The Chinese Alchemist (9 page)

Liulichang Street, which is just south and a little west of the Forbidden City, is a pleasant tree-lined street for pedestrians and scooters only, lined with old houses, or at least houses that look old. Like much of Beijing, it was flattened not that long ago, but it has been reconstructed and certainly looks authentic. It’s supposed to be the premier antique street, but there are not a lot of real antiques to be found, more curios than anything else. I suppose it’s a pseudoantique street with pseudoantiques, when you think about it. It’s still attractive, though, most particularly the shops selling old books and calligraphic supplies, ink wells, stamp pads, and beautiful natural hair brushes in all sizes, even extraordinarily large ones, hanging in the windows of the shops. There are some interesting things to purchase, shadow puppets made of leather, for example. There are few truly old ones, but some of the new ones are beautifully done. I’d passed along my love of shadow puppets to Jennifer, and decided to bargain for two particularly lovely ones as a gift for her.

One of the best things about the area is that you get away from the high-rises, and catch a glimpse of the city that once was. There are markets, and tea houses, and ordinary little shops in addition to the tourist traps, and if you wander a little farther, which I did, given it was a clear winter day, cold but nice and sunny, you can find yourself on Dazhalan Lu, a real street with silk shops and a huge Chinese medicine store.

I was just wandering along, enjoying myself, when I saw Burton Haldimand framed, perhaps predictably, in the doorway of the medicine shop, putting on his sunglasses. Even though he was wearing a surgical mask, I was certain it was indeed Burton. I had also quite distinctly heard him say he was leaving early that day, which left me with the distinct possibility he’d lied. Perhaps because of this jaundiced view of mine, I decided that Burton was acting suspiciously. He looked carefully left and right before walking briskly in the direction from which I had just come. He was very intent on something. I followed. Fortunately the streets were crowded, which afforded me some cover. Soon we were back on Liulichang, where Burton proceeded to go into every single antique shop, and even some that looked pretty borderline in terms of antiques. Waiting for Burton would have been exceptionally tedious if he’d spent any time in the shops, but in each, no matter how big or how small, he spent only a few minutes, long enough for only a cursory look at the merchandise on offer. He had a piece of paper in his hand, which he folded each time he came out of a shop, and it didn’t take me long to develop a theory as to what he was doing. Eventually, after about a dozen shops, I got bored and decided it was time to show myself.

“Lara!” Burton said with a start as he came out of a shop to find me standing there.

“Burton,” I said, mimicking his tone.

“This is certainly serendipitous,” he said, after a slight pause during which he was doubtless formulating his next lie. “I’m glad to see you. I was hoping for company again at dinner. I’ve decided I might as well attend the auction. Dr. Xie will be there. He’s going after that poet’s folio, as I think you know. He said he was treating to champagne afterward in celebration if he was the successful bidder, or a wake of some kind if he wasn’t. It sounded good to me, either way.”

“I thought you were heading back to Toronto, Burton,” I said, in a perhaps somewhat snappish tone.

“I was, but I seem to have developed an aversion to the idea of going home empty-handed. I thought I’d see if there was something else I could purchase. The auction goes ahead tomorrow night as planned, minus one box, so I thought there might be something else. Courtney Cottingham pretty well gives me carte blanche as far as purchases are concerned.”

“And you thought Liulichang Street was the right place for museum-quality antiquities, did you?” I asked, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Not really,” he said. “But the auction does present a possibility or two.”

“I decided I’d go to the auction, too. I can’t get a flight for a day or two. Dr. Xie invited me for champagne as well, and perhaps young Mr. Knockoff will show up and we can sound the alarm.”

“Mr. Knockoff?”

“The fellow who was at Molesworth and Cox in New York, and who I think stole the box here. The fellow you can’t remember.”

“Hmmm. That would be something of a long shot,” Burton said. “I expect the thief knows better than to show up.”

“You never know,” I said. “How about we get a cup of tea? I’m finding it a bit cold now that the sun is going down.”

“Why not?” he said and we picked a little tea shop nearby. Once again, Burton ordered. I suppose it made sense, given he spoke the language, but I have a real aversion to men who order my food for me, particularly when they don’t ask me what I want.

