares at it for a moment.

“I’m not getting a good signal here,” he says. “I’ll go outside and call him.”

He gets up. Hobbles to the front door.

I wait. Sip my beer. Feel my heart pound. Watch American dude and Chinese guy whaling away on the guitar and drums. I think they’re trying to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” but it’s hard to tell.

After a few minutes of this, I stand up, and smile at the Chinese girl. “Be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

The way she says it, a little flat, not smiling, if my nerves weren’t already pinging all over the place, they’re ratcheted up another couple of notches now.

I pat my stomach. “
Wo you yidianr bushufu.
”

Funny phrase in Mandarin. You say it when you’re feeling sick, but it literally means, “I’m a little uncomfortable.”

Yeah, I’m definitely not comfortable.

I go out the back again, toward the outhouse.

I don’t want to use my flashlight. There’s some ambient light, from the farmhouse, from the moon, but the paths are uneven, so I use my stick to feel my way.

I don’t see Russell. Don’t hear him. But based on how he scrammed outside when he checked the time, I don’t like it.

And that’s when I hear a car motor.

The sound echoes off the hills, and I can’t tell for sure where it’s coming from, but I figure it’s probably on the road I took to get here. I freeze a moment and listen, see if it recedes and fades and goes on down the road, but it doesn’t. The car idles for a minute. Then it’s back in gear.

Heading up the path to the farmhouse.

I hesitate. Maybe it’s Jason, at long last.

But maybe it’s not.

Hide.

Not in the outhouse. I’ve done that, but not with a couple kilos of pot. I look around, try to see what the landscape is, where I can go, and I can’t, really. That low, flat stretch to my right, that’s probably an overgrown field, not a good choice.

Past the outhouse, that dark mass, that’s the hillside.

I think if I can get up there, up high, maybe I can see who’s coming.

If I can get there in time.

I jog as best I can, pain shooting up my leg with every step, past the outhouse, past another shed, and the car’s getting louder, and I can see the headlight beams now, and I scramble past a woodpile, into the shadow of a large tree, and from there I head up the hill, stumbling on rocks and ruts of a trail that’s hardly even there, that disappears into weeds and grass.