The Chinese Alchemist (3 page)

In flu season, he augmented his scarf with a surgical mask. When Toronto was hit with the horrible SARS outbreak, he called in sick, holed himself up in his Victorian townhouse in the Annex neighborhood, and didn’t come out until the all clear had been sounded. Mind you, the all clear was sounded a little prematurely, which probably brought Burton to the brink of mental collapse, given that he’d ventured abroad too soon. Somehow he survived. We all speculated that he must have had quite the supply of food stashed away to outlast the germs. He most certainly wouldn’t have been calling for pizza delivery.

Despite this, or possibly because of it, Burton seemed to be sick more often than average. He always seemed to have a cough or the sniffles, a headache or some tummy upset.

Sick or well, though, Burton knew his stuff. He was intent upon building up the T’ang dynasty collection at the Cottingham, and while Dory had had to tell me the silver box was T’ang, Burton headed straight for it. There was none of the pretend-I’m-not-interested approach of many buyers at auction previews. Under the watchful eye of a Molesworth & Cox staff person, Burton picked it up—he was allowed to do that given he was wearing gloves—and scarcely concealed his glee. It was not until he had examined it in minute detail through a magnifying glass, as I had done a few minutes earlier, that he noticed me.

“Lara!” he said. “What a pleasure.” For once, Burton looked to be in better shape than I was, the picture of health, in fact: just the right amount of tan for the fall that said he got enough sun, but not too much, and a general spring in his step. I, on the other hand, was nursing a cold, and had been for a couple of weeks. It was more nuisance than anything else at this stage, and something I attributed to stale hotel air, but I couldn’t shake it, and continued to blow my nose at regular intervals. Feeling this way also made me grumpy, and seeing someone I was not fond of in such glowing health was something of an annoyance.

Needless to say, Burton did not extend his hand for a polite handshake, my having managed to sneeze twice since I entered the room. He may have had gloves on, but I didn’t. He spoke a bit loudly, as he had the habit of standing well away from those to whom he spoke. Someone must have told him that germs could travel no more than six feet because that was about how far away from me he’d placed himself. He would have had a rather trying time at those cocktail receptions the Cottingham threw for high-end donors.

“Something special you’re looking at?” he went on.

“The same thing you are, I expect,” I said.

“The cloisonne vase, you mean?” he said, coyly.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Oh, ho,” he said in a jovial tone. “McClintoch and Swain are aiming for a wealthier clientele, are they? I hate to tell you, but this one starts well into six figures.”

“The cloisonne vase?” I said. “That would be a little high, wouldn’t it?” I had him there. He was tripping over his own lies.

“I know you’re after the silver
coffret a bijoux”
he said. If there is a fancy term for anything, in this case French for “jewelry case,” Burton was almost certain to use it. “You can’t fool me. And you can’t afford it either.”

“Quite right, Burton. Under normal circumstances I couldn’t, but I’m buying for a client, I’m happy to say. It’s somebody else’s money, so it’s no problem.” In fact I had half a million dollars of Dory’s money in a trust account, although I promised her I’d spend as little of it as I could.

“I see,” he said. “Still, I rather suspect that you won’t have the resources of the Cottingham estate. I hope you won’t be too disappointed if I get it. It’s better that way in any event. It’s a public institution and far more people will have the opportunity to enjoy it. It will be the anchor piece of our Asian galleries. You know that is what the Cottingham tries to do, to have at least one piece of international importance in each of its galleries. Now we’ll have Lingfei.”

I knew about anchor pieces all right. I’d nearly been killed over one of the museum’s so-called anchor pieces, a twenty-something-thousand-year-old mammoth ivory carving called The Magyar Venus, although what this Lingfei business was about I had no idea. “My client plans to donate it to a worthy museum,” I said. It is possible I put just the slightest emphasis on the word “worthy.” Haldimand was starting to get up my sore nose.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me the name of your client,” he said, seemingly oblivious to my slight.

“No, I don’t suppose I would,” I said.

“The rules applying to auction houses with regard to revealing that information would not really apply to you, you know,” he said.

