{"product_id":"rock-paper-tiger-isbn-9781616952587","title":"Rock Paper Tiger","description":"American Iraq War veteran Ellie Cooper is living in Beijing when a chance encounter with a Uighur—a member of a Chinese Muslim minority—at the home of her sort-of boyfriend Lao Zhang turns her life upside down. Lao Zhang disappears, and suddenly multiple security organizations are hounding Ellie for information. They say the Uighur is a terrorist. Ellie doesn’t know what’s going on, but she must decide whom to trust among the artists, dealers, collectors, and operatives claiming to be on her side—in particular, a mysterious organization operating within a popular online role-playing game. As she tries to elude her pursuers, she’s haunted by memories of Iraq. Is what she did and saw there at the root of the mess she’s in now?\u003cp\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lisa Brackmann’s novel gets off to a fast start and never lets up . . . Ellie is a perfect spunky heroine . . . Be prepared for a wild ride.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Recommendation for More Thrills: This pulse-racer about an American Iraqwar vet is set in the art world of Beijing.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Lisa Brackmann’s debut novel is as slick and smart as an alley cat . . . Beijing in\u003ci\u003e Rock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e is as it is in real life: fast, furious, often ugly, and with a Starbucks sitting on every corner.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTime Out Beijing\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Check out \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e. It's a mystery\/action novel that pretty much pulls off something I would have thought improbable: combining an account of Iraq-war drama (the emphasis is on Abu Ghraib–type themes), with a portrayal of the urban China of these past few years, complete with overhyped art scene, dissident bloggers, lots of young expats, and constant uncertainty about what the government will permit or crack down on.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t turn the pages too fast. Brackmann’s evocation of China, funny, frustrating, frightening, sometimes tender, and always real, is worth savoring.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eNicole Mones, author of \u003ci\u003eLost in Translation \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Last Chinese Chef \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An original and compelling protagonist . . . Brackmann maintains the tension throughout, and we're given a surrealist peek at China's subterranean society.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eJapan Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The contemporary China so vividly rendered in Lisa Brackmann's bracing debut novel is a place where the Starbucks baristas ‘all know the English words for coffee'’ and housing developments are named after glamorous U.S. hotspots . . . \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping ex-pat nightmare that unfolds with superb pacing and salient details. And it makes you damned glad your life is boring.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e, a summer reading recommendation\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A remarkable debut . . . Brackmann paints a mesmerizing picture of life in jittery modern Beijing.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Lisa Brackmann’s timely and hip debut novel is a thriller with a plucky heroine, locales actual and virtual, and grounding in the Abu Ghraib scandal . . . Brackmann can write.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “At the top of the Most Promising New Author list is Lisa Brackmann with \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e . . . A terrifying tale of life and death behind the Bamboo Curtain.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe San Diego Union Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e is a splendid debut novel by a gifted new writer. Her Chinese setting is exotic and chilling, and the characters live and breathe. The story is smart and fast as a sports car. Keep an eye on Brackmann.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eT. Jefferson Parker, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Renegades\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eIron River\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Few writers would be up to the challenge of blending the worlds of urban China, Iraq, and a virtual online kingdom—but Lisa Brackmann wildly succeeds. Prepare to taste the smog, smell the noodles, and rub the Beijing dust between your fingers.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eEliot Pattison\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003cb\u003e author of the Edgar award-winning novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Skull Mantra\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A terrifying odyssey in present-day China . . . A totally captivating page-turner with vivid, first-hand details and nuanced multi-cultural facets.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eQiu Xiaolong, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Mao Case\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Electrifying debut . . . The book’s exotic setting and tough heroine will definitely appeal to fans of John Burdett and Steig Larsson.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A fast-paced and engaging story as both plots are full of mystery and suspense . . . Good reading for anyone interested in the international crime novel.