A Cup of Light

14

Michael Doyle bent over the table in his room, laying out his Polaroids. These were the kids in his study. He’d taken a shot of each during the first interview, all against the same wall in his office. They were all between five and eight. Their little faces called out to him from childhood.

He liked to put the pictures in the order of their lead levels. At first he’d started with their newborn readings, from cord blood. This was maternal exposure, at birth, no more. When he got a tooth, though, he could see what they’d actually accumulated. This marker was much more solid. With each tooth he made another change, put the pictures in a new order. Today he moved Xiaoli. Twenty parts per million. Bottom row center, for now.

He passed his hands over his thin layer of hair, half gray now since his illness, and his skull, strong, almost rectangular, widest at his ears and cheekbones. He could follow these children but he couldn’t keep them safe. Again he reminded himself.

So he put the pictures in order. It also helped him keep his mind off Lia Frank. Why wasn’t she back? And wasn’t it amazing that he seemed unwilling to leave this room until he saw her get in? She had stepped across his path and somehow gained his attention, the involuntary drift of his awareness. First he had started to let pleasant thoughts breach his barrier, thoughts about what might happen. Now, admit it, he was worried about her. He was in here with the TV playing low because he was worried. He knew perfectly well she had not been on an international flight. She was coming from Jingdezhen. Still, there had been an air disaster. It was getting late. And no lights had come on in her courtyard.

He picked up the picture of Xiaoli, with her little bowl haircut and her quick, amused eyes. He taped it to the door frame. He liked the idea of those eyes following him as he passed by. He wanted to remember her.

Now something was happening on TV. He touched the volume button. It was a statement by-he squinted at the name and title that flashed on the screen-the Deputy to the U.S. Ambassador. The man stepped in front of the camera, cleared his throat, straightened his notes. “The United States joins China in grieving the crash of China International Flight Sixty-eight. We express the greatest regret and sorrow that this accident occurred. Our nation’s prayers go to the families of those Chinese passengers and crew who lost their lives and”-a polished little beat-“also to the families of the six Americans aboard the plane, including four young Luce Scholars bound for fellowships in China. Our thoughts are with you.”

Michael stood in the middle of the floor, sensed the invisible shift in dynamics. This would alter opinion. It had to. People couldn’t think the U.S. would shoot down a plane with its own citizens on board. Or could they?

And where was Lia? He took a few soundless steps to the window and looked out over the half-curtain. He could see down the length of the courtyard and through the decorative rock gate. He could see the fountain spraying in the entry court, the pools of lamplight. But her court beyond was still dark.

At that moment Lia was sitting in a forest of boxes, hundreds of pots and their stories intersecting before her. She had been through all of them once. Now she’d seen dozens a second time. Tonight she had found yet one more fake, something minor, hardly enough to justify the effort. But this brought the count to ten. So it wasn’t as if she could stop. She had to keep going, even though it was too much and it seemed insurmountable.

Her cell phone bleated. She flipped it open. “Wei.”

“Lia,” said Dr. Zheng.

“Hi. I’m glad you called. Phillip’s not here. Gao said he was in Vancouver.” She wedged the phone into her shoulder and lowered a pot back into its boxed froth of white silk.

“He’s held up. It’s the plane crash. All the flights are delayed.”

“I know, I was delayed too, and that was domestic. How long?” She latched the lid down.

“Indefinite.”

She paused, hand on the box. “Don’t tell me this is turning into a… a situation.”

“Well, the crash itself would seem to have been an accident. These days, who can say? As to what they’re reporting, about people seeing lights streaking up, I don’t know. But there was a naval vessel, the U.S.S. Roosevelt, in the area at that time.”

“Oh. That’s sticky.”

“I should think.”

“Not good.”

“No.”

“Has the Chinese government made a statement?”

“Not yet. But air travel’s frozen-at this moment, anyway.”

“And Phillip…?” She was getting the drift and she didn’t like it at all.

“Phillip is not coming to Beijing. He made it as far as Vancouver. Then everything was canceled. If his flight had taken off an hour earlier he’d have made it.”

“Well, so-when?”

“I can’t say.” There was a silence. “Luo Na,” Zheng finally said. “You’ll have to try to finish this yourself.”

