The Dog (24 page)

“Vengeance,” Slick Lips said.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew the best places to buy Hanfu. Electronic versions of the
Analects
, formatted for handhelds, had arrived in our in-boxes, courtesy of Brother Kang.

It was well known that Boss Zhou was fiercely nationalistic, so it didn't sound unreasonable that he'd have taken up the Hanfu lifestyle. I'd heard that he owned the jawbone of one of the Japanese commanders responsible for Nanjing. At Horizon Trading, everyone in management was Han, but there were some Huis here and there. In some regions, it's just smart business practice to have a native son approach investors. There were a couple of Mongols, a guy who was half Xibe, a Uyghur, a couple of Yaos, some Koreans. For a while, we even had an American, but he was lazy and got fired. Out of two hundred on our floor, about forty were from minority groups.

The next day, every one of them showed up decked out in Hanfu. It was as though a plague had swept across our war-torn land, infecting first the weak, the wounded and starving. They were spread out all over the floor but impossible to miss, the patient zeroes of the coming pandemic. For once in his life, Slick Lips was struck dumb. Not Brother Kang. He got on the squawk box and let everyone know what a great idea he thought it was. “Honored fellows! This is the first step toward a new China!” and so on. I kept my head down and pushed securities, but I was a little sad inside.

Brother Kang went around personally congratulating everyone wearing a Hanfu, and then he bought them all lunch. It wasn't only the minority guys who'd heeded the call—I'd say 40 percent of the floor was wearing Hanfu. The trading desks were a mélange of business suits and bright silk robes. Even some of the girls had gone in for it. One was wearing a diyi and a phoenix crown. She finally took it off because her phone was getting tangled in the pearls every time she tried to place an order.

“This really, really makes me puke,” said Ai Ai. He was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a purple tie, double Windsor. The suit had roped shoulders and was cut perfectly, probably one of the Gieves & Hawkes he'd picked up on his last trip to London.

“Everything makes you puke,” Slick Lips and I said in unison.

“Boss Zhou's not even here to see this,” Ai Ai said. “Isn't he in Moscow all week? These people would walk around naked with grenades in their mouths if someone told them they'd get a promotion.”

“Are we sure this isn't a joke?” I said.

“I was in a meeting with the desk heads this morning, and all they could talk about was the tailoring on their Hanfu,” Ai Ai said.

“Cowards,” Slick Lips said.

“Annoying is more like it,” Ai Ai said. “I'm sitting between a couple of guys over there who spent half an hour arguing about whether or not default swaps contribute to societal harmony.”

“Maybe they'll quit their lives of crime to study for the imperial examinations,” Slick Lips said. “You look terrible. You drinking for breakfast again?”

“Up all night fighting with Mei Lin. She can't decide between me and the Australian.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Slick Lips said. “Were you abused as a child? Kick her out!”

“If I'd just stayed home Saturday, none of this would have happened,” Ai Ai said.

“I think I'd better buy a Hanfu,” I said.

“What?” Ai Ai shouted.

“No, you're not,” Slick Lips said.

“I think I'd better, just to play it safe,” I said.

“Heart of a kitten,” Slick Lips said.

That night after work I went to Wangfujing and bought a blue cloak with a nice double-luck design embroidered in gold, a pair of white pantaloons, a sash, the whole lot. The salesman assured me it was top-of-the-line. I had trouble sleeping, and the next morning I decided to wear a suit, one of the buffalo-horn-button custom jobs from Hong Kong, and keep the Hanfu in my bag in case I needed it.

When I got to work, there were even more in robes than the day before. I'd estimate the office was about 75 to 80 percent Hanfu. At the division meeting, I was the lone suit in the room. The entire derivatives desk had placed orders through their regular tailor in Kowloon, and he'd flown in that morning with two racks of robes. They'd disappeared into their conference room wearing suits and emerged wearing red Hanfu.

“Idiots. They look like waiters,” Slick Lips said. He was wearing a suit, his tie loosely draped around his collar, as usual.

“Strength in numbers,” I said.

“At least you reconsidered,” Slick Lips said.

“Ah…” I said.

“Ah, what?” Slick Lips said.

