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Authors: Lisa Brackmann
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WHAT I SHOULD DO .
THERE ’ S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO , I type. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW , THAT ’ S ALL .
YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL , he types.
No shit.
I COULD LOG OUT from my house, but I decide to leave through the town square. The sculpture that Sea Horse was working on has taken shape. The rosy-cheeked baby has gotten bigger, nearly as tall as the giant ears of corn. And there are bees now, huge bees that buzz the stalks and corn silk. The baby holds up a basket filled with husked corn, except some of the kernels are bulbous. Misshapen. A single bee lies belly-up on the pile of corn, its legs twitching. Other dead bees surround the base of the corn statue.
SEA HORSE , NI HAO , I type. WHAT ’ S WITH THE BEES ?
Sea Horse stands next to the baby, blinking.
YOU ’ LL SEE , she says.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A NDY SAYS THERE ’ S A great show we can go to tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Andy nods vigorously. “Yes. With lights. And music. On lake.”
“By that fellow, the movie director? The one who did the Olympics ceremony, with all the drummers?”
“Oh, right,” I mutter.
So far today we’ve taken a bus to this ancient village called Xingping, which I have to admit is pretty fucking charming—narrow cobbled streets with colored pennants and lanterns strung across them, chickens wandering around, laundry hanging out on poles. You know, the kind of place that looks like a postcard. Kept that way for tourists, I’m pretty sure. My mom stops and buys a bunch of cloth purses shaped like fish—“Oh, look, how cute! See? There’s a smaller fish inside for change!”—while Andy insists on buying lunch, the local specialty, “beer fish,” and after that we go to a groovy coffeehouse in an ancient building for coffees and dessert.
Now we’re on the river cruise back to Yangshuo, on a flat boat made of white PVC tubes, a canvas canopy supported by a shaky aluminum frame, powered by an outboard motor.
And yeah, it’s gorgeous. I can’t really take it in, it’s so beautiful. All the alien mountains, swaddled in fog. Water buffalo and pebbled beaches. Tropical palms and every manner of green. “Those mountains, you see them?” Andy points. “They are on back of the twenty-yuan bill.”
I look to where he points: a mountain range that looks like someone went nuts with a soft-ice-cream dispenser, depositing row upon row of these crazy shapes, the greens and browns muting into blues and greys as the ranks recede.
“You see?” Andy says. He’s taken a bill out of his wallet. Holds it up in front of my face. “Twenty-yuan bill.”
I think, Get that fucking money out of my face so I can see the actual mountains, Andy, because I can look at a twenty-yuan bill anytime.
“Yeah, I see,” I say, and take a slug of my Liquan beer. Breathe in the river’s mossy scent and tell myself to calm down.
“So what do you think about the show?” my mom asks.
“Why don’t you guys go? I have some work I should do.”
She pouts. “Ellie, I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”
And I thought the two of us were supposed to go alone
, I want to say. But I don’t. Because it’s not really a vacation for me anyway.
“Stuff happens,” I say with a shrug. “I made a promise to … you know, to do a good job.”
A FTER M OM AND A NDY leave for the light show, I put on my jacket and knit hat, grab my color copy of Jason’s photograph, and set out.
The main tourist drag in Yangshuo is called Xi Jie—West Street. It’s filled with bars and discos and coffee places with names like Minnie Mao’s and the People’s Commune Café, complete with Santa Claus in a PLA uniform. There’s a VeniceHotel, a Stone Rose Bar. The street is narrow, most of the buildings two or three stories, a lot of traditional architecture, whitewashed, red-stained wood shutters. Uneven granite paving stones. No cars. By now it’s just past 7:00 P . M . The music is already pounding from the discos, the streets thronged with
THERE ’ S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO , I type. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW , THAT ’ S ALL .
YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL , he types.
No shit.
I COULD LOG OUT from my house, but I decide to leave through the town square. The sculpture that Sea Horse was working on has taken shape. The rosy-cheeked baby has gotten bigger, nearly as tall as the giant ears of corn. And there are bees now, huge bees that buzz the stalks and corn silk. The baby holds up a basket filled with husked corn, except some of the kernels are bulbous. Misshapen. A single bee lies belly-up on the pile of corn, its legs twitching. Other dead bees surround the base of the corn statue.
SEA HORSE , NI HAO , I type. WHAT ’ S WITH THE BEES ?
Sea Horse stands next to the baby, blinking.
YOU ’ LL SEE , she says.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A NDY SAYS THERE ’ S A great show we can go to tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Andy nods vigorously. “Yes. With lights. And music. On lake.”
“By that fellow, the movie director? The one who did the Olympics ceremony, with all the drummers?”
“Oh, right,” I mutter.
So far today we’ve taken a bus to this ancient village called Xingping, which I have to admit is pretty fucking charming—narrow cobbled streets with colored pennants and lanterns strung across them, chickens wandering around, laundry hanging out on poles. You know, the kind of place that looks like a postcard. Kept that way for tourists, I’m pretty sure. My mom stops and buys a bunch of cloth purses shaped like fish—“Oh, look, how cute! See? There’s a smaller fish inside for change!”—while Andy insists on buying lunch, the local specialty, “beer fish,” and after that we go to a groovy coffeehouse in an ancient building for coffees and dessert.
Now we’re on the river cruise back to Yangshuo, on a flat boat made of white PVC tubes, a canvas canopy supported by a shaky aluminum frame, powered by an outboard motor.
And yeah, it’s gorgeous. I can’t really take it in, it’s so beautiful. All the alien mountains, swaddled in fog. Water buffalo and pebbled beaches. Tropical palms and every manner of green. “Those mountains, you see them?” Andy points. “They are on back of the twenty-yuan bill.”
I look to where he points: a mountain range that looks like someone went nuts with a soft-ice-cream dispenser, depositing row upon row of these crazy shapes, the greens and browns muting into blues and greys as the ranks recede.
“You see?” Andy says. He’s taken a bill out of his wallet. Holds it up in front of my face. “Twenty-yuan bill.”
I think, Get that fucking money out of my face so I can see the actual mountains, Andy, because I can look at a twenty-yuan bill anytime.
“Yeah, I see,” I say, and take a slug of my Liquan beer. Breathe in the river’s mossy scent and tell myself to calm down.
“So what do you think about the show?” my mom asks.
“Why don’t you guys go? I have some work I should do.”
She pouts. “Ellie, I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”
And I thought the two of us were supposed to go alone
, I want to say. But I don’t. Because it’s not really a vacation for me anyway.
“Stuff happens,” I say with a shrug. “I made a promise to … you know, to do a good job.”
A FTER M OM AND A NDY leave for the light show, I put on my jacket and knit hat, grab my color copy of Jason’s photograph, and set out.
The main tourist drag in Yangshuo is called Xi Jie—West Street. It’s filled with bars and discos and coffee places with names like Minnie Mao’s and the People’s Commune Café, complete with Santa Claus in a PLA uniform. There’s a VeniceHotel, a Stone Rose Bar. The street is narrow, most of the buildings two or three stories, a lot of traditional architecture, whitewashed, red-stained wood shutters. Uneven granite paving stones. No cars. By now it’s just past 7:00 P . M . The music is already pounding from the discos, the streets thronged with
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