“What have you been up to, Burton? Did you get your hand stuck in a car door or something?” I said. He’d taken off his mittens, and now was carefully peeling off one set of surgical gloves, and had another pristine pair waiting. I suppose he couldn’t possibly hold a tea cup with the same pair he’d worn in the street.

“What?” he said.

“Your nails look bruised. Both hands, actually. Hard labor, perhaps?”

“They do look a little blue, don’t they? But no, I can’t recall having them smashed or anything. I’m sure I’d remember it.” He quickly put his fingers in the new gloves. I noticed he didn’t remove his sunglasses.

I didn’t believe him, but there didn’t seem to be much point in pressing him on the subject. There was so much about Burton’s behavior that was perplexing, to say nothing of just plain annoying. “What are you doing?” I asked as the waiter brought the tea, a pot, and cup for each of us. Burton had fished a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket, and was dipping a tea bag into the single pot.

“I’ve brought my own tea,” he said. “I ordered Chinese green tea for you and hot water for me.”

“That tea of yours stinks, I’d have to say.” Perhaps it didn’t actually stink, but it sure overpowered the delicate scent of my green tea.

“It does smell a little strong, but it’s very efficacious,” he said. “Fights bacteria, keeps the blood running properly, eliminates blockages in the qi. You would get used to the strong flavor, and it would do you a world of good.”

I was tempted to say that when it wasn’t eliminating blockages in the qi it could probably be used to clear clogged drains, but I restrained myself. Instead, I returned to a more important subject, first tucking into one of the scrumptious custard tarts he’d also ordered, although he wasn’t eating them himself. I might have to concede that it had not been such a bad idea for him to order on my behalf if this is what I got. “What are you planning to do tomorrow?” I said. “Just the auction?”

“Probably. I’ll take it easy during the day, maybe visit the hotel’s fitness room. You can’t use a trip as an excuse not to keep in shape, you know. Then I’ll go to the auction and see you there.”

He didn’t do that either. At this point, I was starting to take these lies of his personally, and was therefore ready for them. I’d given him ample opportunity over tea to confess what he was doing. He’d chosen not to do so. That fast led me to the conclusion that he was not just an eccentric genius of overweening ambition, but essentially a slug.

The next morning, I watched as he scanned the lobby quickly when he got off the elevator, probably looking for me. I was strategically placed behind a potted palm, and had been just about to give up and move on when he appeared. Once he got going, though, he moved fast, out the door and into a cab in a matter of seconds. I took the next one in line and followed him, which takes some doing in Beijing traffic, but the driver managed it once he understood what I wanted, thanks to the hotel doorman who didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked for his translation services. Burton headed north and west from our hotel, skirting the north end of the Forbidden City, but after that we began to wend our way from street to street and I got hopelessly lost. My only consolation was that I had a card from our hotel with its name in Chinese, so at least I could get back. Finally, the cab ahead stopped and Burton got out. After giving him a minute’s head start, I did the same.

We were on a lively street, lined with gnarled old trees and many shops. It was crowded, which made it difficult to keep him in view, but it also afforded me some protection once again, necessary given he and I were the only non-Chinese on the street. He never looked back, but occasionally looked up to read the signs or numbers on the shops or peered in the windows, as if he were looking for something specific. There were no antique stores around that I could see, which begged the question, Why were we here? I had a sudden crisis of conscience, thinking I might have been wrong about him. Maybe he was visiting some Chinese herbalist for a consultation on the state of his health, or for another supply of vile-smelling tea. I mean, what would I say if he looked behind him and there I was?

Rather abruptly, Burton turned into a little grocery store. I stood across the street and waited for him to come out, but after several minutes, he hadn’t. Finally I followed him in. He wasn’t there. I’d lost him, although I couldn’t figure out how I’d managed to do so. I wished I could ask someone, but of course I couldn’t.

