“I thought you were heading back to Toronto, Burton,” I said, in a perhaps somewhat snappish tone.
“I was, but I seem to have developed an aversion to the idea of going home empty-handed. I thought I’d see if there was something else I could purchase. The auction goes ahead tomorrow night as planned, minus one box, so I thought there might be something else. Courtney Cottingham pretty well gives me carte blanche as far as purchases are concerned.”
“And you thought Liulichang Street was the right place for museum-quality antiquities, did you?” I asked, voice dripping with disbelief.
“Not really,” he said. “But the auction does present a possibility or two.”
“I decided I’d go to the auction, too. I can’t get a flight for a day or two. Dr. Xie invited me for champagne as well, and perhaps young Mr. Knockoff will show up and we can sound the alarm.”
“Mr. Knockoff?”
“The fellow who was at Molesworth and Cox in New York, and who I think stole the box here. The fellow you can’t remember.”
“Hmmm. That would be something of a long shot,” Burton said. “I expect the thief knows better than to show up.”
“You never know,” I said. “How about we get a cup of tea? I’m finding it a bit cold now that the sun is going down.”
“Why not?” he said and we picked a little tea shop nearby. Once again, Burton ordered. I suppose it made sense, given he spoke the language, but I have a real aversion to men who order my food for me, particularly when they don’t ask me what I want.
“What have you been up to, Burton? Did you get your hand stuck in a car door or something?” I said. He’d taken off his mittens, and now was carefully peeling off one set of surgical gloves, and had another pristine pair waiting. I suppose he couldn’t possibly hold a tea cup with the same pair he’d worn in the street.
“What?” he said.
“Your nails look bruised. Both hands, actually. Hard labor, perhaps?”
“They do look a little blue, don’t they? But no, I can’t recall having them smashed or anything. I’m sure I’d remember it.” He quickly put his fingers in the new gloves. I noticed he didn’t remove his sunglasses.
I didn’t believe him, but there didn’t seem to be much point in pressing him on the subject. There was so much about Burton’s behavior that was perplexing, to say nothing of just plain annoying. “What are you doing?” I asked as the waiter brought the tea, a pot, and cup for each of us. Burton had fished a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket, and was dipping a tea bag into the single pot.
“I’ve brought my own tea,” he said. “I ordered Chinese green tea for you and hot water for me.”
“That tea of yours stinks, I’d have to say.” Perhaps it didn’t actually stink, but it sure overpowered the delicate scent of my green tea.
“It does smell a little strong, but it’s very efficacious,” he said. “Fights bacteria, keeps the blood running properly, eliminates blockages in the qi. You would get used to the strong flavor, and it would do you a world of good.”
I was tempted to say that when it wasn’t eliminating blockages in the qi it could probably be used to clear clogged drains, but I restrained myself. Instead, I returned to a more important subject, first tucking into one of the scrumptious custard tarts he’d also ordered, although he wasn’t eating them himself. I might have to concede that it had not been such a bad idea for him to order on my behalf if this is what I got. “What are you planning to do tomorrow?” I said. “Just the auction?”
“Probably. I’ll take it easy during the day, maybe visit the hotel’s fitness room. You can’t use a trip as an excuse not to keep in shape, you know. Then I’ll go to the auction and see you there.”
He didn’t do that either. At this point, I was starting to take these lies of his personally, and was therefore ready for them. I’d given him ample opportunity over tea to confess what he was doing. He’d chosen not to do so. That fast led me to the conclusion that he was not just an eccentric genius of overweening ambition, but essentially a slug.
The next morning, I watched as he scanned the lobby quickly when he got off the elevator, probably looking for me. I was strategically placed behind a potted palm, and had been just about to give up and move on when he appeared. Once he got going, though, he moved fast, out the door and into a cab in a matter of seconds. I took the next one in line and followed him, which takes some doing in Beijing traffic, but the driver managed it once he understood what I wanted, thanks to the hotel doorman who didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked for his translation services. Burton headed north and west from our hotel, skirting the north end of the Forbidden City, but after that we began to wend our way from street to street and I got hopelessly lost. My only consolation was that I had a card from our hotel with its name in Chinese, so at least I could get back. Finally, the cab ahead stopped and Burton got out. After giving him a minute’s head start, I did the same.
We were on a lively street, lined with gnarled old trees and many shops. It was crowded, which made it difficult to keep him in view, but it also afforded me some protection once again, necessary given he and I were the only non-Chinese on the street. He never looked back, but occasionally looked up to read the signs or numbers on the shops or peered in the windows, as if he were looking for something specific. There were no antique stores around that I could see, which begged the question, Why were we here? I had a sudden crisis of conscience, thinking I might have been wrong about him. Maybe he was visiting some Chinese herbalist for a consultation on the state of his health, or for another supply of vile-smelling tea. I mean, what would I say if he looked behind him and there I was?
Rather abruptly, Burton turned into a little grocery store. I stood across the street and waited for him to come out, but after several minutes, he hadn’t. Finally I followed him in. He wasn’t there. I’d lost him, although I couldn’t figure out how I’d managed to do so. I wished I could ask someone, but of course I couldn’t.
Annoyed, I turned to go, and almost tripped over a tiny old woman who was sitting by the door. She had a lovely face, deeply wrinkled but beautiful. She also had teeny little feet. I was appalled, my feminist hackles rising. Technically, foot binding in China had been outlawed in 1911, and I never thought I’d ever see someone with bound feet. Bound feet were often referred to as “golden lilies,” and the perfect foot an appalling three or four inches. Despite being outlawed, the practice probably went on in the country long after 1911, and it took the Communist Party, when it took over in 1949, to put an absolute close to this revolting practice. This woman clearly predated that time. I apologized, although I’m sure she couldn’t understand a word I said. But I smiled at her, and she smiled back, several teeth missing. Then she gestured toward the back of the shop.
At first I thought she wanted me to buy something, but then I noticed a rough wooden door at the back of the shop. The woman had assumed that a white woman on her own was almost inevitably looking for a white guy, and was pointing me in the right direction. My crisis of conscience was over: if Burton was sneaking out back doors, he was up to something. I planned to see what he did this time. And so, like Alice in Wonderland, I stepped through the door and into another world.