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A gritty and intriguing tale of terror that draws in the reader with each page; Brackmann is a new writer to watch.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eLisa Brackmann is the critically acclaimed author of the Ellie McEnroe novels set in China (\u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHour of the Rat\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Dragon Day\u003c\/i\u003e) and the thriller \u003ci\u003eGetaway\u003c\/i\u003e. Her work has also appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e and CNET. She lives in San Diego with a couple of cats, far too many books and a bass ukulele. You can find her online at www.lisabrackmann.com.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'M LIVING IN this dump in Haidian Qu, close to\u003cbr\u003eWudaokou, on the twenty-first floor of a decaying high-rise.\u003cbr\u003eThe grounds are bare; the trees have died; the rubber tiles on\u003cbr\u003ethe walkways, in their garish pink and yellow, are cracked and\u003cbr\u003ecurling. The lights have been out in the lobby since I moved in;\u003cbr\u003ethey never finished the interior walls in the foyers outside the\u003cbr\u003eelevator, and the windows are boarded up, so every time I step\u003cbr\u003eoutside the apartment door I’m in a weird twilight world of bare\u003cbr\u003ecement and blue fluorescent light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe worst thing about the foyer is that I might run into Mrs.\u003cbr\u003eHua, who lives next door with her fat spoiled-brat kid. She hates\u003cbr\u003ethat I’m crashing here, thinks I’m some slutty American who is\u003cbr\u003ecorrupting China’s morals. She’s always muttering under her\u003cbr\u003ebreath, threatening to report me to the Public Security Bureau\u003cbr\u003efor all kinds of made-up shit. It’s not like I ever did anything\u003cbr\u003eto her, and it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, but the last\u003cbr\u003ething I need is the PSB on my ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve got enough problems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside, the afternoon sun filters through a yellow haze. My\u003cbr\u003eleg hurts, but I should walk, I tell myself. Get some PT in. The\u003cbr\u003edeal I make with myself is, if it gets too bad, I’ll take a Percocet;\u003cbr\u003ebut I only have about a dozen left, so it has to be really bad\u003cbr\u003ebefore I can take one. Today the pain is just a dull throb, like a\u003cbr\u003etoothache in my thigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pass the gas tanks off Chengfu Road, these four-story-high\u003cbr\u003egiant globes, and I think: one of these days, some guy will get\u003cbr\u003epissed off at his girlfriend, light a couple sticks of dynamite\u003cbr\u003eunderneath them (since they don’t have many guns here, the truly\u003cbr\u003epissed-off tend to vent with explosives and rat poison), a few city\u003cbr\u003eblocks and a couple thousand people will get incinerated, and\u003cbr\u003eeveryone will shrug—oh, well, too bad, but this is China, and shit\u003cbr\u003ehappens. Department store roofs collapse; chemicals poison rivers;\u003cbr\u003eminers suffocate in illegal mines. I walk down this one block\u003cbr\u003enearly every day on my way to work, and there are five sex businesses\u003cbr\u003epractically next door to each other, “teahouses” and “foot\u003cbr\u003emassage parlors,” with girls from the countryside sitting on pink\u003cbr\u003eleatherette couches, waiting for some horny migrant worker to\u003cbr\u003ecome in with enough \u003ci\u003erenminbi\u003c\/i\u003e to fuck his brains out for a while\u003cbr\u003eand forget about the shack he’s living in and the family he’s left\u003cbr\u003ebehind and the shitty wages he’s earning. Hey, why not?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI still like it here, overall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI guess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m just in this bad mood lately.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I call Lao Zhang. That’s what I do these days when I’m\u003cbr\u003efeeling sorry for myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWei?\u003c\/i\u003e” Lao Zhang has a growly voice, like he’s talking himself\u003cbr\u003eout of a grunt half the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s me. Yili.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s my Chinese name, Yili. It means “progressive ideas” or\u003cbr\u003esomething. Mainly it sounds kind of like Ellie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yili, \u003ci\u003eni hao\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sounds distracted, which isn’t like him. He’s probably\u003cbr\u003eworking; he almost always is. He’s been painting a lot lately. Before\u003cbr\u003ethat, he mostly did performance pieces, stuff like stripping\u003cbr\u003enaked and painting himself red on top of the Drum Tower or\u003cbr\u003esteering a reed boat around the Houhai lakes with a life-size\u003cbr\u003estatue of Chairman Mao in the prow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut usually when I call, he sounds like he’s glad to hear my\u003cbr\u003evoice, no matter what he’s doing. Which is one of the reasons I\u003cbr\u003ecall him when I’m having a bad day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, I guess,” I answer. “I’m not working. Thought I’d see\u003cbr\u003ewhat you were up to.