Annoyed, I turned to go, and almost tripped over a tiny old woman who was sitting by the door. She had a lovely face, deeply wrinkled but beautiful. She also had teeny little feet. I was appalled, my feminist hackles rising. Technically, foot binding in China had been outlawed in 1911, and I never thought I’d ever see someone with bound feet. Bound feet were often referred to as “golden lilies,” and the perfect foot an appalling three or four inches. Despite being outlawed, the practice probably went on in the country long after 1911, and it took the Communist Party, when it took over in 1949, to put an absolute close to this revolting practice. This woman clearly predated that time. I apologized, although I’m sure she couldn’t understand a word I said. But I smiled at her, and she smiled back, several teeth missing. Then she gestured toward the back of the shop.

At first I thought she wanted me to buy something, but then I noticed a rough wooden door at the back of the shop. The woman had assumed that a white woman on her own was almost inevitably looking for a white guy, and was pointing me in the right direction. My crisis of conscience was over: if Burton was sneaking out back doors, he was up to something. I planned to see what he did this time. And so, like Alice in Wonderland, I stepped through the door and into another world.

Four

I was fourteen when my life took a different turn. The first disturbance to the pleasant enough existence I had
—
with effort and some ability I believe
—
-forged for myself came with a drunken revelation by Wu Peng, who told me that I had become his adopted son, not because of a long-standing tradition in my family for imperial service, but because my father had sold me to Wu in order to pay off some gambling debts. Wu’s “wife” had wanted daughters-in-law to do her bidding and grandchildren by way of the two sons they’d adopted, so it was necessary for him to find someone else for imperial service. My father’s affliction had presented just that opportunity. It was a jolt to my complacency, yes, but it also forced me to call into question everything I had been told by my father, most especially what I had chosen to believe about my sister. I began to think she was dead. Perhaps, I thought, it was Number One Sister who haunted the well at my home. It was she who plagued Auntie Chang’s sleep!

One evening I was privileged to be able to stand in the shadows while the emperor’s own musicians, the Pear Garden troupe, performed for the Son of Heaven and his friends. The musicianship was inspired, and evidently met with the emperor’s approval. He did not find it necessary, as he often did, to correct them. The women
—
for the Pear Garden Orchestra consisted only of beautiful women
—
performed a piece of music that the Son of Heaven himself had written for them. It was exquisite, of course. I confess that I was beginning to think of myself as something of a connoisseur of the arts, and enthralled as I was, I drew closer perhaps than I should have, coming out of the shadows. The Son of Heaven did not seem to mind. At the conclusion of the performance, the emperor presented a silk pouch to each of the women of the orchestra in turn. Wu Peng, who had joined me, told me that all the women would receive a coin. One of them would receive a jade disk that indicated they were to share the Son of Heaven’s bed that night.

It was shortly after that performance that I received a summons to the apartment of a woman known as Lingfei. I assumed this was a name she had been given in the palace and not the one she was given at birth. Ting is the sound of tinkling jade, so I expected she might be a musician, although I could not recall having made her acquaintance. Her reputation had, however, preceded her. It was to Lingfei that other women turned for help with certain medical problems, blemishes, for example, that they felt would detract from their beauty and turn the Son of Heaven’s favor from them, or conditions of a womanly nature. There were medical experts of all kinds in the palace, of course, but the emperor’s women seemed most comfortable discussing their problems with Lingfei. I wondered what she would want with me.

I was shown into a hall, quite austerely decorated, considering it was part of the palace, and waited. I had a sense that I was being watched, that there was someone in the shadows. I could not see anyone, but there was the faint whiff of cloves that I associated with the cosmetics favored in the harem, and of sweet basil and patchouli. After several minutes of waiting, however, I decided that this was a trick of some kind, and turned to go.

“I have not dismissed you,” a voice said. I turned toward the voice to see a woman in simple dress, yet luxurious of fabric just the same, of the Western style, which is to say it lacked the long, hanging sleeves that many in the palace preferred. The only adornment to her tunic was a belt from which pieces of jade dangled, appropriate enough given her name. Her face was tinted white, her forehead, as was the fashion, yellow; her lips and cheeks were rouged, and her eyebrows were plucked, then redrawn and tinted blue-green to resemble moth wings. Her hair was piled high on her head, held in place by an elaborate hairpin from which, once again, pieces of jade hung, tinkling as she moved.