The left third of the paper was covered with grasses and rocks, some in shadow, some seeming to glow backlit in sun. Cicadas dotted them. You could almost hear their rhythmic singing on the hot, peaceful afternoon. They didn’t react in any way to the fierce tiger clawing the center of the page while his ferocious face half-entered the painting from the right. Three rows of Chinese characters, written vertically in the old style, occupied the space above the tiger’s head. I saw Jack’s eyes widen and wasn’t sure whether that response was from Q. X. Lin or Jack Lee.
“Well,” Doug Haig spoke with satisfaction, “Ms. Chin, I see you’re impressed, anyway. Dr. Lin, do you like it?”
“Quite amazing,” Jack said, sounding as though he meant it. “Control of line, sharpness where brush lifts from page—see here?—black of ink, fierceness of eyes of tiger. Extraordinary.” He leaned close, then stood up again. “Is possible I may see others?”
Of course it was possible. Doug Haig slid them out one by one. A stream rushing down a mountainside in great clouds of mist; plum blossoms on a tree limb echoed by a few fallen to the ground; and the willow branch and wren that had started it all. The paintings each had lines of Chinese verse on them, sometimes tucked in the corner, other times blazoned across the top. I cocked my head to read them—nature poems, all, with themes of courage, loneliness, resolve—while Jack moved back and forth along the table, scrutinizing one painting, then another, leaning down, then stepping back for a longer view. Done with the poems, I examined the images also, knowing little about what I was looking at, except for two things: the tightly controlled brushstrokes in the wild, idiosyncratic compositions gave the paintings a tension and an exhilarating energy; and though I’d only seen real Chaus briefly online during my research, these paintings looked just like those.
“Mr. Haig,” Jack said, after a long silence. “These paintings, astonishing. May I ask, where do you get them?”
“They came to me from a client,” Haig blithely lied. “He’s not a collector. The paintings were left to him at the death of a relative. He’d like to sell them if they’re worth anything.”
“Worth anything?” Jack peered at the willow-and-wren painting once more. “If real Chaus, among most accomplished, impressive work of Chau. Mature period, probably painted close to time Chau died. But Mr. Haig. Verses here, by Liu Mai-ke. Who puts?”
“Liu Mai-ke?” Haig mangled the Chinese so badly he was temporarily unable to understand himself. “Who—that poet? Anna Yang’s husband? The one who’s in prison?”
“Yes, dissident, in prison. Married to American artist, daughter of Professor Bernard Yang Ji-tong. Anna Yang her name?” He looked at me and I nodded. Back to Haig: “You don’t know, these his poems? Oh, my apology. I thought you can read Chinese.” A smarmily superior smile. “Mr. Haig, who puts Liu poems on Chaus?”
“I—I don’t know. But does it matter?” Haig had gone from ashen to an angry flush, but Jack’s “Chaus”—not alleged Chaus, not putative Chaus—hadn’t escaped him and he recovered fast. “But it’s an old Chinese tradition, adding poems to paintings.”
“Yes, goes back to Yuan Dynasty. Starts as protest against barbarian invaders.” Again, Jack stared straight at Haig.
Haig chose to ignore the “barbarian” reference. “Perhaps the original owner was an admirer of Liu’s.” Damn right she was. “I can’t see that the poems will affect the value of the paintings, though. If they’re real, I mean.”
“On contrary. In China, you, me, her, even him”—jabbing a thumb at Woo—“all detained, security officers find this. But here in West,” Jack went on before Woo could protest his inclusion in the mass arrest, “Liu poems add to value. Dissident poet, dissident painter—if Chaus real, Western collector eats up. Right expression?” He looked over his glasses at me. “‘Eats up’? ”
“Yes, Q. X., that’s right. He’s practicing his slang,” I explained to Haig, “for when he gets a chance at a long stay in the U.S. He has a job offer from Oberlin College, you know.”
“Yes, long stay. Maybe professor, Oberlin College. In Ohio,” Jack muttered, gazing at the arching willow branches and the singing wren. He looked up. “Mr. Haig, you understand, this exact period, my field? Of course, don’t want put myself forward, just small scholar of Inner Mongolia.” Which he managed to make sound less remote than “Ohio.” “But possible, I can be of service, help you and client. If you allow me?”
“Allow you? Dr. Lin, let me understand—are you offering to appraise these paintings?” Haig’s innocent surprise would have done credit to Shirley Temple.
“If would be useful to you,” Jack said gravely.
“It would be exceedingly useful. My client and I would be very, very grateful.”
Jack said nothing.
“Of course,” Haig hurried on, “you’d have to permit me to compensate you for your trouble. And also, the minute I find out these paintings are real—if they are—the burden on me will increase tenfold, as we said earlier. I’ll need that expert we were talking about, need him right away.”
“Ah,” Jack said. “Of course. Well, just let me look little while longer. Just need few more minutes, be sure.”
“Sure?” Haig’s voice had risen a whole register. I almost laughed.
“Impossible, of course, be totally sure, anything in this world,” Jack retreated. “Looking now, things to say, definitely not Chau. Don’t find, well…”
“Yes, of course. Please, take your time,” Haig said, so obviously meaning the opposite that even Woo snickered.
Jack leaned down once more, this time over the waterfall painting. Haig’s eyes stayed riveted on him as though he were afraid Jack was a mirage and might evaporate. Woo and I sat silent, on the edge of our respective chairs.
We all jumped when the phone rang.
Jack raised an offended eyebrow at this infringement on his concentration. Haig, scowling, spun to the desk and grabbed the receiver. “What, Nick? I said not—what? Who is?” He listened briefly, then smiled. “No, Nick, you don’t know what deal he’s talking about, because I didn’t tell you. Well, how delicious. By all means, send him back.” He hung up, gave me a special, slimy wink, and announced, “We have a visitor. I’m sure you won’t mind, Dr. Lin. This will be very interesting.” A moment later we heard Caitlin’s timid knock, and after Haig’s barked “Come!” the door opened to admit Dr. Bernard Yang.
23
His clenched jaw broadcasting equal parts determination and fury, Dr. Yang took one step in and stopped short, apparently unprepared for the population explosion in Doug Haig’s office. Haig waved Caitlin away and, all relaxed geniality, held out welcoming arms to the professor. “Dr. Yang! It’s an honor, sir. Please, please, come in.”
“Mr. Haig. I’ve come about our … business. But perhaps this is not a good time.” Dr. Yang seemed to take a tighter grip on the portfolio he held.
“No, it’s an excellent time. To receive a scholar as prominent as yourself? A perfect time. Dr. Yang, you probably already know Dr. Lin, from China?” Haig didn’t even attempt “Qiao-xiang.”
Without missing a beat, Jack bowed low, and Dr. Yang, in reflex, bowed also. Bent over, Jack said, “Have not yet had pleasure, meet reknowned Dr. Bernard Yang.” Slowly, he straightened. Dr. Yang straightened also, looked at Jack, and frowned. I realized I was holding my breath. “Lin Qiao-xiang,” said Jack, his voice about as nasal and accented as he could make it without sounding like Mr. Moto. “From Central University in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia.”