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ah. The usual,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Want some company?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang hesitates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a little weird. I can’t think of a time when I’ve called that\u003cbr\u003ehe hasn’t invited me over. Even times when I don’t want to leave\u003cbr\u003emy apartment, when I just want to hear a friendly voice, he’ll\u003cbr\u003ealways try and talk me into coming out; and sometimes when I\u003cbr\u003ewon’t, he’ll show up at my door a couple hours later with takeout\u003cbr\u003eand cold Yanjing beer. He’s that kind of person. He works\u003cbr\u003ehard, but he likes hanging out too, as long as you don’t mind\u003cbr\u003ehim working part of the time. And I don’t. A lot of times I’ll sit\u003cbr\u003eon the sagging couch in his studio while he paints, listening to\u003cbr\u003emy iPhone, drinking beer, surfing on his computer. I like watching\u003cbr\u003ehim paint too, the way he moves, relaxed but in control. It\u003cbr\u003efeels comfortable, him painting, me sitting there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure,” he finally says. “Why don’t you come over?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You sure you’re not too busy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, come over. There’s a performance tonight at the Warehouse.\u003cbr\u003eShould be fun. Call me when you’re close.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe I shouldn’t go, I think, as I swipe my \u003ci\u003eyikatong\u003c\/i\u003e card at\u003cbr\u003ethe Wudaokou light rail station. Maybe he’s seeing somebody\u003cbr\u003eelse. It’s not like we’re a couple. Even if it feels like we are one\u003cbr\u003esometimes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSure, we hang out. Occasionally fuck. But he could do a lot\u003cbr\u003ebetter than me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lao” means “old,” but Lao Zhang’s not really old. He’s\u003cbr\u003emaybe thirteen, fourteen years older than I am, around forty.\u003cbr\u003eThey call him “Lao” Zhang to distinguish him from the other\u003cbr\u003eZhang, who’s barely out of his teens and is therefore “Xiao”\u003cbr\u003eZhang, also an artist at Mati Village, the northern suburb of\u003cbr\u003eBeijing where Lao Zhang lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore I came to China, I’d hear “suburb” and think tract\u003cbr\u003ehomes and Wal-Marts. Well, they have Wal-Marts in Beijing and\u003cbr\u003ehousing tracts—Western-style, split-level, three bedroom, two\u003cbr\u003ebath houses with lawns and everything, surrounded by gates and\u003cbr\u003ewalls. Places with names like “Orange County” and “Yosemite\u003cbr\u003eFalls,” plus my personal favorite, “Merlin Champagne Town.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Mati Village isn’t like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGetting to Mati Village is kind of a pain. It’s out past the 6th\u003cbr\u003eRing Road, and you can’t get all the way there by subway or light\u003cbr\u003erail, even with all the lines they built for the ’08 Olympics. From\u003cbr\u003eHaidian, I have to take the light rail and transfer to a bus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not too crazy a day. The yellow loess dust has been\u003cbr\u003edrowning Beijing like some sort of pneumonia in the city’s\u003cbr\u003elungs, typical for spring in spite of all those trees the government’s\u003cbr\u003eplanted in Inner Mongolia the last dozen years. The dust\u003cbr\u003estorms died down last night, but people still aren’t venturing\u003cbr\u003eout much. So I score a seat on the bench by the car door, let\u003cbr\u003ethe train’s rhythms rattle my head. I close my eyes and listen to\u003cbr\u003ethe recorded announcement of the stations, plus that warning to\u003cbr\u003e“watch your belongings and prepare well” if you are planning\u003cbr\u003eto exit. All around me, cell phones chime and sing, extra-loud so\u003cbr\u003ethe people plugged into iPods can still hear them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003enongmin\u003c\/i\u003e don’t have iPods. The migrants from the countryside\u003cbr\u003eare easy to spot: tanned, burned faces; bulging nylon net\u003cbr\u003ebags with faded stripes; patched cast-off clothes; strange, stiff\u003cbr\u003eshoes. But it’s the look on their faces that really gives them away.\u003cbr\u003eThey are so lost. I fit in better here than they do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I want to say to these kids, what are you doing\u003cbr\u003ehere? You’re going to end up living in a shantytown in a refrigerator\u003cbr\u003ebox, and for what? So you can pick through junked\u003cbr\u003ecomputer parts for gold and copper wire? Do “foot massage” at\u003cbr\u003esome chicken girl joint? Really, you’re better off staying home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike I’m one to talk. I didn’t stay home either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I’m about fifteen minutes away from Mati, I try to call\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang, thinking, maybe I’ll see if we can meet at the \u003ci\u003ejiaozi\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eplace, because I haven’t had anything to eat today but a leftover\u003cbr\u003eslice of bad Mr. Pizza for breakfast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of a dial tone, I get that stupid China Mobile jingle\u003cbr\u003eand the message that I’m out of minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, well. It’s not that hard to find Lao Zhang in Mati Village.