The Dog (10 page)

“Here comes the great scribe,” Ning said.

“Who's this?” Li Pai said.

“This is the retard who wrote my last story out from under me,” Ning said.

“Ah, one of the Red Guard,” Li Pai said.

The kid was at the table now, and he held his hand out to Li Pai, and then to Ning.

“You really put my balls in a vise,” Ning said.

“Sorry, sir?” the kid said.

“The security guard. That was my story.”

The kid turned red and rubbed the back of his neck.

“My editor was all over me to file it. I didn't have any choice.”

“These things happen,” Li Pai said. “Editors are beasts.”

“Bullshit,” Ning said. “This kid saw me at the hospital and knew I was onto something.”

“That's not true,” the kid said. “That's not true at all.”

Ning grunted. He was enjoying himself. “It's one thing to beat an old man to the punch, but you got it dead wrong,” he said to the kid. “When you're a little older, you'll have more respect for the undertones of a story like this one. You'll see. There's more to this business than facts.”

The kid bowed his head. Then he directed himself to Li Pai. “Mr. Li, you've had a great influence on me. I'm here today because of you.”

“You honor me,” Li Pai said.

“It's a great loss to the profession,” the kid said.

“You're too polite,” Li Pai said. “Mr. Ning is retiring today, as well.”

Without making eye contact, the kid bowed slightly in Ning's direction. “Mr. Li, I wish you all the best.” He reached across the table, his armpit in Ning's face, and shook Li Pai's hand vigorously. Ning watched him go, and when the kid got back to his friends, he saw the heads turning to look at him, and he heard them laughing.

Li Pai saw it, too. “You remember Xiang Xue?” he said.

“Which one was he?” Ning was still looking at the back of the kid's head.

“Rental tuxedo at the Reagan dinner.”

“Sure,” Ning said. “‘New Beijing style,'” he said. That had been Xiang Xue's response to the American president when he'd pointed to the rental tag dangling from the sleeve of the reporter's dinner jacket.

“You know he died last year,” Li Pai said.

“I hadn't heard that,” Ning said.

“That young man reminds me of him. Same wardrobe problems. Perhaps a certain lack of self-awareness, but sometimes that can be a good thing. It can put people at ease.”

“He'll never be half the reporter Xiang Xue was,” Ning said.

“Is that a fact?”

“No question.”

“What was it that our young friend missed?” Li Pai said.

“He missed the story. He got the facts and he missed the story.”

“What's this deeply complex story about?”

“It's just another story,” Ning said, pushing on the rim of an overflowing ashtray. “To the uninitiated.”

“It's a shame. Your last one, and you never got to write it.”

Ning drew a deep breath. “There's this peasant from Yunnan, probably grew up in a cave and went to school in a tree. When he gets old enough, he sets out for the golden shore. He has a trustworthy face and he gets on as a night guard at a building down near the International Finance Centre. Mostly he sits behind the lobby desk and reads comics. One night, he hears screaming. He looks up from his copy of
Sui Tang Heroes
and sees, just on the other side of the glass, a woman struggling with two men. One's got the collar of her coat, and the other one has her arm. They're dragging her away. At first he's frozen with fear. But then honor asserts itself and he attempts to rescue her. No regard for protocol, which dictates that he phone the security team that patrols the outside perimeter. No, our hero goes it alone, and for his trouble he's stabbed eight times and left for dead.”

“And the girl?” Li Pai said.

“No sign of her. Disappeared.”

“Probably a setup,” Li Pai said, rubbing his eyes.

“All for two kuai and a subway token.”

“People have done worse for less,” Li Pai said. “So that's the story?”

“That's just the first inch of it,” Ning said. “This noble boy winds up in the hospital. No money, no insurance, but his boss at the security company is a clever fellow. He walks up to the nurses' station and signs the guard in under the name of another employee who's covered under the company policy.”

“Clever,” Li Pai says.

