Hour of the Rat Read Online Free

They have plainclothes spies, a vast network of informants, I don’t know how many millions of them.
    Not that my mom needs to know this level of detail.
    “But why are they here? Why do they want to talk to you?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, though I have a pretty good idea. “It’s probably just … some of the people I know, some of the artists. They do stuff that’s kind of controversial sometimes.”
    I go into the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the water in the sink. Get out my iPhone and touch a number.
    It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.
    Fuck.
    “Hey,” I say, in English, “I’m going for tea with the National Treasures. Thought you should know.”
    I hit the red DISCONNECT button. And then I pee. Because I actually need to go.
    When I exit the bathroom, my mom is facing the two cops, hands on her hips, like she’s daring them to take a step closer.
    I gather up my coat and a hat. “Remember that number I gave you?” I say. “The one I put on your cell?”
    She nods.
    “If you don’t hear from me in a couple of hours, call it and explain what’s going on. And if there’s no answer …”
    I think about it.
    “Yeah, call the embassy.”
    W E RIDE IN A squad car, heading southwest.
    The older cop drives. The younger one sits next to me in the back and tries to make polite conversation. I wish he’d shut up. I need to think. To get my story straight, plan what I’m going to say, what’s safe to admit and what isn’t.
    “Your Chinese is really good,” he says. “Really standard.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Where did you learn it?”
    “Here.”
    “How long have you been in China?”
    “Three years.”
    He shakes his head. “We learn English in school. I study a long time. But I don’t speak it very well.”
    “Helps to be in the country,” I say.
    He sighs. “Yes. But I think I won’t have that opportunity. Very difficult in my position.” He hesitates. “I like American movies and TV shows very much,” he says in English. “To practice English. I watch … 
24. The Sopranos. Sons of
 …” His brow wrinkles. “
Ah-nah-key
. I am not sure, how to say. They are bad men. Criminals. They drive those … those …”
    “Motorcycles,” I supply.
    “Yes!” He mimes twisting the handles. “Very dangerous!” His eyes light up, and he grins.
    I keep thinking we’re going to stop. We pass the local policestation. Then monumental government buildings with the state seal attached to the concrete like a giant badge stuck on awkwardly with a pin.
    But we don’t stop. We keep driving. West, then south.
    After a while I have no fucking clue where we’re going. The traffic’s so bad that the cop takes sides streets, nothing I recognize.
    Besides, no one goes to South Beijing unless they’re going to the new train station. This far south? I don’t even know what’s here.
    The farther we go, the more it looks like we’re not in Beijing anymore, like we’ve suddenly been transported to a podunk third-tier city in some interior province.
    White-tiled storefronts. Cracked plastic signage. Discount malls plastered with billboard-size ads for products you’ve never heard of, European-looking models advertising watches and shoes, everything greyed by pollution. Vendors who look like peasants with stuff to sell spread out on blankets on the sidewalk: DVDs. Socks and underwear. Barrettes and hairbrushes. Random shit.
    “Where are we going?” I finally ask.
    “Not far. Just a place … that’s comfortable. To talk.”
    And that’s when I really get scared. I think maybe they’re just going to make me disappear.
    No, that doesn’t make sense, I tell myself. If they were going to do that, would they send guys in uniforms? Would they do it in front of my mom?
    Wouldn’t they do it off the books?
    I tell myself this stuff until I’m calm again. Calmer anyway.
    We turn onto a busy street with the typical iron fence dividing it, so pedestrians can’t cross and