“How exactly is that relevant here, Burton?” I replied. “My client wishes to remain anonymous, and I’m not going to tell you.”

“Well then, may the best man win,” he said. He sounded supremely confident. In retaliation, I took two germ-ridden steps toward him and stuck out my hand. He blanched, sort of waved in my general direction, flung his azure scarf over his shoulder and hurried away. “See you Thursday evening,” he called out from a safe distance. “I hope you’re feeling better. You should do something about that cold, you know. I’d suggest ginseng tea. You need to bolster your immune system.”

“I’ve been taking echinacea,” I said. Actually, my favorite cold remedy is a warm whiskey with honey and lemon at bedtime, but I didn’t think Burton would be impressed.

He was not impressed by echinacea either, waving his hand in a disparaging gesture. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.

If you were familiar with the medical classic of the Yellow Emperor, you would know that your illness results from a disharmony of
qi.
You don’t treat a formed illness. Rather you treat the unformed illness. In other words, you work to prevent illness, not treat it after you’re sick. You have to say yes to good health.“

“I’m sure you’re right, Burton,” I said. Personally I thought that what I needed was to be the successful bidder for the silver box. I might still have a cold, but I wouldn’t care, and I would certainly feel better than he did, no matter how harmonious his qi. That and being able to move back home safely would add years to my life.

“Then farewell, my concubine,” he said, blowing a kiss in my general direction.

“In your dreams, Burton,” I replied, and heard his chuckle. It was difficult to think of Burton with a close companion. All those germs!

“Do you have any idea who that Yellow Emperor is?” I said to the representative of Molesworth & Cox, a young man by the name of Justin who was accompanying me while I assessed the merchandise.

“Absolutely no clue,” Justin replied. “But if you’re interested in immortality, perhaps I can help you.”

I gave him a baleful glance. “A little joke, there,” he said. “There’s actually a formula for the elixir of immortality written in this box. You need a magnifying glass to read it, assuming you even know how to read Chinese. Let me go and get you the translation, just for fun.”

He did just that, giving me a copy for my records. It did indeed contain a recipe. Apparently the elixir of immortality contains potable gold, realgar, cinnabar, salt, and powdered oyster shells.

“I’m sorry to say there are no details on the proportions of the ingredients, or instructions as to how to take it,” Justin chuckled. I could have told him: you heat it in a sealed container for thirty-six hours and then take it for seven days. That information, according to Dory, was to be found in the box in her husband George’s collection. This was indeed a very interesting collection of boxes. “Don’t know about the potable gold. It seems too bad to drink it when you could wear it instead,” he added, pulling up his shirt cuff to reveal a very impressive gold watch.

“Cinnabar,” I said. “I know what that is. Lovely red color, but when you heat it you get some form of mercury.”

“And realgar is arsenic,” Justin said. “I asked.”

“So I guess if you actually mix this up and take it for any length of time you’re almost assured of immortality, although perhaps not in the form the person who wrote this had in mind.”

“Perhaps not. Let me tell you about this box, though. It dates to T’ang China, specifically, we believe, to the reign of Emperor Xuanzong, known to us as Illustrious August. He’s named in the text inside. He reigned from 712 to 756. Furthermore, apparently we know the box belonged to someone by the name of Lingfei who was probably a person of some importance in the court of Illustrious August.”

This was all very interesting, not least because you have to love a guy who names himself Illustrious August. It was also considerably more information than Dory had given me, and explained Burton’s reference to Lingfei. Regardless of its history, this box was a beauty, too. On the top was incised a bird, a magical crane, a symbol of immortality for the T’ang—at least, that’s what Justin said. On the sides were depicted a woman of high standing, according to the write-up, and her maid servants, some of whom were playing instruments. If anything, it was even more beautiful than the one I’d seen at Dory’s, perhaps because it was smaller, and the workmanship therefore more precise. In other words, the box was priceless. Still, someone had it, and wanted to sell it. The reserve bid was $200,000 as Dory and I both already knew, and the presale estimate was $300,000. And Burton and I were not the only people interested in it.

