Ghost Hero (30 page)

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.”

“Dr. Lin,” Dr. Yang answered after a pause. “I’ve heard of you, of course.”

“This old friend, Lydia Chin,” Jack said, indicating me.

“Dr. Yang and I have met, Q. X.,” I told Jack. “An unexpected pleasure to see you here, Professor.”

“Unexpected, yes.” Dr. Yang glanced from me to Jack again. “What exactly is—”

“Dr. Lin and I were just looking over some paintings,” Haig said. “Perhaps you’d like to see them, also?”

Jack cooperatively stepped away, which put him out of Dr. Yang’s line of sight. I wanted to catch Jack’s eyes behind Dr. Yang’s back but I was afraid to. Then I realized that at that moment we could have had a shouting match about anything we wanted right out in the open. When Jack moved, Dr. Yang had caught sight of what was on the table, and he’d lost all interest in us.

The professor leaned over the paintings, moving from one to another, his face draining of color as he examined them. Of course, I thought; this is the first time he’s seen them, seen the quality of his daughter’s work. Doug Haig’s face, on the other hand, was suffused with a gloating joy so powerful I wanted to break a chair over his head. “These are the paintings I was telling you about,” he said casually to Dr. Yang. “The Chaus.”

Dr. Yang slowly straightened up and took a step closer to the triumphant mound of flesh that was Doug Haig. In a dark and quiet voice he said, “These are not Chaus.”

“Really? I’m surprised to hear you say that. Considering what Nick told me about your willingness to … reopen yesterday’s discussion. Also, considering what Dr. Lin said about these paintings.”

Not that Dr. Lin had actually said it yet, but Haig turned confidently to Jack.

“Don’t like to contradict eminent scholar,” Jack said, looking away from Dr. Yang as though embarrassed by his own effrontery. “But my belief, paintings are Chaus.”

“They are not.”

“Your belief, Dr. Lin?” prompted Haig.

“My opinion.” Jack spoke more strongly. “Professional, academic opinion.”

“Which Dr. Lin, as my consultant, will be putting in writing,” Haig assured Dr. Yang. “So while you’re welcome in the gallery anytime, of course, Professor, it turns out you needn’t have troubled yourself to come here today. In fact, unless you’re interested in the art once we have it on exhibit”—he pointed at Anna’s paintings— “you don’t need to bother to come back. Ever.” Haig gave the professor a smile he must have stolen from the Cheshire cat’s evil twin.

The vein I’d seen pulsing in Dr. Yang’s forehead yesterday was pounding away now. “I’d like to speak to you privately, Mr. Haig.”

“Yes,” Jack said, “can see you have many private thing to discuss. I must be getting to next meeting now, also. Mr. Haig, tomorrow maybe will call you—”

“No,” said Haig. “Dr. Lin, you’ve only just met your distinguished colleague. You two must have so much to talk about, I won’t hear of your leaving. Dr. Yang, whatever you have to say, I’m sure Dr. Lin will be utterly fascinated. Please, speak freely.”

It was like being at a train wreck; I couldn’t turn away. I had the sense that Dr. Yang, if he’d known a martial art, would be practicing it on Doug Haig as the rest of us watched.

“All right,” he said icily, eyes still on Haig. “Dr. Lin, I believe what I’ve brought will interest you, too.” He gestured to the table and waited. Jack, quicker to catch on than the rest of us, started to replace Anna’s paintings in their portfolio to clear a space. Haig gave a strangled gurgle and almost slapped Jack’s hand. With great ceremony, handling them delicately by their edges, he placed the paintings on the far side of the table where they were out of the way but still visible. Dr. Yang didn’t spare Haig a glance, just waited until he was done. Then he laid down the portfolio he’d brought, unzipped it, and from its inner cardboard folder pulled another ink painting.

The paper, with a fine toothed surface, was the same as Anna’s. The pure black ink, powerfully thick or delicately thin, or soft gray wash where the artist wanted it to be, looked identical. The meticulously controlled brushstrokes created exactly the same tension with the wild composition. The painting’s subject, three large carp peering up through the water under a bridge, and the accompanying poem about flashes of silver and gold as fish jump and return to the same spot in the everchanging stream, put it in the same nature-metaphor category. But it wasn’t the same.

Anna’s paintings were undeniably beautiful. Next to this, though, they seemed childish, naïve. Her lines and forms had an arbitrary quality I wouldn’t have understood if I hadn’t seen this painting, where every stroke of ink was the right one, nothing was missing, and nothing was extra.

“This,” said Dr. Yang, in his hard, quiet voice, “is a Chau.”

Haig stared. Jack and I stared. Even Woo was out of his chair, tilting his head to see this wonder. No one moved or spoke until finally, with a grunt, Woo sat back down again. He resumed slurping, proving that in the face of the miraculous the world does go on.

Haig, as though unable to believe what was happening, said, “Dr. Lin?”

Jack looked up at him, nodded, looked back down. “Would have to examine, of course. But can be almost no question. Amazing. So skillful, so accomplished. Chau, but even better than any known. As though … Dr. Yang, where this comes from?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Dr. Yang dismissed the question, and Jack. His eyes riveted to Haig’s, he said, “It’s a Chau and I’ll authenticate it.”

“I also!” Jack said, the man from Hohhot suddenly seeing his year in America slipping away. “After examine, of course.”

“Well.” Haig folded his arms over his balloon belly. “Well. Dr. Yang, how do I know this is truly a Chau?”

“Dr. Lin just said it was. Isn’t that enough for you? Although I suppose it’s reasonable to mistrust his judgment, since a moment ago he was prepared to authenticate my daughter’s paintings as Chaus.” He spoke with disgust, including in it both Jack and Haig, and probably me, too. Not Woo; he was beneath the professor’s contempt.

Dr. Yang’s scorn rolled right off Haig, whose supercilious air didn’t change. Jack, the offended academic, widened his eyes and began to protest. “My daughter’s,” Dr. Yang repeated firmly. “They’re very good. But they’re not Chaus.” I almost smiled. Even under the circumstances, the father can’t resist praising the daughter. “There are differences. A real expert could tell you.” Quick, angry glance at Jack. “The control of the quantity of ink on the brush, to keep a line solid or break it up, as the artist chooses. The change of brushstroke angle around the sweep of a curve. If all that’s too subtle for you, Mr. Haig, you can look to the poem. This, here, is Chau’s calligraphy. That’s Liu Mai-ke’s, my daughter’s husband’s, as is the poem, though it was put there by my daughter in imitation of Liu’s hand. Chau uses poems by classical masters, as he always did. This poem is by Wang Wei. But I’m sure you can see that.”

I was sure Haig couldn’t, and I was sure the professor knew that, too. I was tempted to give Haig a pass, though. I could read the Chinese, but my classical education was so poor I couldn’t have told Wang Wei from Liu Mai-ke. Or, for that matter, from A. A. Milne.

“Yes, all right,” Haig said, not even pretending to study the painting. “And you’ll say all that? When you authenticate it?”

“I’ve brought a letter.”

Haig seemed to try to put the brakes on, to think about this miracle the way he would any transaction. “What’s the painting’s provenance?”

“It’s from my personal collection. It was painted the year Chau died. I brought it with me from China. That, too, is in the letter.”

“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.”