“HDPE.” Jun Wei leaned back in his chair. “Do you know what that is?”
Zhang shook his head.
“High-density polyethylene. It’s used in the manufacture of plastic lumber and corrosion-resistant piping.”
“Crucial in construction, then.”
“Crucial in all kinds of areas. Globally, it’s a billion-dollar industry.” Jun Wei flicked ash onto the floor. “I’m looking to import large quantities of HDPE from Iran, and I want you on board as a consultant.”
“Iran?” Zhang said. “What about sanctions?”
Jun Wei crushed out his cigarette, smoke streaming from his nostrils. “That,” he said, “is why it’s such a good opportunity.”
As Zhang finished his breakfast, Jun Wei expanded on certain aspects of the deal. He was having trouble with pricing mechanisms, he said, and with delivery routes, but these were difficulties that Zhang—or Zhang’s business contacts—would be able to resolve.
“Let me think about it.” Zhang signaled for the bill.
“My treat,” Jun Wei said.
The door opened, and two girls walked in. One had a boy’s haircut and a mole on her upper lip. Her heart-shaped silver earrings were the size of a man’s hand. The other one wore a tight pink T-shirt that said DREAM BIG.
“Over here, you two,” Jun Wei called out, waving an arm. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
* * *
—
The phone call Zhang had been waiting for came on a Tuesday evening. After returning from work, he had showered, and he was standing at his living-room window with wet hair and a towel around his waist. The temperature had dropped, and the sky was a stormy greenish gray. He thought he could hear thunder behind the rain.
When his phone rang, Unknown appeared on the screen.
“Hello?” he said. “It’s Naemi.”
“How did you get my number?” She didn’t answer.
“You call me,” he said, “but I can’t call you. The traffic’s a bit one-way, don’t you think?”
“I suppose you’re usually the one who behaves like that.”
It was true that he usually conducted his affairs on his own terms. He had never been confronted with it, though, and he wasn’t sure quite how to respond. Opening the sliding doors, he stepped out onto the terrace and leaned on the railing, his phone still pressed against his ear, the rain falling just beyond his face. To his surprise, he found that he was smiling. Far below, the compound’s outdoor swimming pool was neat as a pale blue tile.
“How long has it been?” he said. “A week?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to travel. It was work.”
“Sure,” he said. “Okay.”
“Also, I’m a very private person. I have issues with trust.” She paused. “I have to protect myself.”
“What from?”
She sighed.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Thank you.”
Her relief sounded heartfelt, genuine.
She also wanted to thank him for the wonderful night at the Park Hyatt, she went on. She was sorry if she left abruptly. The man in the beige suit had thrown her.
Zhang told her not to worry.
“What happened after I left?” she asked. “He seemed very confused.” She paused again. “I hope he didn’t bother you.”
“I got rid of him.”
“Was that difficult?”
“No, not at all.”
He wondered why he was misleading her. Perhaps because he felt it was what she wanted to hear. How would she react if he told her he had sat down with Torben Gulsvig and bought him a coffee? What would she say if she knew the professor’s business card was in his wallet?
“Are you free this evening?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m singing.”
“Karaoke?”
“No,” he said. “Not karaoke.”
He played in a blues band, he told her, with Gong Shen and Fang Yuan, otherwise known as “Mad Dog” and “Laser.” They called themselves the Gang of Three. They got together most weekends, in a recording studio off Beijing East Road, but sometimes they played live, and this was one of those rare nights.
“Do you have a nickname too?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Flower Heart.”
“Nice,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“You don’t know?”
“Tell me.”
“I think it means I’m popular.”
“With women?”
“With everyone.”
She laughed.
“Mad Dog came up with it about ten years ago,” Zhang said. “He has all kinds of strange ideas.”
“I’d love to hear you sing,” she said. “I saw B.B. King once, when I was in America.”
“I’m not that good.”
She laughed again.
The venue was Yu Yin Tang, he told her, and they would be on stage at about ten thirty.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
The moment she ended the call, Zhang rang her back. There was no reply. Just the flatline tone of a phone that was dead or a phone that had been switched off.
I have to protect myself.
An hour later, he was heading west on the Yan’an elevated highway with Mississippi John Hurt turned up loud on the Jaguar’s sound system, the night’s sticky blackness piled high on either side.
* * *
—
Situated between a metro station and a park, Yu Yin Tang was a small place that held about one hundred people. Above the entrance was a sign that showed a polar bear playing an electric guitar. The ground floor had a distressed black ceiling and brick walls that were painted red. Between the stage and the bar was a door leading to a modest terrace that overlooked the park. Upstairs were two or three more rooms. There were brown plastic sofas, and the walls were defaced with graffiti. On one wall was a poster listing drinks. A cocktail called Fuck Me Friday cost 65 RMB.
When Zhang walked in, there was no sign of Naemi, but his band members were already at the bar. They made an unlikely pair. Gong Shen, aka Mad Dog, would be seventy in a few months’ time. He was wearing a waistcoat and pinstripe trousers, and his shoulder-length gray hair was tucked back behind his ears. He drank too much, and though it never seemed to interfere with his playing he often had trouble getting home. Once, the police found him outside a restaurant near where he lived, passed out on a heap of oyster shells. Another time, he fell asleep in an alley. When he woke up, his boots were gone. He played the double bass and the harmonica. Fang Yuan, who answered to Laser, was a drummer. Young enough to be Mad Dog’s grandson, he had dropped out of university, and he supported himself by working in a record shop that specialized in vinyl. He also played drums for a speed metal outfit called the Dense Haloes. Zhang had seen them live. It was three days before he could hear properly again.