Xu Zechen - Running Through Beijing

Dunhuang let out a breath. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Like hell I’ve got the wrong number. I’d know your caw if it came out my ass. Don’t ya play with me!”

“I’ll repeat myself: y’got the wrong goddamn number!”

“Huh? It’s really not you?”

“It’s your mom!” Dunhuang hung up. Whoever it was called again, and let it ring until Dunhuang finally picked up again.

The caller hadn’t even lost his temper.“I’m sorry I bothered you. Do you know Crow’s number? A friend gave me yours.”

“Sorry, try the Forbidden City if you’re looking for crows. I only know magpies.”

Dunhuang felt a little better after that, and he decided to concentrate on selling movies, it was almost evening. He cursed gray jacket as he went, bullshit cop, bullshit cop. . But a light bulb went on as he approached Haidian — there had been something wrong with jacket’s ID. He craned his neck, trying to latch on to the problem. The leather case. . the printing. . the font. . There it was: the last character of the title on the ID had been squeezed up against the margin. There was no way a normal ID would have been that poorly designed. The title had been squeezed on purpose. Bao Ding once got a job like that, and Dunhuang went with him to pick up the finished product. Bao Ding asked if something was wrong with the signature on the ID.The forger said they always did it that way for fake police IDs — they included an imperfection, leaving an out for themselves. It was like counterfeit bills, they always left something wrong in the details. Dunhuang remembered the guy saying, righteously, “It’s part of our moral code.”

Dunhuang thought carefully about the jacket’s ID. There had definitely been something wrong with it. His mood improved immediately, he’d been taken in by a fake! He swore loud enough to shake the sky, and continued on feeling practically carefree, even forgetting his annoyance at the guy looking for Crow. Who could say if it was a wrong number, maybe it was just a bored crank caller? At that point, another light bulb went on — why not use the same trick in his own search for Qibao? Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? Dunhuang was impressed with his own genius — the search was as good as done. What can you do? Sometimes you just get clever.

He turned on the spot and went back the way he’d come, looking for fake ID ads on the sidewalk, bus-stops, traffic control boxes, and trash cans. They read: IDs, internet connections, receipts, and each had a phone number. Dunhuang tore off each one he saw, and when he got home he started calling every one of the twenty-two numbers he’d collected.

If a woman picked up, he’d say, “Is this Qibao? I’m Crow.”

She’d answer, “No, you’ve got the wrong number.”

He’d continue, “Are you sure? A friend gave me this number. Do you know Qibao?”

“No, I’ve never heard of her.”

“Oh, sorry to bother you then. Thanks.”

If a man picked up, he’d say, “Hey, this is Crow. Have you seen Qibao lately?”

The man would say, “Who’s Crow? I don’t know you. Haven’t heard of Qibao either.”

“Sorry, wrong number! Thanks.”

Southern accents, northern dialects, half-cooked Beijing slang. Those with good tempers would grumble a bit before hanging up. If he got a mean one, though, he was in for a tongue lashing: asshole, bastard, idiot, go to hell, etc.

Then he’d start over with a new number.

He worked through all twenty-two numbers with no success. He wasn’t disappointed, though, this was still the best way to find Qibao. He would let the mountain come to Mohammad — he’d be the still point at the center. All he had to worry about was finding advertisements, and that was no problem: while he distributed his own, he could collect others’.

Dunhuang spent a week picking up ads, selling DVDs all the while. When he got home, he’d make calls — no less than three hundred in seven days. He didn’t expect Qibao herself to be among the three hundred, but if one of them had even heard of her, he’d be all set. He couldn’t expect to cover the entirety of Beijing’s fake-ID industry with three hundred numbers, but perhaps it would do for a half, or a third. It was only a matter of time before he found Qibao. He had to keep track of numbers he’d called twice, of course. There were ten or so of those — he’d forgotten which ones he’d already called. After getting a few earfuls, Dunhuang learned his lesson and made a rough list of numbers, checking them off as he went.

Three hundred numbers, but Qibao continued to elude him. Dunhuang surveyed his drawerful of used phone cards, gritted his teeth, and continued dialing. He thought of it as buying Bao Ding a drink. One afternoon, while Dunhuang was selling DVDs by Hangtian Bridge, he saw a boy of roughly ten walking on top of the bridge, bobbing down every few steps. He was pasting advertisements on the ground. Dunhuang followed him onto the bridge, and saw they were new numbers. He peeled one off the ground and called. It was a woman’s voice that answered.

“Is that Qibao? It’s Crow!”

“Crow? Haven’t heard of you.”

“Do you know Qibao?”

“Who are you, really?”

“Do you know Qibao, really?”

“I do.”

“Great! I’m Dunhuang, can you tell me where she is?”

“Who the fuck are you, really ?”

“Dunhuang. I’m Dunhuang. Bao Ding asked me to find Qibao.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? That’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“In bed.”

She lived nearby, in Huayuancun, and had just woken up. Dunhuang suggested they have dinner together, and Qibao said, “Great, I wasn’t in the mood to cook.” They arranged to meet by a pedestrian overpass near Huayuancun, and Dunhuang sat on the bottom step of the bridge, smoking and rubbing his hands in excitement. Finally, goddamn it, he’d found her. He could stop feeling quite so guilty about Bao Ding. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a fairly tall, full-figured girl, quite young and pretty. She had long hair in curls, and wore a cardigan, an impractical shawl, and a skirt. The cardigan was open low in front, revealing deep cleavage. Dunhuang wasn’t sure if he should think of her as a woman or a girl.

“Qibao?”

“Dunhuang?”

Dunhuang grinned, then stood and circled behind her: there they were, that back and ass he’d been looking for. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Dunhuang quickly replied, “I’ll treat you to dinner. Bao Ding gave specific instructions to take care of you.”

“So where is he? I never heard from him. He promised to take me to the Great Wall and the Ming Tombs.”

“Don’t you know? He’s in jail. I just got out myself.”

“Fuck. . I should have guessed. He’s really an okay guy.” Qibao rummaged around in her pockets and finally said, “Do you have a cigarette?”

Dunhuang passed her one and lit it. “You smoke, huh?”

“I’d die of boredom otherwise,” she said. “Today was extra dull, no business. I fell asleep in front of the TV.”

They headed toward a Sichuanese restaurant.

“No business, but you hired a kid to paste ads?”

“You saw him, did you? Can’t do it myself, can I? I’d be a laughingstock. What treasures have you got in that bag?”

“DVDs. I sell them.”

They reached the restaurant. The place was tiny, but when Dunhuang flipped open the menu the prices nearly made him choke. Eighteen kuai for Kungpao chicken — it was shameless. Dunhuang pushed the menu toward Qibao, steeled himself, and said, “You order.”

Qibao said, “This place is good, I suggest it anytime a friend offers to treat.” She ordered oil-poached fish, buckwheat noodles with chicken slivers, Dongpo pork leg, crockpot greens, and Sichuanese pickled vegetables. It’ll be no worse than being tricked twice by fake policemen, thought Dunhuang.