How can I? she wanted to scream. Nobody ever rules on anything alone, and these are eight hundred pieces, and already I’ve found fakes… it’s beyond what anyone should be expected to stand by, alone. It had always been her fantasy to find a cache like this. Only in her fantasy, she was not alone, she was not uncertain, she was not already chipped away by falsehoods. “What choice do I have?” she said. “If I have to do it, I’ll do it.”

“The sale will be quick. I’m sure of it. He wants it.”

“And the shipping?” she asked. Normally their Hong Kong office would take care of this.

“I’ve thought of that,” Zheng said. “We still want to keep the purchase quiet. The buyer plans to remain anonymous. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s acquiring it. I don’t see any reason to bring the Hong Kong office in on things now. You can do it, Lia. It’s only a few more days.”

“I know,” she said, feeling her adrenaline spike right up through the middle of her fear. “You’re right. The profile should stay low.”

“Very. Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll hire Tower Group. There’ll be nothing for you to do except keep an eye on it.”

“Good.” Tower was the Rolls-Royce, the world-class Hong Kong company that specialized in packing and shipping fragile, incredibly valuable fine artworks. This job would be wei ru lei luan, as dangerous as a pile of eggs. But those people were masters. She knew that. “Okay,” she agreed. “Let me get to work. I’ll go as fast as I can.”

Gao Yideng drove the ah chan to the northeastern suburbs of the city, where just a decade ago pigs ran along the narrow raised paths between plots of vegetables and rows of poplars. Now it was a low-lying, semi-industrial outskirt with warehouses and factories, mopeds and carts and stores. The farm plots had receded. The wide streets of packed dirt buzzed with people shopping, carrying packages, going to work.

Gao drove up at the back of a blank white warehouse. He got out of the car and opened a combination lock, rolling up the automatic door just long enough for them to drive inside. Then it closed again.

The sedan whispered to a stop on the white concrete floor. In front of them stood a truck. It shone like a light from heaven. All white, it stood bright as ice, Lanqian Industries tastefully painted along one side. In the back the cargo compartment, made to order, was precisely measured. It would hold the crates of porcelain tightly and perfectly packed. Then the false wall, and the freezer compartment, as Bai had specified. This was narrow, not too deep, well insulated from the main cargo bay. Bai and Gao opened the rear doors of the truck into this freezer, swinging back the big plates of steel and shafting light into the mist-frozen compartment. The two men laughed in delight. It was early summer outside, blazingly hot already, and the frigid air blasting from the empty freezer was paradise.

Bai saw they’d done a beautiful job. He could do anything with this truck. He could drive this cargo all the way to Australia.

“Well?”

“It’s perfect,” Bai said. “You know what I say?” He turned to Gao. “Tan guan xiang qing.” We might as well go ahead right now and congratulate each other and dust off our official hats.

She was scrolling down her list, her mind racing, dizzy with pressure, scanning for the next one she should get out and recheck. There were no more second opinions now. Everything rode on her instincts. The problem was that she’d never had instincts. Data, yes; data forever. More data than anyone. But not instincts.

Her handphone rang. “Lia?” It was Michael.

“Hi,” she said. She sat up on her haunches.

“You’re back.”

“I am. I got back a few hours ago.”

“I must have missed you.”

“I was in and out.”

“That plane crash.”

“Terrible, isn’t it? I landed in it-all the chaos, anyway.”

“Any problem?”

“No. Just delays. I should be worried about what it means, but now all I can think about is work. God.” She looked at her rows all around her. “I have so much to do.”

“I think I should make you take a break,” he said.

She realized her eyes were dry, almost burning. She closed them and touched the lids with her fingertips. “I can’t stop,” she said. “I have to finish.”

“Really?”

“Really. Although-” She hadn’t eaten all day.

“Give me your address. I’ll come and get you. Just take a little walk. Have a small something. Then you’ll go directly back to work.”

She shouldn’t. There were all these pots. But she wanted to, and that feeling was warmer and more sweetly suffusing than anything else. “Okay.”

“You’re on Houhai Lake, right?”

“Yes. East side. The road runs right along the lake. Number 1750. Michael, actually I’d love it if you came over here. I want you to. Please come. It’s just that I have to finish.”

“Don’t even ask me to keep you out. You’re going back to work.”

“Yes. All right.” She was smiling into the phone. “See you.” They hung up and she phoned out to the gatehouse to expect him.