I pointed at my bag.

“You are the lowest form of human life.”

You do what you have to do. I didn't get into this line of business because of my acute sense of ethics. I was here to make money, and to survive, not always in that order. I'd been on this track for as long as I could remember. Slick Lips had every reason to hate it here. He had a PhD in organic chemistry from Tsinghua, and had been studying nanotubes or something, advancing our great nation's store of scientific knowledge. His parents were Party members and money had never meant anything to him. Then his father died.

“You realize you've distinguished yourself as both a sheep and a coward?” Slick Lips said. “At least put the fucking thing on.”

“I'm keeping my options open.”

Slick Lips picked up his phone and punched the keypad, mumbled into the headset. Across the floor Ai Ai stood up, receiver to his ear. He was wearing a suit and tie. He flipped me off. I shrugged. What was I supposed to do? I just wanted to keep my options open. I didn't get much action from Slick Lips or Ai Ai the rest of the day. I was there until late, and they both left before me. Usually we'd wait for each other and grab dinner at Shintori or hit some dives in Sanlitun. I wasn't hurt. I went to Shintori by myself.

Fine if they wanted to make me pay for my transgression. I deserved it. It's why I liked them. The employees of Horizon Trading had about as much personality as traffic lights. Grinders. Optimists. Willing to do anything to get ahead. Good soldiers. Not Slick Lips and Ai Ai. They were bad attitudes and they expected the same of me.

On Thursday a BTV news crew showed up. They'd set up lights by Brother Kang's office, and were doing live feeds to
Happy Morning Beijing
. All the flat-screens on the walls, usually tuned to the financial channels, showed Kang's shiny face as he pontificated about the great Hanfu movement. The first time the camera swung across the trading floor to show the Hanfu army, I ducked. I don't know why. It's not like I knew anyone who would see the show and laugh at me. Everyone I knew worked at Horizon Trading. The next time the camera panned, I looked right at it.

That's how I wound up being interviewed. When the lights went down, the reporter walked over.

“So you're a holdout,” she said. She was thin and pretty and wasn't wearing much makeup. I'd always thought TV reporters were caked in the stuff. Probably an idea I picked up from a movie when I was a kid.

“I don't think I'm the only one,” I said.

“Do you see anyone else in a suit? Let's talk on camera,” she said.

I hadn't seen Slick Lips yet that morning. His chair was empty, and the reporter lowered herself into it, swiveled, leaned in, and held the microphone to her mouth. The cameraman hit the floodlight and I went momentarily blind.

“Rolling,” he said.

“What's your name?” the reporter said, then pushed the microphone at my chin.

“Uh, Zhang Wei,” I said.

“Mr. Zhang, among a sea of Hanfu supporters, you're one of the few who've opted not to take part. Could you explain your reasons?”

“Ah,” I said. “No reason, really. Ah. I just feel more comfortable like this, I guess.”

“Is it possible that you're staging a quiet protest against the Hanfu movement in your office?” the reporter said.

“No, no. I'm just wearing my suit.”

“Do you consider yourself a bold supporter of our great nation?”

“Of course I do,” I said.

“But you've chosen to stand outside and observe your colleagues' national pride without taking part yourself. You must feel that the Hanfu is overly nationalistic.”

“Ah, absolutely not. I'm a strong nationalist. A strong supporter,” I said.

“And yet you've chosen not to wear the Hanfu?”

“Ah,” I said. I was sweating, naturally. I couldn't think. I reached down for my bag and opened it.

“What's this?” she said.

I pulled out my Hanfu. “I was just waiting for an opportunity to put it on.”

The reporter looked up at the camera and made a cutting motion with her finger. The light went off.

“Thanks for your time,” she said, and extended her hand.

I took it. “Okay,” I said.

“We'll follow up after you've changed,” she said.

“Ah. Oh, okay. I have a lot to do today,” I said.

“It'll only take a second.”

“Right,” I said.

They moved off, the reporter calling, Sir! Sir! after one of the derivatives guys who'd made a hat of a paper cup with a chopstick jammed through it.

