FRAGMENT 50
The Faint Scent of Milk Tea
Fragment:Footsteps breaking into a faint, uneven rhythm | Hearing beginning to dull
Time & Place: Summer 2001 · Hanwei Plaza · "Ninety-Nine Yurts" Mongolian Restaurant, Beijing
I lay stretched across the back seat of my Audi A8, watching the city's ring roads slide past one after another—the Fourth Ring, the Third, then the Second.
Eastward.
The car made a U-turn at Dabeiyao Bridge and stopped in front of Hanwei Plaza.
My office was there.
Twice the size of the neighboring financial firm's. Its owner, a daughter of a former state president, had been my university classmate.
My secretary informed me that a woman had been waiting for over an hour.
She refused to give her name.
I pushed open the office door.
She was sitting behind my desk.
Turning her head, she smiled.
"Little brother."
Baorigé.
A Mongolian pianist and the daughter-in-law of a former vice premier.
We had grown up together.
She was two years older than I was. Like many descendants of the steppe, we had survived the same suffocating dream beneath that red haze and carried its shadow for years.
She had come to ask me for money.
A charitable foundation, she explained, dedicated to helping Mongolian girls who could not afford an education.
In exchange, she would help secure a mainland broadcasting license for my overseas satellite television network—a permit so restricted that few people in China could even dream of obtaining one.
Part of the television company's capital came from state-owned enterprises.
Most came from financing arranged through Citigroup.
Every financing document had been drafted by my own hand.
At the time, the company held several hundred million Hong Kong dollars in its accounts.
"How much do you need, Sister Bao?"
She laughed.
"I know exactly what your books look like. Don't worry. Two or three million will do."
Nothing about me was hidden from her.
I knew perfectly well who she was really working for.
"Fine," I said. "The funds will be transferred within a week."
I stood and embraced her.
In all the years we had known each other, I had never touched her body.
My stomach brushed against the enormous curve of her bra.
I hardened immediately.
My hand slipped down the line of her waist and hip.
A faint scent of milk tea drifted from her shoulder-length hair, carrying my thoughts instantly to the distant grasslands.
"Bad boy."
She chuckled softly.
"You still smell like the steppe."
Without meeting my eyes, she gently removed my hand.
"I'm leaving."
She turned and walked away.
Something about her footsteps felt slightly irregular, scattered in tiny fragments.
Her heartbeat had quickened.
I never saw her face.
Nor did I notice that my hearing had already begun to grow numb.
FRAGMENT 51
The Princes
Fragment:Footsteps breaking into a faint, uneven rhythm | Hearing beginning to dull
Time & Place:Summer 2001 · Taoyuan International Airport, Taipei · "Ninety-Nine Yurts" Mongolian Restaurant, Beijing
Following arrangements made through Old Tong, I obtained a passport from a small Caribbean nation.
One midsummer evening, I landed at Taoyuan Airport.
The immigration officer spoke in polished Taiwanese Mandarin, his expression calm.
"Sir, we cannot allow you to enter Taiwan."
Strangely, I could hear neither his heartbeat nor the movements deep inside his throat.
"We know exactly who you are."
The man smiled with the satisfaction of someone holding all the cards. The faint smell of inexpensive face cream lingered on his skin. Beneath the smile came the tiny grinding sound of his teeth.
I was put on a flight back to Hong Kong.
After a round of questioning by the Hong Kong police, I was free again.
Being denied entry to Taiwan did not surprise me.
Nor did it affect my relationships across Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan. Quite a few influential figures in politics and business were willing to support me. In Beijing, things moved smoothly.
One afternoon, Baorigé appeared at Hanwei Plaza and grabbed me by the arm.
"Where are we going, Sister Bao?"
"To a Mongolian feast. Several princes are waiting for you."
She drove a Mercedes-Benz S600 bearing military plates.
We sped across the city and arrived at “Ninety-Nine Yurts”, near the northern Fifth Ring Road—a fortress constructed from expensive timber and romantic fantasies of the grasslands.
Luxury cars surrounded the largest yurt.
Inside sat three men.
One was a "Red Prince" from Inner Mongolia, dressed in the dark jacket favored by officials.
Another came from Ulaanbaatar, the homeland of my grandfather. He carried the scent of grass, dust, and open country.
The third was refined and scholarly, said to be from Taiwan, wearing an understated cologne.
"President Bai, our Mongolian prince has arrived. Sit."
The Red Prince's greeting carried effortless authority.
Baorigé lifted the hem of her dress and settled beside him.
Then she patted the seat to her left.
"Little brother, over here."
I obeyed without much thought.
The yurt was thick with alcohol, laughter, and the disorderly sounds of human bodies.
After several rounds of toasts, I was beginning to lose the battle.
Baorigé told me to rest my head on her bare shoulder.
Half awake and half asleep, I did.
Her thigh pressed firmly against mine.
Gradually it grew warm.
Before long, my own body responded.
I rubbed my cheek lazily against her smooth shoulder.
The old princes could have debated politics, history, or the fate of nations for all I cared.
I no longer listened.
From time to time, Baorigé would lean closer, as if catching my scent.
