Jade Woman

23

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WISELY I also told Marilyn, my first call of the morning, that I was looking up a few things about some scheme I was preparing for Ling Ling. I even asked did she want to come. She said, “Forgive me if I demur. Where are your researches directed, Lovejoy?”

“The city hall. And the university.”

“Very well. You may find the registry in Pok Fu Lam Road of use, Lovejoy. Do not disremember your call.” I swear she was smiling. Did she know I’d already looked the address up?

“I’ll not disremember, love. Tara.”

I too was smiling as I hit the road. You can get fond of people, a bad sign.

The library was air-conditioned, thank God. I stood for five minutes dripping sweat in the blissful coolth before moving. An hour and I’d found it in the local Post.

The time it snowed in Hong Kong, it seems, was one of those legends instantly made and as quickly forgotten. Local people actually roped the snow off and charged a dollar a look, as Ling Ling had said. I read the whole paper. And the ones for the next couple of days after. They cleared the library about then “because of the typhoon signal.” We all trailed out into the sludgy air, me and about thirty Chinese.

The sky was blue but not bright cobalt any more. It looked as if it were trying to become dark, though in fact the day was scorchingly bright. The trees near the bank buildings were swaying now. The air caught and puffed. Lovely. I’d looked up

“typhoon.” It means big wind. I smiled. In East Anglia we’d not even notice this faint zephyr. The City Hall’s near the ferry terminal. I thought I glimpsed a stubby leper poling himself rapidly along among all the legs, but no. Imagination, probably.

My mind still nibbling at forgery for survival, I sat in a Wan Chai bar watching the bar girls over a glass of ale and listening to the pop music.

Forgery. Mankind can’t control antiques. Mankind can’t prevent fakes, either. Oh, I know governments, those starry-eyed fools, try. Even the United Nations has a go. It’s hopeless, cobbling smoke. Forgery is lovely, vital, essential to the well-being of humanity.

The antiques industry is built on duplicity. In it, fables abound. Deceit dominates. The reason is that Mr. Getty, Mme. de Meuil, and Mr. Terra are the modern museum Medicis—they’ve got what the rest of us crave, the wretches. Art critics hate them for their fabulous collections and snap about vanity, selfishness, et cetera, et cetera. The battle rages.

Meanwhile, the world sulks because Lady Lever has the stupendous antiques we all want. So what happens?—We go for the next-best buys, anything in art or antiques.

And there’s not enough. So the universe is stuffed with copies, repros, phonies, duds.

And human beings are as bad. We’re all hybrids saying we’re pure. Nations, races, classes, religions, each pretending they weren’t coined yesterday, with sham lineages back to Adam, phoniest myth of all. There were plenty of phony legends I could choose from.

“Eh?” I said.

“I’m Tracy,” a Cantonese girl said, bringing a supply of ale to my nook. Three glassfuls queued for my attention. Tracy’s accent was pseudo-American.

“Are you American?”

“No,” she said, delighted. “I’m going to marry an American.” She indicated a group of American sailors across the bar. Any one? “You’re not American.”

“Sorry,” I said. More U.S. dazzlement.

We talked mostly about families and the bar girls she was friends with, while I searched my memory of recent sales for ideas on Backhouse lines. The Countess von Bismarck’s two superb T’ang pottery horses averaged a quarter of a million. Promising? Not really, because these figures, usually accompanied by pottery grooms in matching glazes, are of known origin—dug up from definite graves, and horribly well documented. And scientists can tell you if the clay and minerals match the genuine locality. Sigh. No to T’ang pottery and its ancient lookalikes.

Worse, many antiques wobble in value. Ten years ago an exquisite Nicholas Hilliard miniature portrait, about one and a half inches across, went for a fortune. This year Sotheby’s sold it for 34 percent less. Take inflation into account and it’s a disaster for that lovely 1572 masterwork which Charles I had owned. Not good for me to lead the Triad into a tumbling market.

Luckily, antiques have ups as well as downs. Everybody in the game had been thrilled in 1987’s rotten summer to hear of Hong Kong’s great T. Y. Chao sale. Fine Oriental porcelain was bound to be flavor of the month. So get the correct reign marks of the right empress on the right fakes and you’re guaranteed a killing. But enough to satisfy the Triad?

“You worried, Lovejoy?” Tracy was asking.

“No, love. Just life and death.”

She laughed mechanically. Somebody called her over to the bar. She went immediately without a glance.

But Impressionist paintings rose 16 percent per annum for the past decade. You can tell your time by their regular dollar hikes. The average all-collectibles’ score is a full three points less.

My spirits rose with each thought, and I paid a fortune for my brimming untouched glasses without dismay. If art can rescue the human race as the ancients believed, why shouldn’t Lovejoy fake the Monet and run?

Time to earn my Oscar. I got a taxi.

Nothing’s built like Hong Kong. Like, one in four slopes daunt any architects, right?

Wrong. To Hong Kong’s mighty builders a vertical mountainside is a casual incline.

Want a reservoir and you’ve only got a cliff top? Easy: scoop out the cliff, and there’s a perfectly good reservoir. And of course cover your reservoir so grass can be grown on the top and sold. Want a skyscraper and you need the one bit of space you’ve got for a children’s convalescent home?—Easy: Reclaim an equal area of the China Sea with the rubble and erect your rehab unit on it, like in Sandy Bay. It’s a madhouse on the surface, but brilliance in practice. Surely these entrepreneurs wouldn’t balk at one more creative tour de force?

The taxi drove out through Kennedy Town, west from Central District past little Green Island onto Mount Davis. We snaked up the road, blissfully shaded for once by flame trees and giant bauhinias all the way to Pok Fu Lam Road.