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst I stop at the \u003ci\u003ejiaozi\u003c\/i\u003e place. It’s Lao Zhang’s favorite restaurant\u003cbr\u003ein Mati. Mine too. The dumplings are excellent, it’s cheap\u003cbr\u003eas hell, and I’ve never gotten sick after eating there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy now it’s after six p.m., and the restaurant is packed. I don’t\u003cbr\u003eeven know what it’s called, this \u003ci\u003ejiaozi\u003c\/i\u003e place. It’s pretty typical:\u003cbr\u003ea cement block faced with white tile. For some reason, China\u003cbr\u003ewent through a couple of decades when just about every small\u003cbr\u003epublic building was covered in white tile, like it’s all a giant\u003cbr\u003ebathroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe restaurant is a small square room with plastic tables and\u003cbr\u003echairs. There’s a fly-specked Beijing Olympics poster on one\u003cbr\u003ewall and a little shrine against another—red paper with gold\u003cbr\u003echaracters stuck on the wall, a gilded Buddha, some incense\u003cbr\u003esticks, and a couple pieces of dusty plastic fruit on a little table.\u003cbr\u003eThe place reeks of fried dough, boiled meat, and garlic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeeing how this is Mati Village, most of the customers are\u003cbr\u003eartists, though you also get a few farmers and some of the local\u003cbr\u003ebusiness-owners, like the couple who run the gas station. But\u003cbr\u003emostly it’s people like “Sloppy” Song. Sloppy is a tall woman\u003cbr\u003ewho looks like she’s constructed out of wires, with thick black\u003cbr\u003ehair that trails down her back in a braid with plaits the size of\u003cbr\u003eking snakes. Who knows why she’s called “Sloppy”? Sometimes\u003cbr\u003eChinese people pick the weirdest English names for themselves.\u003cbr\u003eI met this one guy who went by “Motor.” It said something\u003cbr\u003eabout his essential nature, he told me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSloppy’s here tonight, sitting at a table, slurping the juice out of\u003cbr\u003eher dumpling and waving her Zhonghua cigarette at the woman\u003cbr\u003esitting across from her. I don’t know this woman. She looks a little\u003cbr\u003erich for this place—sleek hair and makeup, nice clothes. Must\u003cbr\u003ebe a collector. Sloppy does assemblage sculpture and collage\u003cbr\u003epieces, and they sell pretty well, even with the economy sucking\u003cbr\u003eas much as it does.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yili, \u003ci\u003eni hao\u003c\/i\u003e,” Sloppy calls out, seeing me enter. “You eating\u003cbr\u003ehere?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, just looking for Lao Zhang.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Haven’t seen him. This is Lucy Wu.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNi hao\u003c\/i\u003e, pleased to meet you,” I say, trying to be polite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy Wu regards me coolly. She’s one of these Prada babes—\u003cbr\u003eall done up in designer gear, perfectly polished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Likewise,” she says. “You speak Chinese?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shrug. “A little.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is halfway between a lie and the truth. After two years,\u003cbr\u003eI’m not exactly fluent, but I get around. “You speak Mandarin\u003cbr\u003elike some Beijing street kid,” Lao Zhang told me once, maybe\u003cbr\u003ebecause I’ve got that Beijing accent, where you stick Rs on the\u003cbr\u003eend of everything like a pirate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Your Chinese sounds very nice,” she says with that smug,\u003cbr\u003ephony courtesy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe has a southern accent; her consonants are soft, slightly\u003cbr\u003esibilant. Dainty, almost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re too polite.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lucy speaks good English,” Sloppy informs me. “Not like\u003cbr\u003eme.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now \u003ci\u003eyou’re\u003c\/i\u003e too polite,” says Lucy Wu. “My English is very\u003cbr\u003epoor.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI kind of doubt that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you an art collector?” I ask in English.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Art dealer.” She smiles mischievously. “Collecting is for\u003cbr\u003ewealthier people than I.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer English is excellent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She has Shanghai gallery,” Sloppy adds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wow, cool,” I say. “Hey, I’d better go. If you see Lao Zhang,\u003cbr\u003ecan you tell him I’m looking for him? My phone’s dead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy Wu sits up a little straighter, then reclines in a perfect,\u003cbr\u003eposed angle. “Lao Zhang? Is that Zhang Jianli?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSloppy nods. “Right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy smiles at me, revealing tiny white teeth as perfect as a\u003cbr\u003edoll’s. “Jianli and I are old friends.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Really?” