The girl’s face lost all its hardness. “I’d love that,” she said.
Zhang crossed the road and stared into the darkened window of the key-cutting shop. Mad Dog had been standing here. Right here. He had been talking to a blonde woman, who had been trying to explain something to him. He was only a couple of minutes’ walk from where he lived, and yet he hadn’t made it home.
A blonde woman…
He had instantly thought of Naemi, of course. The woman sounded just like her. But it couldn’t be. She was thousands of kilometers away, in London…Fragments of recent conversation circled inside his head. First Naemi: He doesn’t like me, does he. Then Mad Dog: I’d have nothing to do with her. I’d run a mile. Then Naemi again: He should be careful. A taxi came along, but Zhang made no attempt to flag it down. Instead, he watched the taillights sink into the murk, then he crossed the road again and stood where the skateboarders had stood, with his back to the convenience store. Looking towards the key-cutting shop, it wasn’t an old man and a blonde woman he saw. It was Mad Dog and Naemi, and they were involved in some kind of altercation. Another taxi passed. Still he didn’t lift a hand.
He should be careful.
At the time, he had taken this remark of hers for solicitude. Now he thought about it, though, it sounded like a threat—and hadn’t Mad Dog talked of threats, the night he appeared unexpectedly in Pudong, the night they saw the owl?
It was approaching two in the morning, but Zhang felt an urge to complete the journey. He walked away from the crossroads and turned into the narrow alleyway where Mad Dog lived. An old man in a white undershirt and plaid shorts was watering his plants. He looked at Zhang vacantly as he passed by. Zhang stopped outside Mad Dog’s house. The wooden gate was open, and light from the house fell across the yard. He could see the corrugated-plastic lean-to, and the outdoor sink, and the Formica table where they had eaten lunch. On the shelf above the sink was an ashtray full of butts. One of Mad Dog’s shoes stood upright next to a small round cactus in a pale green pot. The light was coming from the kitchen window. Someone was awake. Perhaps, after all, Mad Dog had finally returned. Perhaps he had been on a two-day drinking binge, or perhaps he had been with a woman. Perhaps he and Ling Ling were arguing—though Zhang couldn’t imagine Ling Ling arguing, or even raising her voice. Perhaps she was telling him, in low tones, that she was leaving him, and he was telling her not to be ridiculous. Perhaps he was telling her he loved her. Zhang hoped all this was true.
He eased through the gate and closed it behind him, then he swiftly and silently crossed the yard. Positioning himself just to one side of the light, he moved his head until he could see into the room. Ling Ling was sitting at the kitchen table, and she had both hands over her face, like a child counting to one hundred while her friends ran off and hid. One look at her, and it was obvious Mad Dog had not come home. Zhang stepped back from the window, darkness closing round his heart.
* * *
—
The night was hot and wet, like a night in July or August, and Zhang was driving. His heart was light as a balloon, and seemed to drift inside his body, as if he was on his way to meet somebody new. His mind was cool and fluent, no thoughts as such, just the low-level fizzle of anticipation. He pulled up outside a club. A valet opened the car door for him and took his keys. Mauve neon spilled across the pavement. The rain was warm.
He walked past the line of people waiting. In the foyer, a girl stamped the inside of his wrist with the symbol of a fingerprint, which glowed in the ultraviolet. He passed through the crowd and on into the bar area. Everybody in the place was beautiful. Crossing the dance floor, he could feel the bass notes pushing against the soles of his shoes. Faces spun past, seemingly hurled at him and glancing off.
Then he was in a corridor, the music behind him now, and muffled. He was looking for someone. He wasn’t sure who. His heart felt heavier, hemmed in. He found it hard to catch his breath. He stepped sideways, through a half-open door. There were six or seven young people in the room. The girls all wore short skirts. One of them had dyed blue hair—or perhaps it was a wig. The men had taken off their shirts. They had gold chains round their necks. Their jeans were black.
One of the girls bent over a glass table and snorted white powder through a straw. Straightening up again, she pushed her hair back and pinched her nose, then she handed him the straw and reached for a microphone. On the screen behind her was a blown-up photographic image of green foliage and dappled sunlight. She began to sing. She had chosen a heavy metal track about lust and killing. Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. One of the men. The tattoo of a rope coiled around his upper body, encircling his neck. He jerked his head towards the white lines on the table. Zhang bent down and snorted. His nostril burned. He gave the straw to the man with the rope tattoo and left the room.
At the end of the corridor was a black door, and the light that oozed around its edges was a fuzzy gold. He was soaring inside his head, all the giddiness and claustrophobia gone. Someone took his arm. It was the girl who had been singing. Blood trickled from her nose, but she was smiling. Her black T-shirt was tight over her breasts. You were good, he told her. I never expected you to be so good. She tilted her face towards his, offering her lips. They kissed. She opened the black door and started up the stairs. He followed. There was no effort involved. He could have climbed those stairs forever. Time seemed to have unraveled. Space too. The idea that there might be another world outside the club seemed far-fetched, unbelievable. Even the night drive through the city. Even his car keys glinting in the valet’s hand…
It was dark in the room, and there was a steady roar, like air conditioning. The girl told him this was the Golden Lounge. The small man in the pale blue suit was sitting at a table in the corner with a drink. There you are, Zhang said. He felt excited. Everything made sense. The man said nothing, though. He was studying his fingernails. Zhang wanted to know where the little suitcase was. Lifting his eyes, the man slowly shook his head. He seemed disappointed, and disdainful, but also resigned. When you think of all the questions you could have asked, he said.
Zhang looked upwards. There was no ceiling, only a brown night sky. Rain splashed down into the room. He watched the drops sink into the carpet, one after another. The small man and the girl were gone—
He woke up covered with sweat, a damp sheet tangled round his body. When you think of all the questions you could have asked…He switched on the bedside light and looked at the soles of his feet. No little marks or holes. No sensitivity. He drank some water from the glass next to his bed, then reached for his phone. It was ten to five. Switching off the light again, he lay down and closed his eyes. Moments later, seemingly, his alarm went off. Leaving his bed, he walked into the kitchen and made a pot of yellow leaf tea.
* * *
—
He had been trying to speak to his sister for several days, but she wasn’t answering the phone. She didn’t return his calls either. That afternoon, he told Chun Tao to drive him to Huaihai Road, where Qi Jing worked. The city was sunk in a dirty white fog, like a moth wrapped in a cocoon. All the cars had their headlights on, even though dusk was still an hour away.