“I see. All very interesting. And Dr. Yang, you’re offering to do what? Consign the painting to me? On what terms?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t expect you to agree to anything as fair as a consignment. No, I’ll give it to you. In exchange for these.”
“Well.” Haig rubbed his chins. “Well. A true, unknown Chau. Authenticated by two major experts.” He looked at Jack, who nodded quickly. “If handled correctly, I imagine it could bring upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars.” He looked from the carp painting to the others. “Oh,” he said, as though a thought had occurred to him, “but these can be authenticated, too. Can’t they?” Again, he looked at Jack. Jack swallowed, threw a quick look at Dr. Yang, and nodded again.
“They are not Chaus!” Dr. Yang barked.
“So you say,” Haig answered equably. “Another expert says otherwise. And there are four of them. Not quite as good, but still, with proper attribution, they’ll be worth close to two million together. I’m not sure the bargain is a good one, Dr. Yang.”
Dr. Yang ground his jaw, making the vein in his forehead pop again. “Mr. Haig,” he said quietly, “your greed doesn’t surprise me. I was prepared for it, though I suppose I’d hoped to find it less boundless than it appears. Consider this: One painting authenticated by Dr. Lin and myself will be worth a good deal more than four authenticated by Dr. Lin alone and challenged by me. Challenged also by the painter, my daughter, who, I must tell you, is prepared to sacrifice her career rather than allow you to commit this despicable crime. Since this situation is to some extent her fault, not for making the paintings but for failing to grasp the dangers of people’s greed and malevolence, I’m prepared to permit her that sacrifice. However, if we can find another answer, that would be preferable.” The professor slipped his hand into the portfolio again and brought out another painting.
On a page laid vertically, a path wound through pine trees and floating mists to a craggy peak. At the mountain’s foot a river rushed, and on its banks stood a tiny figure, staring upstream. The three or four brushstrokes of which he was made created a palpable sense of longing. I read the poem, about yearning to see the spring in the poet’s hometown, far away, and was surprised to find my eyes as misty as the mountain.
Haig had no such reaction. What filled his eyes were dollar signs. He practically broke into a happy dance when Dr. Yang brought out a third painting, this one so traditional in subject even I recognized it: The Three Friends of Winter. Curving branches of pine, plum, and bamboo swept across the page, the leaves of each delicately mounded with snow. Three Friends paintings are always about persistence and endurance, but the poem was about standing in the snow alone after bidding an exiled friend a last farewell.
Haig, after a long look at these paintings, didn’t ask either expert about them. His only question, with almost comical inevitability, was, “How many more are there?”
Dr. Yang shook his head. “There are no more.” He lifted the top board of the portfolio. We could all see it was empty. “I brought three from China. There are no more.”
“And you’ve been hiding them all these years. You bad boy.” Haig smiled. “Now the world will get a chance to see them. How wonderful. Professor, I believe we do, after all, have a deal.”
* * *
Jack and I left Baxter/Haig soon after Dr. Yang brought out the last painting. Jack hailed the first cab he saw. It happened to be going in the wrong direction, but I was right there with him. As the cab sped around the block I threw myself back on the seat and kicked off my shoes. “What was he thinking? Three Chaus, in Doug Haig’s hands?”
“Well, he read Haig right on that: One wouldn’t have done it.”
“I almost had a coronary! I thought you said he was with the program.”
“I thought he was.”
“And now he’s freelancing, too.” I rooted through my bag, then stopped to ask Jack, “Hey. You think we got away with it?”
“With Haig and Woo, yes. Who knows what was going on in Dr. Yang’s head—who ever does, witness the three paintings—but what would he gain by ratting us out?”
“He wouldn’t have Lin to worry about?”
“He’s better off if Haig does believe in Lin. He said it himself, two experts are better than one.”
I found my cell phone. “I’m calling Bill. And then I’m calling my client. If they all start doing improv this isn’t going to be easy.”
I did call Bill, brought him up to speed.
“Holy cow,” he said. “Three?”
“I don’t know what was more beautiful,” I said. “The paintings, or Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang trying to ad lib around them.”
By the time I got off the phone with Bill the cab was nearing Jack’s office, so I put off the other call. “You’ve been quiet,” I said to Jack. He’d taken off the glasses and run his hand through his hair, spiking up Dr. Lin’s prissy man bangs. “Are you about to say something serious? Because the mustache is a problem.”
“I can’t take it off without solvent, so deal with it. No, just thinking.”
“About what?”
“The paintings.”
“It’s a shame,” I said. “Three new Chaus, falling into those hands.”
“Three new Chaus,” he nodded. “It sure is.”
24
I paid the cabbie and we climbed the stairs to Jack’s office. “The new window’s not bad,” I said, seeing it for the first time. “Trim all painted and everything.”
“The new window stinks. My entire fee for this case is going for a real one.”
“You think you’re getting paid? By Dr. Yang?”
“He gave me a retainer. Damn lucky, because you’re probably right, I shouldn’t expect anything else.”
“He might even sue you,” I said cheerfully. “To get the retainer back.”
I called my client while Jack went off to the bathroom to use his solvent.
“Ms. Chin!” Dennis Jerrold was cautiously eager as ever. “News?”
“Yes, Mr. Jerrold. Things have changed. We need a meeting.”
“What’s wrong? Are the Chaus about to be unveiled?”
“No. The good news for you is, it looks like the fake Chaus with Mike Liu’s poems on them won’t be shown at all.”
“That is good news. In fact, it’s terrific and it’s better than I expected. So why do I get the feeling I’m not supposed to celebrate?”
“Don’t pop the champagne yet. As I said, things have changed. There are three real Chaus that just turned up, and they will be shown.”
“Oh. You’re right, that’s not great. Turned up from where?”
“I can’t tell you that. But they’re real, they’re authenticated, and they’re going on the market. However, I think I can still do right by you.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
I repeated, “We need a meeting.”
Bill showed up at Jack’s office twenty minutes later. I buzzed him in and met him at the door.
“Am I in time?”
“Plenty,” I said. “Jerrold will be here in half an hour.”
“Not for that. To see Jack’s outfit.”
“The outfit, yes,” said Jack, coming out of the bathroom in black jeans and a white Oxford shirt. His wet hair was combed back and his face showed every sign of being freshly scrubbed. He pointed to the padded jacket and discount pants hanging over a chair.
“That’s all I get?”
“Can get accent also.” Jack bowed, speaking in Lin’s nasal tones. “Small scholar of Hohhot does not wish to disappoint.”
“He was great,” I told Bill.
“Vass he chust as great as Vladimir Oblomov, do you tink?”
“Oblomov, forgive me say so, but is coarse man,” Jack said. “Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang, much more refined.”