“What about—?”
“Please don’t give me the argument about buyers and collectors encouraging looting. The Chinese government urges its citizens to get out there and collect Chinese art and antiquities. If anything is encouraging looting, that is it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let me put my feelings on this subject another way. If I found out you were trying to smuggle something out of the country, I would report you in a flash. Despite what you say, I believe the penalties here have become quite harsh for exporting something of real cultural significance, which this arguably is, particularly when it’s been stolen. The death penalty, isn’t it?”
He paled. He should have, too, because people have in fact been executed for smuggling fossils out of China. “How do I know you won’t find it and not tell me?” he said, after he managed to compose himself.
“You don’t. I’m just giving you my word that I will play fair here. Personally, I think I’m the one taking the greater risk.”
He thought about it all for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Deal. Let’s shake on it.”
We shook, my bare hands to his surgical gloves. “Do you want some tea?” he said, gesturing toward a rather complicated bit of tea paraphernalia and a box of some kind of tea that I didn’t recognize. “I’ve brewed a pot. This one helps remove blockages of the qi.”
Once again, it smelled like drain cleaner. I declined. “What is that thing?” I asked, pointing at a small cylindrically shaped machine of some kind that was humming away rather noisily.
“It’s an air filter,” he said.
“You travel with an air filter?” I asked incredulously.
“I do,” he said. “Dual voltage, of course, with a set of international plugs so I can use it anywhere. The same goes for my tea kettle. You can’t count on a hotel to have them in the rooms, and anyway, who knows who’s used them and what they put in them.”
“You travel with an air filter,” I repeated.
“What’s your point?” he asked in a peevish tone.
“No point, I guess.”
“It’s flu season. Everyone is coming back from Asia with these horrible bronchial conditions.”
“I see. I’ll try not to do that. To get back to the real point of this conversation: where are we going next?” I asked.
“Panjiayuan Market,” he said. “Do you know it? It’s south and east of here. It’s big, so we’ll go tomorrow morning and spend a good part of the day if we have to.”
“Let’s go together,” I said, determined not to let him out of my sight. “I’ll meet you in the lobby whenever you say.”
“Good. We’ll share a cab. No, wait. I have an appointment for a therapeutic massage first thing. Spot of tummy trouble I want to get under control. It’s on the way. I think the market opens early, but why don’t we meet there at nine thirty. Does that work for you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll meet you there. We can divide it up and get it done in half the time. I’ll bring my copy of the photograph, and I’ll get myself lots of cards from the hotel, and just put my name on them.”
“Get the taxi driver to take you to the antique section, not the curio part of the market. I’ll meet you there. We’ll stick close together. If you have language difficulties, I won’t be far away.” I wanted to say that I was perfectly aware that the reason he wanted me close was not to help me with his Chinese, but to keep an eye on me at all times. That suited me just fine. I wanted to keep tabs on him, too. I also wanted to ask him what he was doing talking to the man in black, but that would have meant letting him know I’d been following him. I thought it best not to do that, given that at the moment I appeared to have the upper hand, ethically speaking, no matter how undeserving I might be. He hadn’t mentioned that he knew I was following him, which either meant he hadn’t seen me, or that he was being as cagey on that subject as I was.
We didn’t talk about our arrangement again that day. In fact, we were not to talk about it ever again. I did see him at the auction, however. There was a good crowd, which included Mira Tetford, who said working on this project with me had gotten her interested in Chinese art, something she was sure was going to cost her money. I told her there was no turning back.
The bidding was fierce. I had to admit, painful though it might be, that Burton was right about one thing: most of the bidders were Chinese, young, ostentatiously dressed, and doubtless buying for themselves, not a museum. Dr. Xie was the oldest bidder in the room. He was also the high bidder for the folio, paying an astounding three million dollars U.S. That went a long way to explaining why the mystery seller had decided to move the box to Beijing from New York. He or she would definitely be doing better here than in New York. I did think about bidding on some lovely porcelain, but Burton, who saw that I was about to put in a bid, stopped me. “Not worth it,” he said. Again, he was probably right. Mira, however, did bid, and managed to acquire a very lovely nineteenth-century painting with advice from both Dr. Xie and Burton. She was thrilled.
Dr. Xie was determined to celebrate his acquisition, and celebrate it we did. It was not quite the quiet glass or two of fine champagne that I’d been expecting. Rather it was a sumptuous party at his penthouse apartment. Once again, the view over the Forbidden City and the lights of central Beijing was spectacular. The apartment was gorgeous, all gold and blue, with silk carpets everywhere, and very beautiful hand-carved furniture. The art was breathtaking. I could have spent days there examining every piece. There was a cabinet of Shang bronzes, beautiful porcelain, lacquerware, and jade objects that were just exquisite, and some gold and silver objects as well. He had an entire glass cabinet filled with T’ang dynasty funerary objects, terra-cotta figures of horses and camels and riders, servants, and soldiers, glazed in yellow and green. I almost forgot to drink my champagne.
Dr. Xie was particularly fond of his collection of scrolls and folios. A nicely masculine den with dark furniture had almost every square inch of wall covered with beautiful scrolls. He joined me in that room. “You have an extraordinary collection, Dr. Xie,” I said. “I heard about the collection you donated in Canada, but I haven’t had a chance to see it yet. If it is half as beautiful as this, then the museum is indeed fortunate to have it.”
He acknowledged the compliment modestly. “I’ve been very successful both here and in Canada, and happy to have found a way to share that. I admit I’ve become somewhat addicted to collecting. Eventually I will give all of this to a museum, but I want to enjoy it myself for now. Shall I show you where I’m going to put the folio I just purchased?”
I followed him to a sort of antechamber off the den. In it was a glass case, humidity and light controlled. “This is where it will go, my little sanctuary,” he said. “Now I must join my other guests. Dinner will be served shortly.”
I was admiring the T’ang funerary figures in the living room one more time when it occurred to me that as lovely as they were, not one piece in the cabinet, and possibly the entire apartment, could really hold a candle to a set of nesting silver caskets, not because the figures in front of me weren’t absolutely top-notch, because they were, but because there was something very special about the boxes. Every now and then, there are pieces of art that somehow capture our imagination, because they encapsulate an age, perhaps, or because there is a story attached to them that continues to have resonance for us, or because they carry some symbolism that is profound. Art like this can move us deeply. Yes, the funerary figures in front of me were particularly lovely, and undoubtedly authentic. Yes, the workmanship was superb. Yes, both the funerary figures and the boxes dated to the same era and chances were both had come from a T’ang tomb. Somehow, though, the silver boxes with the rather poignant, indeed hopeful, formula for the elixir of immortality stood head and shoulders above the rest. Burton was right. It was just that kind of antiquity that a museum like the Cottingham would want to have as the anchor piece for its Asian galleries. Any museum would.