Ghost Hero (29 page)

Jack didn’t even look at Nick, so busy was he rotating his head and craning his neck to take in Pang Ping-Pong’s giant canvases. The yellow-tinted glasses threatened to fall off, so he had to hold them on. If that meant his hand was in front of his face, well, he wasn’t just a pretty face anyhow. Not that he gave Nick much opportunity to inspect him. Jack found himself immediately drawn to the canvas on the far wall. I myself loomed at Nick’s counter much the way Bill had, though at five-three it’s not as easy for me. Still, I managed to fill a good deal of Nick’s field of vision, and by the time he was off the phone with the inner sanctum Jack was safely tucked behind a protruding wall, leaning forward to study a painting of Spider-man dancing one of the
Eight Revolutionary Ballets
.

“He says you can go on back,” Nick resentfully admitted.

“I’m delighted,” I chirped. “Is that charming Mr. Woo still with him?”

Nick curled his lip, which was answer enough.

I marched toward the rear, calling across the room, “Q. X., come on now, we have a meeting. We can look at the art later.” Jack joined me with an air of fusty impatience, as though I’d been the one holding up the proceedings. Jumpy Caitlin came out to meet us and escort us into the presence of the potentate.

Doug Haig, as usual, was examining art on his worktable, from which, as usual, he didn’t look up immediately. Mighty Casey Woo, in what might by now have become usual, clogged up the corner chair, drinking a Coke. When sufficient eons had passed for all to understand who was boss, Doug Haig raised his head to take in the vision of Jack and myself. The waiting time, I was not pleased to note, was about half of what it had been for me alone, now that I was accompanied by Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang.

“Mr. Haig,” I said when he’d finally laid a sheet of tissue paper over his drawing and languidly fixed his attention on us. “This is Dr. Lin, from the Central University at Hohhot, in Inner Mongolia, China. Dr. Lin, I’d like you to meet Mr. Haig.” Did I put emphasis on the “Dr.” and the “Mr.”? Perhaps a tiny bit.

Haig extended a pudgy paw, but Jack, as though he hadn’t seen it, snapped Haig a bow. Speaking that nasal, accented English, he said formally, “It is great honor for small scholar as myself to meet such eminent American art dealer.” He managed to make “small scholar” sound like “King Tut” and “art dealer” like “ditch digger.” He held the bow a few moments; by the time he stood straight again Haig’s right hand had folded itself over his left as though it had been on its way there all along.

“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Lin, to meet such an eminent authority. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.” Haig gave a bland smile. “Just yesterday, in fact, I was talking with Clarence Snyder. He speaks very highly of you.”

“Dr. Snyder, generous man. Must call him later, thank him for helpfulness. Never lets friend down.”

Jack sat, his jacket gaping over his chest-padding. He surveyed Haig’s office with a fusion of burning envy and icy disdain. “Very interesting work, this gallery,” he said, speaking like a man who’d been in and out of every important art venue in New York before coming down to this one. “Pang Ping-Pong, of course, does no new work now, five years, just recycles. Still, I suppose he still sells well in West? Here, though,” he gestured at the drawings on the table, “this work new, maybe good. Find in China? You travel good deal to China, Mr. Haig, so I understand. More than most dealer.”

“I have to,” Haig answered. “To find the artists before other dealers do. I can’t say I enjoy your country all that much”—a thin smile—“but those trips are my edge. How about you, Dr. Lin? Is it possible for you to travel outside China often?” He added innocently, “Does your schedule allow it?”

Schedule, my eye: that crack was about power, reminding Dr. Q. X. Lin who wanted what from whom. As Jack’s about Pang Ping-Pong and the work on the table had been, reminding Haig who had what to give.

“Inside China, travel often,” Jack said stiffly. “Outside, as you say, no time. Two years ago, go to conference in Berlin. This second trip to U.S.”

“And how do you like it?”

“Like very well. Trip too short, only two week. Would be better, much longer. So much to see in U.S. In New York.” Through the yellow lenses he stared straight at Haig.

“Yes,” Haig said, “and for a scholar of your eminence, I imagine the U.S. holds a great deal of opportunity. It would be a shame if you couldn’t take advantage of it.”

“Speaking of taking advantage,” I said, “I mentioned to Dr. Lin the paintings you were telling me about, the ones you thought would interest him. The unattributed works that might be by Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero? I suggested we might take advantage of the fact that we were in your neighborhood to come look at them.”

“She tell me,” said Jack, “you not sure, authenticity. She say, if someone, large knowledge, all parts of field, appraises, authenticates, paintings extremely valuable. If true Chaus, of course, I don’t need her tell me that.”

“No question about it,” Haig said, wetting his rubbery lips and giving me a look that said no one really needed me to tell them much of anything. “This is my area, of course, but I’m not an authority, not in the academic sense.” He managed, in keeping with the ongoing war of intonation, to make “academic” an insult. “From the moment I saw these pieces I was convinced of their authenticity, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting them on the market on the basis of only my own instinct. If, on the other hand, they were to be examined by an academic authority who came to the same conclusion I did, I’d feel on firm ground going forward. And,” he added, with a cold smile, “I’d be quite grateful.”

“I see.” Jack nodded.

“In fact,” Haig said, as though the idea had only just occurred to him, “an expert like that could be a great asset to this gallery. Over the years I’ve acquired a great deal of work—artists I handle and also work I’ve bought for my own collection—but my passion seems to have outpaced my paperwork. I’m afraid there’s a tremendous amount of scholarship to be done within these walls. I’d do it myself but I just don’t have the time.”

“I see,” Jack said again, more slowly. “How much time, Mr. Haig? How long you estimate this scholarship takes?”

“At least a year,” Haig said without hesitation. “Perhaps two.”

“Long time. If paintings she tell me about turn out be real, I suppose you very busy to sell them, have even less time for scholarship?”

“Absolutely true. If they’re real, I’ll definitely need expert help in the gallery into the forseeable future.”

“So fascinating,” Jack reflected, as though all of this were of purely abstract interest. “All this conversation, make me very curious, see paintings. Is possible you have time, can show me?”

“Dr. Lin, when I heard you were in New York I demanded that Ms. Chin bring you here. I refused to take no for an answer.” History Rewrites R Us. “I’ve canceled all my other appointments for this morning. A gentleman of your erudition, your cultivation—it would be my pleasure to show you the Chaus.” Not the alleged Chaus, the putative Chaus, the I-know-damn-well-they’re-not Chaus. For a moment I longed to forget the whole plan and have Jack take one look at the paintings and say they were garbage, just to see Haig’s face.

Haig didn’t get up right away; first he looked from me to Woo. I could see in his eyes the hope that somehow, magically, we might leave, that he might not have to share his treasure with us, to have our peasant eyes raking over his resplendent paper and ink.
You posturing prig,
I wanted to yell,
they’re fake, remember? And you stole them, remember that, too?
I didn’t say anything, though, just stared back at him, tired of smiling. Woo slurped his Coke and acted as though he hadn’t heard a word of the entire conversation. Haig sighed, threw a long-suffering glance to Dr. Q. X. Lin, and rose. He moved with a surprisingly bouncy gait, as though his bulk were partially helium. At a set of flat files along the wall he unlocked a drawer, extracted a large leather portfolio, and brought it back to the table. He laid it carefully down, unzipped it, and took out a cardboard folder. The folder was tied with a cloth ribbon and I almost busted a gasket waiting for his ceremonial undoing of the bow. Finally he lifted the top board and slowly slid out an ink painting.

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.