Some time later she heard the door open and slam, far away, and heard the footsteps following the route she knew so well, the green damask rooms and the long corridor, the inner courtyard, the three steps up. She opened the door before he could knock on it.

“Hi,” he said, half-surprised, as if he had not quite expected to smile so at the sight of her. Then he registered the large room. He went still as an animal, eyes clocking down the rows of crates. “Look at all this. I had no idea there was so much.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” In a blink her voice was serious. “I mean it.”

“Who would I tell?”

“I’m sorry. But you must promise.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. His voice was soft. He really didn’t want her to worry. “Where’d all this come from?”

She laughed with the delight of the one whisking away the veil. “The front man is a wealthy developer, but it’s a government-sanctioned sale. As far as I can tell it’s a tiny part of the imperial collection, which was hidden in the countryside and rediscovered much later. Kind of a common story. After that it was either nationalized, or the government’s cooperating in the sale.”

“And the pots? Are they great?”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes in bliss at the thought. “I’m telling you, the stars in this room. There are things in here that would make you cry.”

“Show me. Make me cry.”

She looked at him and thought: But I don’t want to do that. “Let me think.” She turned her head, tapped through what she knew was in the crates. She paused in her mind on one she’d especially loved, a clair de lune dish.

“How about this.” She crossed to the thirty-fourth crate and dug out a box. She really wanted him to like it. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to show you. It’s a monochrome. Its rarity lies in qualities not easy to see at first.” She lifted out a dish of flower shape with gently raised sides and a faintly lobed, petaled rim, in a moonlight glaze of palest blue, almost white. “Can you see what I mean?” she asked. “Its beauty is different. Very distilled.”

He lowered himself in one fold to the floor, and again she was amazed at how lightly he moved around, for his size. And look, he was riveted by the dish. “Do you see it?”

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“This is nice.” She laid her hand on the inner flat of the dish as if taking its pulse. Then she drew her finger along the curves between the subtly incised, overlapping flower petals. “Here the glaze accumulates just a bit and darkens to make a suggestion of shadow.”

He looked at her hand.

“Do you want to touch it?” she said.

“Can I?”

“Of course.”

He looked up at her face.

“Come on.” She picked up his hand, which willingly came to hers, and guided it into the dish. She felt his strong fingers wrapping around hers, saying yes. But she disengaged and laid his hand in the dish-cool, soft, pearlized. He arched his palm back and rotated the flat of his hand softly in its bottom. Neither of them moved until he withdrew. “Thank you,” he said.

“You feel it?”

“I do.”

“Look.” She turned the dish over and pointed to the reign mark in underglaze blue. “Made in the Qing Dynasty, reign of Yongzheng.”

“When was that?”

“The 1720s.”

“It looks so perfect.”

“Ah!” She raised a pleased eyebrow. “That’s porcelain. It is immortal.” She placed the pale, glowing dish back in its silk cloud, in its dark box, and latched the cover down. “Good-bye,” he heard her say to the box before she pushed it to the side.

Before she could move to stand up, he leaned forward and kissed her, just her lips, softly. He did not enter her mouth. He stayed still and so did she and their mouths floated against each other until he reached out and gave her lower lip one touch. He pulled away. “I promised you, right back to work,” he said. But his smile had something different in it now.

“You did promise,” she said.

“Thanks for showing me that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We going out?”

“Yes.” This time she stood and reburied the box in its crate. They left the lights on. She knew she’d be back. Following him out the door, walking in his wake, she felt she might have drifted into one of life’s brief and temporary harbors.

When she returned-they’d said good-bye in the taxi, talk radio still pounding; she’d apologized again and said she had to finish-she ran back in, barely skimming the ground, and went straight to her pots. So much light. She had never in her life seen anything like it in one place.

And now him. He wasn’t like men she’d been drawn to in the past. Most of them had had some kind of high-stakes, power-driven edge. He might have been like that once; if so he’d left it behind. He made her feel that nothing needed to be proven, for some reason. It felt great. And he wanted to touch her more, she could tell. That was probably just a matter of time. She walked over to the thirty-eighth crate.

From this she withdrew a Qianlong bowl in polychrome enamels, falang cai, painted with a view of rock-garden palace architecture. The inside of the bowl was an empty field of brilliant white with three centered peonies in famille-rose enamels. She circled her hands around it, over the piled-up pigment that made garden rocks, porches, harmoniously drawn palace buildings; worlds within worlds.