“And it works like a charm. They wheel him into surgery, sew him up, prognosis excellent. All this kid has to do is lie in bed, flirt with the nurses, and answer to someone else's name. But after a couple of weeks, he decides he's tired of pretending to be someone else. He makes a stink about it. At first, the hospital refuses to recognize him by his given name. If he's readmitted under his real name, they have to give back all the insurance money. But he insists. Then he calls the insurance company and fesses up. And now he's liable for a hundred and fifty thousand in bills, and they won't discharge him until he pays up.”

“This is the problem with heroes. Far too honest,” Li Pai said.

“The question you have to ask is, why? Why would he do such a thing? You see? That half-wit from
Youth Daily
didn't even bother to ask. What does this peasant think he's going to gain? Now he's trapped like an animal. Why would anyone behave that way?”

“You asked him?” Li Pai said.

“Of course I did,” Ning said, smacking the table with his open palm.

“And?”

“He says, ‘I woke up, and I'd forgotten who I was.' That was his explanation. He forgot who he was.” Ning shook his head.

“How peculiar. A real-life existential crisis.”

“Hardly. Nothing more than pride, I'd say. He's twenty-five hundred li from home, he's broke, he doesn't even have a change of clothes. He's got nothing but his name. The only problem is, now he doesn't even have that. How can he send home an article about his heroism when his name's nowhere in the story? What's a hero without his own name?”

“Or perhaps he's just too virtuous for his own good.”

“I just wanted the damn story to ask the right questions,” Ning said.

“They don't make them like us anymore,” said Li Pai, raising his glass. “To age and wisdom!”

“To age and wisdom,” Ning said. “These kids. They have no curiosity. They're just happy little story factories shitting out copy all day long.”

Li Pai nodded slowly, as if digesting a sage truth.

“Even when I was their age,” Ning said, “I pondered the larger context. Even at
People's Daily
, even when I knew there was no chance the truth might make it into print, I thought of the greater good. I wrestled with my conscience. I tried to behave honorably. We both did, didn't we?”

“We did,” Li Pai said. “We reported for the greater good, not for selfish reasons.”

Ning narrowed his eyes, but Li Pai's face gave away no irony, no sense that he was calling out Ning's bloated self-adulation, or something worse.

“Maybe so,” Ning said. When they'd first met at
People's Daily
, he'd never before encountered anyone more deeply resistant to the lures of ambition than Li Pai. He'd forgotten that. He'd forgotten his earnest face, his dedication to serving the People's Republic. Li Pai had always been a model worker.

“We were all different then,” Li Pai said, as if reading Ning's mind. “I remember you, brave boy. You scaled the mountain of swords, swam the sea of fire.”

“We all ate bitter,” Ning said, deflecting, but inwardly he was pleased at this recollection of his exploits.

“You even assisted with the
People's Daily Extra
,” Li Pai said.

Ning stared at Li Pai. “How's that?” he said.

“You collected the student flyers at Tiananmen for the
Extra
edition. Don't be coy. You risked your life for the protests. You did your part to protect the students. You're a hero.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Ning said. He looked around to see if anyone had heard.

“Ning Wang. We've been friends for longer than either of us wants to admit. Surely you can grant an old man a final wish.”

“What do you mean?” Ning said.

“Tell me how you avoided the purge,” Li Pai said.

“I want to know who's been spreading these lies about me,” Ning said. “I had nothing to do with the
Extra
. That was a band of revolutionaries who got what they deserved. They defied the Central Committee and were punished.” His breath was coming fast and he drained his beer in a swallow. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“No, I know you did,” Li Pai said, laughing. “Qian Liren told me so.”

“Why would you bring this up now?” Ning said. He leaned close to Li Pai. “What have I ever done to harm you?” he said. “Why would you bring this up? Someone will hear.”

Li Pai reached out and placed his hand firmly on Ning's shoulder. From across the room it might have appeared to be a comradely embrace, but Ning understood Li Pai's true intent. “You were a man of such bravery,” Li Pai said. “And yet when everyone else went to prison, you were spared. Such luck! So brave and so lucky.” His fingers were squeezing Ning's shoulder.