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.” She looks me up and down, and I can feel myself\u003cbr\u003eblushing, because I know how I must look. “It’s been a while\u003cbr\u003esince we’ve seen each other. I was hoping to catch up with him\u003cbr\u003ewhile I’m here. I’ve heard wonderful things about his recent\u003cbr\u003ework. You know, Jianli hasn’t gotten nearly enough recognition\u003cbr\u003eas an artist.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe that’s not so important to Lao Zhang,” Sloppy\u003cbr\u003emutters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy giggles. “Impossible! All Chinese artists want fame.\u003cbr\u003eOtherwise, how can they get rich?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe reaches into her tiny beaded bag, pulls out a lacquer card\u003cbr\u003ecase, and hands me a card in polite fashion, holding it out with both\u003cbr\u003ehands. “When you see him, perhaps you could give him this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat a bitch, I think. Then I tell myself that’s not fair. Just\u003cbr\u003ebecause she’s tiny, pretty, and perfectly put together, it doesn’t\u003cbr\u003emean she’s a bitch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt just means I hate her on principle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI order some takeout and head to Lao Zhang’s place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang’s probably working, I figure, walking down\u003cbr\u003eXingfu Lu, one of the two main streets in Mati Village. When\u003cbr\u003ehe gets into it, he paints for hours, all day, fueled by countless\u003cbr\u003eespressos—he’s got his own machine. He forgets to eat sometimes,\u003cbr\u003eand I’m kind of proud of myself for thinking of bringing\u003cbr\u003edinner, for doing something nice for him, like a normal person\u003cbr\u003ewould do. It’s been hard for me the last few years, remembering\u003cbr\u003eto do stuff like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe I’m finally getting better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I’m thinking this, I stumble on a pothole in the rutted\u003cbr\u003eroad. Pain shoots up my leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fuck!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can barely see, it’s so dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere aren’t exactly streetlights in Mati Village, only electric\u003cbr\u003elanterns here and there that swing in any good wind and only\u003cbr\u003ework about half the time, strung up on storefronts and power\u003cbr\u003epoles. Right now they dim and flicker. There’s problems with\u003cbr\u003eelectricity sometimes. Not so much in central Beijing or Shanghai,\u003cbr\u003ebut in those “little” cities you’ve never heard of, places with\u003cbr\u003ea few million people out in the provinces somewhere. And in\u003cbr\u003evillages like this, on the fringes of the grid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the little market on the corner of Lao Zhang’s alley is\u003cbr\u003edecorated with tiny Christmas lights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI buy a couple cold bottles of Yanjing beer (my favorite) and\u003cbr\u003eWahaha water (the label features this year’s perky winner of the\u003cbr\u003eMongolian Cow Yogurt Happy Girl contest) and turn down\u003cbr\u003ethe alley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang lives in one of the old commune buildings, red\u003cbr\u003ebrick, covered in some places with red wash, surrounded by\u003cbr\u003ea red wall. The entrance to Lao Zhang’s compound has two\u003cbr\u003esculptures on either side, so there’s no mistaking it. One is a\u003cbr\u003egiant fish painted in Day-Glo colors. The other is a big empty\u003cbr\u003eMao jacket. No Mao, just the jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInside the compound are four houses in a row. Sculptures and\u003cbr\u003eart supplies litter the narrow courtyards in between. Lao Zhang\u003cbr\u003eshares this place with the sculptor, a novelist who also paints,\u003cbr\u003eand a musician\/Web designer who’s mixing something now, a\u003cbr\u003etrance track from the sound of it, all beats and erhu. Not too\u003cbr\u003eloud. That’s good. Some loud noises really get to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe front door is locked. Maybe Lao Zhang isn’t home.\u003cbr\u003eMaybe he’s already over at the Warehouse for the show. I use\u003cbr\u003emy key and go inside. I’ll have a few jiaozi, I figure, leave the rest\u003cbr\u003ehere, and try the Warehouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house is basically a rectangle. You go in the entrance, turn,\u003cbr\u003eand there’s the main room, with whitewashed walls and added skylights,\u003cbr\u003eremodeled to give Lao Zhang better light for painting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lights are off in the studio, but the computer’s on, booted\u003cbr\u003eup to the login screen of this online game Lao Zhang likes to\u003cbr\u003eplay, \u003ci\u003eThe Sword of Ill Repute\u003c\/i\u003e. A snatch of music plays, repeats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lao Zhang, \u003ci\u003eni zai ma\u003c\/i\u003e?” I call out. Are you there? No answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the right is the bedroom, which is mostly taken up by a\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ekang\u003c\/i\u003e, the traditional brick bed you can heat from underneath.