“Nicely done,” said a voice from behind me. I turned around. It was Ai Ai. Slick Lips was with him. They had on raincoats.

“Oh, there you are,” I said. “What's up with those?” They were wearing old-style red star liberation caps. They took off their raincoats to reveal identical olive-green Zhongshan suits with brown belts, like it was 1967 and they were off to a struggle session. They had the red patches on the collars, and Slick Lips's red armband read “Smash Running Dog Capitalists!” Copies of the Little Red Book peeked out of their chest pockets.

“You are fucking kidding me,” I said.

“Promote Mao Zedong thought!” Slick Lips screamed. I'm not exaggerating when I say every head on the trading floor turned his way. The cameraman's spotlight swung around, too, illuminating the two revolutionaries, casting long shadows behind them.

Ai Ai pulled out his copy of Mao's
Quotations
and, holding it aloft in a perfect revolutionary pose, screamed, “Let one hundred flowers bloom! Drive out the old and bring forth the new!” The veins in his neck bulged. His eyes were wild.

I thought the reporter was going to kill herself trying to get back across the office. Brother Kang tried to insinuate himself between her and the end of our row, but she dropped her shoulder and plowed through him. “Hey!” he said. His beard had come loose and was dangling from one ear. “You can't film that!”

It was too late. She was in Slick Lips's face with the microphone.

“Sir, are you an employee of Horizon Trading?”

“A proud worker, comrade,” he shouted.
Comrade
, being slang for gay, got the Hanfu guys around me snickering.

“Why aren't you wearing robes like everyone else?” the reporter asked.

“The Hanfu lifestylers are puppets of the Japanese government!” Slick Lips said.

The reporter leaned in closer. “You say the Hanfu lifestyle is a plot by the Japanese government?”

The guys next to me stopped snickering. One of them said, “Hey, now, that's unnecessary.”

Slick Lips answered the reporter. “My comrade and I are following Chairman Mao's instructions to seek truth from facts. True patriotism is rooted in liberation, not the imperial lifestyle! The Hanfu lifestyle is inauthentic. The Japanese wear the same robes, they just call them kimono! We've heard that the Japanese fully approve of the Hanfu lifestyle!” He looked around the trading floor. “Anyone who supports the imperial way of life is an imperialist!”

“Shut up,” someone yelled weakly from the direction of corporate bonds.

The reporter was beginning to piece it together. I could see it in her posture. “Ah. You're some of the famous angry youth?”

Ai Ai took this one. “We don't adhere to any platform except Chairman Mao's. We reject the imperialist jingoism of Hanfu. We follow the teachings of the Great Helmsman.”

“What do you hope to accomplish with your mode of dress?” she asked.

“We intend to stage a thought revolution!” Slick Lips screamed. “Who's with us?” He was waving his Little Red Book again. “Who will reject outmoded thought?” he shouted. It seemed louder this time, probably because it was directed at me.

I was still holding the rumpled Hanfu on my lap. I looked down at it, mostly to avoid my friend's eyes. The reporter took care of that.

“Mr. Zhang, you remain undecided. Who will you join?” she said. The microphone was under my mouth. I made a laughing sound.

“I don't think anyone really cares which side I join,” I said.

“Your colleague cares,” she said.

“Well, I don't know,” I said. “I'd have to hear both sides' arguments,” I mumbled into my chest.

“Would you consider a debate?” the reporter said, holding the microphone to Slick Lips's face.

“Ready and waiting,” Slick Lips said, saluting.

“Who will debate the Hanfu side, then?” the reporter said, looking around dramatically. She really knew what she was doing. “Mister Kang, what about you? You're the leader of the Hanfu movement at Horizon Trading.”

The camera was on Brother Kang. “We're not going to have a debate about this,” he yelled, throwing his hands up at the absurdity of such an idea. The reporter and the cameraman scrambled over to him. “I won't address it. These employees are just trying to stir up trouble. Horizon Trading does not sanction dressing up like Red Guards.”

“Horizon Trading only sanctions the Hanfu style of dress?” the reporter said.

“Horizon Trading doesn't sanction anything!” Brother Kang said. “We've chosen to show our national pride by wearing the Hanfu, and that's it.”