“Yes, very lucky,” Ning said.

“Lucky boy,” Li Pai said. Suddenly he drew back and picked up his beer. “Let's toast to luck, then,” Li Pai said. He held up his glass, unsmiling. Ning picked up his own empty glass and touched it to Li Pai's. He made the motion of drinking from the empty stein.

“What are you toasting to luck for?” a voice said from behind Ning. It was the chief. “Toast to something appropriate, like senility or amnesia.”

“Indeed,” Li Pai cried, tossing back the last of his beer.

The chief collapsed into the chair next to Ning.

“You look terrible,” the chief said, nudging Ning's arm. “Cheer up. Your days of taking shit from me are over.” The old man was drunk. “Everyone's waiting on your speech,” the chief shouted.

“Yes,” Li Pai joined in. “Let's hear it.”

Of course it hadn't been luck. Two men who said they were from the Ministry of Water Resources had been waiting inside Ning's apartment one sweltering night a couple of weeks after the protests. Since the crackdown he'd been living like a man in a diving bell, waiting for his air hose to be severed at the surface. Colleagues had been taken away in broad daylight. He'd known they would come for him, too, and he'd decided. Once he'd seen all the empty desks in the newsroom, he knew he'd tell his inquisitors whatever they wanted to know. It's pragmatic, he told himself. Either way, they'll get what they want. Just give it to them and preserve your career.

That night at his apartment, they'd asked him to take a seat, and before turning on the lights, one of the agents had pulled the cord anchored on a nail at each window frame. The blinds had come whipping down, one by one.

The chief struggled back to his feet and, wobbly, turned to face the crowd. “Quiet,” he shouted. The noise died down quickly. “We're here to see off a cherished colleague—a beloved colleague—our brother Li Pai. His contributions to the
Guangzhou Post
are unchartable. He has set a new standard for journalists in China. In all my years, I've never seen such an outpouring of sadness from the readership.” The chief looked back at Li Pai, and Ning understood that the old man had paused because he was genuinely choked up, flooded with longing to embrace Li Pai, to gather him up in his arms as one might a child. No one would have thought less of him—it was the right time for an outpouring of emotion—but he turned back to the crowd. “Li Pai has been like a son to me, but no one has known him as long as Ning Wang. He's volunteered to say a few words about his dear friend.”

The chief sat to a round of applause that abated as soon as Ning stood up. As he maneuvered himself into position, his chair scraped loudly against the floor. Uneasy, eyes down, he felt in his pocket for the speech. There was a great silence all around him, and when he looked up at the crowd, he saw that they all hated him, and only the chief's authority kept them from shouting him down. He unfolded the speech and held the paper out before him. He took a deep breath and began to read without understanding the words of praise, and without hearing his own voice, but hoping that he might, by some magic of language, acquit himself.

 

THE POCKETBOOK

 

Claire was standing outside the cafeteria door and she could hear them laughing. Go, she told herself. Go. She pulled open the door and went directly to the service line, from which she could safely survey the seating arrangement. Her ex-roommate, Alicia, was at a table with her friends, doing her Teacher Wu impression, and it was brutal. Teacher Wu was sitting at the next table over, oblivious as ever and, Claire thought, pretty much begging for it. He was shoveling noodles into his mouth and sauce was dripping off his chin. He had that misty, philosophical look about him, the one that said, This world does not my reward hold. She wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he turned blue.

When he spoke English, his facial contortions brought to mind the painful passage of objects from the body, and Alicia's imitation was consummate. She made her face flush. She did the stutter and the gape. A strand of saliva swayed from her lip, then snapped and dropped to the tabletop. This went over big with everyone except Claire, who, given the choice of sitting with Teacher Wu or with Alicia, wasn't so principled as to make herself part of the joke, at least no more than she already was.

When Claire put her tray down, Alicia turned to her and said, “Oh, sorry.”

“What?” Claire said. “I don't care.” Everyone was sure Claire and Wu were sleeping together. Alicia wiped her mouth and went back to her meal.