\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang has a futon on top of his. On the left side of the\u003cbr\u003ehouse there’s a tiny kitchen, a toilet, and a little utility room\u003cbr\u003ewith a spare futon where Lao Zhang’s friends frequently crash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is where the Uighur is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shit!” I almost drop the takeout on the kitchen floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere’s this guy stumbling out of the spare room, blinking\u003cbr\u003euncertainly, rubbing his eyes, which suddenly go wide with fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNi hao\u003c\/i\u003e,” I say uncertainly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stands there, one leg twitching, like he could bolt at any\u003cbr\u003emoment. He’s in his forties, not Chinese, not Han Chinese anyway;\u003cbr\u003ehis hair is brown, his eyes a light hazel, his face dark and\u003cbr\u003ebroad with high cheeks—I’m guessing Uighur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNi hao\u003c\/i\u003e,” he finally says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m Yili,” I stutter, “a friend of Lao Zhang’s. Is he . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes dart around the room. “Oh, yes, I am also friend of\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang’s. Hashim.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Happy to meet you,” I reply automatically.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI put the food and beer down on the little table by the sink,\u003cbr\u003eslowly because I get the feeling this guy startles easily. I can’t\u003cbr\u003edecide whether I should make small talk or run.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince I suck at both of these activities, it’s a real relief to hear\u003cbr\u003ethe front door bang and Lao Zhang yell from the living room:\u003cbr\u003e“It’s me. I’m back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re in the kitchen,” I call out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang is frowning when he comes in. He’s a northerner,\u003cbr\u003epart Manchu, big for a Chinese guy, and right now his thick\u003cbr\u003eshoulders are tense like he’s expecting a fight. “I thought you\u003cbr\u003ewere going to phone,” he says to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I was—I tried—My phone ran out of minutes, so I just. . . .”\u003cbr\u003eI point at the table. “I brought dinner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks.” He gives me a quick one-armed hug, and then\u003cbr\u003eeverything’s normal again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlmost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You met Hashim?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod and turn to the Uighur. “Maybe you’d like some dinner?\u003cbr\u003eI brought plenty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anything without pork?” Lao Zhang asks, grabbing chipped\u003cbr\u003ebowls from the metal locker he salvaged from the old commune\u003cbr\u003efactory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I got mutton, beef, and vegetable.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you,” Hashim says, bobbing his head. He’s got a lot\u003cbr\u003eof gray hair. He starts to reach into his pocket for money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wave him off. “Please don’t be so polite.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLao Zhang dishes out food, and we all sit around the tiny\u003cbr\u003ekitchen table. Lao Zhang shovels \u003ci\u003ejiaozi\u003c\/i\u003e into his mouth in silence.\u003cbr\u003eThe Uighur stares at his bowl. I try to make small talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So, Hashim. Do you live in Beijing?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, not in Beijing,” he mumbles. “Just for a visit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh. Is this your first time here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe . . . third time?” He smiles weakly and falls silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know what to say after that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re going to have to eat fast,” Lao Zhang says. “I want to\u003cbr\u003eget to the Warehouse early. Okay with you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sure,” I say. I have a few \u003ci\u003ejiaozi\u003c\/i\u003e and some spicy tofu, and then\u003cbr\u003eit’s time to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Make yourself at home,” Lao Zhang tells Hashim. “Anything\u003cbr\u003eyou need, call me. TV’s in there if you want to watch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh. Thank you, but. . . .” Hashim gestures helplessly toward\u003cbr\u003ethe utility room. “I think I’m still very tired.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looks tired. His hazel eyes are bloodshot, and the flesh\u003cbr\u003earound them is sagging and so dark it looks bruised.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank you,” he says to me, bowing his head and backing\u003cbr\u003etoward the utility room. “Very nice to meet you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChinese is a second language to him. Just like it is to me.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299750301925,"sku":"NP9781616952587","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616952587.jpg?v=1767735869","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/rock-paper-tiger-isbn-9781616952587","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}