That night, beneath the nourishment promised by her name—dew upon the grasslands—I released the strength that had accumulated within me.
The aroma of wine on her breath mingled with the warmth of her body as we surrendered ourselves to the darkness beyond words.
FRAGMENT 52
The Nerves Ignite Again
Fragment:Everyone carries a straw | The propaganda loudspeaker is running out of money
Time & Place:Summer 2001 · Macau Casino · Hanwei Plaza, Beijing
Once again, I found myself sitting in front of a slot machine in Macau.
My finger rested on the betting button, tapping mechanically.
Hours passed.
Tens of thousands of Hong Kong dollars disappeared into the machine.
Not a single jackpot appeared.
My mind wandered.
I thought about the seventeen percent stake I held in the television company. According to the investment bankers, those shares were worth more than seventy million U.S. dollars.
Compared with that, the banknotes being swallowed by the slot machine amounted to almost nothing.
I believed I had become a tycoon.
At least I looked like one.
The finest Japanese hair dye kept my hair naturally dark.
Premium European oils and sunshine gathered from around the world had replaced my old pale complexion with something healthier, something closer to an ordinary human being.
Yet I had no idea what I truly wanted.
I treated work the way alcoholics treated liquor.
Every day I worked until I forgot to eat.
I knew better, yet I insisted on setting impossibly ambitious goals for **Super Frequency Satellite Television**. Even Phoenix Television, then at the height of its influence across China, seemed unworthy of serious concern.
A veteran businessman in Beijing once complained to me:
"Brother, do you know what it's like? Every day I face managers and employees. They're polite, respectful, even warm. But deep down I know exactly what's happening. Every single one of them is holding a straw and saying, 'Dear boss, please let me take another sip.'"
I stared at him.
"A sip of what?"
"My money. My blood, brother."
He never realized that whenever I approved an expense report, the money flowing from my pen wasn't really mine.
One afternoon, Gao Yong arrived unexpectedly.
"President Bai," he said with a smile.
"The leadership has asked us to conduct a survey. As an overseas media platform serving national interests, what difficulties are you facing? Anything you need, please tell us. We'll do everything possible to help."
He came with several officials.
Their questions were detailed.
But it didn't take long for me to understand what truly concerned them.
They wanted to know when our channels would begin satellite broadcasting and officially become part of the nation's overseas propaganda system.
I did not announce publicly that the company was desperately short of cash.
Instead, after the meeting ended, I escorted Gao Yong into one of the studios and closed the door behind us.
"Can you help us find more funding?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Hmm. So all that money is already gone?"
"Satellite television burns cash."
"OK. I'll see what I can do."
He paused.
"This time, fifty-fifty won't work. You understand."
His voice remained calm.
"But twenty percent is possible. Managed by you."
As he spoke, fingers as thin as toothbrush handles slid slowly across the control console.
The faint scraping sound reminded me of something being inserted between my own fingers.
I looked at him for a moment.
"Fine," I said.
"Your way."
FRAGMENT 53
Gao Yong's Theory of Belief
Fragment:The familiar stickiness has vanished from his voice | Once again, I hear my enemy's laugh
Time & Place:Autumn 2001 · Hanwei Plaza · Peking Union Medical College Hospital, Beijing
Gao Yong turned toward the door.
Then he stopped.
Smiling, he looked back at me.
"Brother, do you know the biggest difference between you and me?"
I said nothing.
"You always want to know what's true."
He walked back to the control console and began playing with a button that reminded me of the betting key on a slot machine.
"I've never cared much about the truth."
Even the familiar stickiness in his voice was gone.
"I only care about what people are willing to believe."
He had no interest in hearing my response.
He continued, pleased with himself.
"I know you like figuring things out. Fine. Tell me—how much is truth worth?"
He grinned.
"Belief is worth a lot more."
From his pocket he produced a casino chip worth ten thousand Hong Kong dollars.
He tapped it lightly with a fingertip.
"What does a casino sell?"
He answered his own question.
"Belief."
Then he pointed toward the banking towers outside the window.
"What do banks sell?"
"Belief."
He bent forward and slapped the control console hard.
"What does a television network sell?"
The console rattled beneath his hand.
"The same thing."
"Belief."
Then he laughed.
"Women work the same way."
The thin face wore the satisfaction of an elder who had just delivered a grand lesson on life.
But what followed was the part I remembered.
The same laugh I had heard since childhood.
"Heh heh."
My nerve endings exploded once again.
The sweet coating of money and ambition cracked apart.
The White Crow heard the voice of its enemy.
And recognized the face.
"Bai Ying! What's wrong with you?"
Gao Yong's voice suddenly sounded distant.
"Your eyes are bleeding! Your ears too! Somebody call an ambulance!"
I heard only faint echoes.
The world turned red.
When I woke, I was lying in a hospital bed at Peking Union Medical College Hospital.
Baorigé sat beside me, holding my hand.
The curve of her thigh caught my eye before anything else.
"You're awake."
The door opened.
My wife and daughter entered.
Baorigé immediately withdrew her hand.
Rising from the bedside, she stepped aside, her rounded hips swaying briefly across my field of vision.