A young man of maybe thirty, Asian with stylish spiky black hair, was showing an inordinate interest, moving steadily closer as Justin talked to me about the box. He was dressed very fashionably, Hugo Boss, I’d say, except I was certain even from a distance of a few yards that it was knockoff Hugo Boss and not the real deal. Quality does tell, and I can usually spot a fake a mile off. China being the source of so many of the world’s knockoffs, from Rolexes to Nikes, fakes are definitely a distinct possibility. But if you can’t afford the real thing, then Molesworth & Cox’s annual Oriental auction is not the place for you, unless, like me, you have a patron of considerable means.

Mr. Knockoff was trying to give the impression he was interested in something else, in this case the gorgeous cloisonne vase that Burton had pretended to want, Qing, pronounced “Ching,” dynasty, which is to say 1644-1912. Dory would be proud of me. He wasn’t any better at faking his interest in the vase than he was in faking his suit. He was definitely interested in the T’ang silver box. I didn’t think he stood a chance.

Thursday evening I was in my favorite position at the back of the room, waiting for the silver box to come up. I had my paddle, and was ready to raise it as required. I was also calling up my killer instincts, something that was easy enough for me to do. I just thought of those thugs who were planning to firebomb my heritage cottage with me in it.

Burton was also at the back, but over to one side where perhaps he couldn’t see very well, but where there were some empty seats on either side of him, providing a little buffer from the germs. He also had his cell phone out, but I didn’t think he had to consult Courtney Cottingham about how much to pay. He would know very well how much he had to spend. Although it pained me to think so, it might even be more than Dory, for all her stepfather’s and her husband’s resources, could afford.

Mr. Knockoff, the Asian man with spiky hair and fake Hugo Boss was there, and he had a paddle. That would indicate that he was indeed interested in bidding on something, presumably, given his interest, the silver box, even if he didn’t look to me as if he could afford it. Perhaps I should have tried to get a closer look at his suit, or perhaps my instinct for fakes only applied to furniture and not clothing. Or maybe the fake suit was designed to put people like me off their guard.

The T’ang box was to be auctioned relatively late in the evening, but both Burton and I were there right from the opening bid on the first object, a beautiful, and highly collectible, bronze
jia,
a three-legged vessel for heating wine, dating to the Shang period, or, as Dory had made me memorize, the eighteenth to the twelfth century BCE.

I called Dory, at home in her armchair, to tell her the auction was about to begin, being very careful not to call her by name in case Burton was eavesdropping. “Have you ascertained who might be bidding for the silver box?” she asked.

“The Cottingham Museum in Toronto,” I said carefully. Burton was no doubt straining to hear, and I didn’t want him to think it would be anyone familiar with his name. “There was also a young man at the preview who was interested. He’s here but he doesn’t look as if he can afford it.”

“Young?”

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty? And there’s a telephone bidder. I was told that when I arrived. I have no idea who that is.”

“Telephone,” she repeated. “Are there any Asian people there who might be bidding?”

“Only one, the young man I’ve already mentioned, who does not look as if he is in the right league,” I said.

“I see,” she said. She then started to cough, almost as if she were choking. “Excuse me, will you? I’m going to have to get myself a glass of water,” she gasped. “Call me when the bidding is about to start.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” I said.

It was after a break in the proceedings, about midway through the auction, that the situation changed significantly. The announcement came from the auctioneer, Gerald Cox, the Cox of Molesworth & Cox, who told us that an object had been withdrawn. Next to me, Burton was shuffling papers nervously, unwrapping something, most likely a cough drop, as he had been making little throat-clearing sounds all evening in a most irritating manner. Perhaps he had forgotten to say yes to good health that day. The rustling stopped, however, as Cox spoke.

“I’m afraid the timing of this is highly unusual,” Cox said. “Item eighty-three, a silver coffret dating to the reign of T’ang Emperor Xuanzong has just been withdrawn by its owner.” In the booth next to me, Burton dropped his pen, which rolled in front of me. Mr. Knockoff, who had been leaning against the wall on one side of the room, slammed his paddle against the wall in frustration.

I took a deep breath and phoned the news to Dory, hearing her sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. I could feel her disappointment across the phone line.