One of the hardest things about working with great art was letting it go. As she would let him go in a few days, she thought-no matter what happened. With one difference. This bowl in her hands was real, a perfect and supremely hoi moon object. This she could hold in memory forever, unmarked and unqualified.

She put it back in its box and looked around the room. Normally it was her expectation that an appraisal be perfect, that there be no mistakes. That every call be real. Unimpeachable.

She couldn’t guarantee this now. She had done her best and she had to let go of everything else. Let it be, she thought. Stand behind it as it is. And strangely enough, as her hopes and expectations of the ideal fell away from her, fear and all its grating tethers vanished too. She felt oddly strong, almost pure. She was ready. It was time to present to the buyer.

Lia sat on the bed, working late. The only light in the room was the silver light from her laptop, which changed and flickered as she ticked through the inventory. Alone with it, not even with the pots themselves but their images, their descriptions, their references to other works in collections and museums-just these echoes-she felt the elation of the deal about to be made. It was a right world that had this much beauty. She was a right woman to live in it. She clicked through the inventory, checking, correcting, polishing. She had been doing this for hours. She tried not to even look at the clock.

The next thing she remembered, she was awakened by the euphonious little bell that meant e-mail. When had she fallen asleep? She was on her side now, one arm under her head.

She pushed herself up. The computer was still on, glowing, in front of her. Maybe she should go to sleep after all. The clock on the bedside table said two thirty-eight. And she did have an e-mail. Who was sending her e-mail?

She touched the icon and brought up the mail program. She looked at the sender’s name. Now she was awake. Yu Weiguo. The potter. She clicked it open.

The Chinese language template activated and the characters spilled across her screen. She drew her brows together and took it in, character by character.

Yu’s message started with a typical set of Chinese disclaimers.

Right now, here, this is the best version of the story I can assemble. Who’s to say if it’s the right one? The facts-haven’t you heard it said?-are as clay in the hands of the potter! I can only give you this sum of what I have heard mixed with my own opinions of the matter.

People seem to think the Wu Collection was buried near here, across the river in Anhui Province, for close to fifty years. And then there is a story told-it is told quietly but enough people have heard of it to keep it alive-it’s said that of the tens of thousands of pots known to have left the Forbidden City in the imperial convoy, of course there were the twenty-one hundred cases left behind in Nanjing, the ones now stored at the Nanjing Museum, but people say that also a few more cases were separated up in Anhui, in Jinhua County. This is the seven or eight hundred pots they call the Wu Collection. Some people swear it does not exist. They say it’s a legend. Others claim they know someone who has seen it. And then you arrived in my studio from nowhere, from America, nothing but an outsider, and you knew something about it! Well. Miraculous. How high the sky and how deep the earth.

Tian gao di hou, Lia thought, How high the sky, how deep the earth.

She saw at once the place from which Yu’s story sprang. In her mind, in her memory, she followed back along the flight of the imperial art collection. During the sixteen years of their journey, the works were split into three shipments to enhance their odds of survival. One had gone northwest by the Yellow River, one went through the southwest, and one went through the mountains of central China, snaking through the deep belt of green above and below the Yangtze.

It was this central branch of the convoy he was talking about. But how could so many pots be buried and forgotten?

Because no one survived who remembered they were there, she thought. Because grass and brush grew over them. Because when the wars ended and another branch of the Wu clan came to live on the land, to farm it, to release it to nationalization in the 1950s, and then to have it quietly given back to them in the 1980s, they did not know. She looked back at the mail.

The family only discovered the pots a few years ago. They were plowing and hit one of the crates. The Wu family knew right away they could not keep these porcelains. They made arrangements, which were quiet. They were well paid. But who bought the pots, and where the pots went… this is unknown. And one cannot ask the family directly, for they emigrated, as soon as the transfers were completed. They went to your country. People say they live in Detroit.

And there the message ended, abruptly. She closed it and shut down the program, set the computer aside. That was it. Potter Yu had gone to the bottom of the ocean and brought her back a pearl. Pearl of knowing. She could feel the truth locking in around her, and it made her almost numb. She crawled in beneath her covers and let sleep take her.