“Hospital,” the driver pointed out, but averting his eyes as we began the descent past a red-roofed building. A dolorous group of musicians played flutes and gongs by the gullies which descended almost in vertical free-fall. I looked back but didn’t ask.

Funeral? The steep hillside below was a cemetery, stonemasons at work under sacking canopies and armchair graves along contours. He put me down in the scalding heat outside an Edwardian housefront below a walled hillside.

Dr. Surton was a benign elderly Englishman, giving his wife over twenty years. He worked in an echoing but coolish hall situated a way up the hill. Gardens climbed to it, managing paths, fountains, and even ornamental flower beds. He was alone in a side room. For the first time a place felt oldish, Chinese even.

“Lovejoy?” He did one of those half-ashamed English introductions. “Welcome to our humble abode. Before you say anything, I know we’re not quite what you expected. Did the registry give us our full title? Department of Sino-Calligraphics?”

We chatted a little, agreeing on the importance of ignoring preconceptions. A girl brought tea in a mug with a lid. Not as elegant as Ling Ling’s, but by now I was as dehydrated as a crisp. I leaned forward on my chair so my drenched shirt would not stick to the wooden back. The merciful fan wafted on me. I took out my soaked hankie, flicked it open and held it by a corner. Ten minutes under the draught and it would be dry enough to use for more blotting. My hair hung, plastered rats’ tails, sweat trickling and dripping. I’d never been wetter, not even swimming. Marvelous how many anti-sweat tricks I’d learned. He watched me sympathetically.

“Yes, hot today, isn’t it? The very best months lie Christmaswards. Three months of serene skies, lovely days, exquisite sunsets. These months sap everyone. Typhoons misbehave. Landslides, floods, water rationing. Marvelous how everybody keeps going.”

“How long have you been here, Dr. Surton?”

He smiled, wistful. “Too long, perhaps. On mainland in the old days. I’m careful what I say about those times, of course. The Kuomintang, People’s China emerging. One never knows who’s a reporter.”

“Fear not, Doc. I’ve come for advice on your subject.”

“I’m not medical,” he warned. “Some folk misunderstand terribly. Want me to set a fracture, deliver an emergency.”

“Manuscripts, paper, printing. I need to know about them.”

“Excellent!” His aged face creased in delight. “Well, the earliest datable printings come from Japan about a.d. 764—the Empress Shotuku’s ‘Million Charms,’ y’know. Block-printed. Though China actually came first. What period exactly?”

“Late 1860s, range 1850 and 1920.”

“Researching one individual, Lovejoy? A seventy-year span…”

“Well…” I sat akimbo, another local trick to dry all the faster. “Look, Doc. Please don’t think me paranoid…”

“I understand fully, dear chap,” he said earnestly. “Confidentiality’s absolute here.”

I looked about, overdoing the caution a bit, but the side room had no door.

It led into the open hall. The window shutters were ajar onto the hillside walks. Fair enough.

“My subject’s called Song Ping. There’s little evidence about him. Mention of a name here, there, in this newspaper cutting, that letter. Very elusive, of course, but—”

His old eyes shone. “Is he an entity? One person and not two?” He grinned a gappy grin. “What area?”

“Area?” How the hell did I know? “Well, China.”

“Yes, but where in China? An inland province? The Bund? Regions linked to European powers?”

“Er…” I’d pinched the name from a newspaper.

“You see, Lovejoy,” he explained kindly, “China’s name means Middle Kingdom—the center of the universe. All else was barbarian. But the capital ruled, and that meant the emperor. China was a matter of provinces, governors, officials in tiers of mind-bending complexity. In living memory, warlords formed yet another perilous grid. Commerce was another. The poor struggling populace was enmeshed. Executions were routine.

Invading armies did as they wished. Add famine, floods, plague, and poor old China suffered—knowing a man’s origin really does help. It’s needles in haystacks.”

“Er, doesn’t his name help?”

The old man smiled. “Sometimes names are swapped—a boy is given a girl’s name to deceive malicious ghosts who might steal the lad. You can’t tell much.”

I stared. “Don’t they mind about the girl?”

“Not so much, traditionally. On the junks you often see—”

The penny dropped. My face prickled. “—a little boy with a bell on a spring, and corks tied about his middle. And the little girl without?”

“Quite so. Until recently exposure was a regular practice.” Surton nodded sad emphasis.

“Female babies were left on hillsides to die. Against Crown Colony law, of course, but it never did quite cease.” He misinterpreted my look. “I see it shocks you. Truly terrible.

But mouths to feed, Lovejoy. Local folk convince themselves girls are worthless. Some pregnant women pay to have sex tests—then hop into China for an abortion if it’s to be a girl baby. Ten years ago China’s official sex ratio was one hundred newborn girls to one hundred and eight boys. Unbelievable. Miles outside the norm.” He smiled sadly.

“They corrected it instantly—abolished statistical reports.”

Ling Ling, in the sampan. “Were you here that time it snowed, Doc?”

He cackled. “Good heavens, yes! Forgotten all about that! What, twenty years since!

Half a dozen flakes at Sa Tin Heights. People were charged to take a look! Though many homeless died of cold.”

I encouraged him to ramble on in a welter of reminiscences, prattling about people I’d never heard of, the great business taipans, the tong syndicates, times before this or that building went up. I listened for antiques, but nothing. It was only when the lass brought our third mug that he came to and apologized.

“No need, Doc,” I said, putting on rapture. Not hard, really, because thank God I’d found the right man. “I loved your tales. I’d like to hear more…”

“Come to supper one evening,” he said eagerly. “There’s only my wife and myself.

When’d suit you?”

“Well, I’m free tonight, but I hate to impose…”

“Good heavens! Our pleasure, Lovejoy!”

He gave me an address, Felix Villas on Mount Davis Road. Eight o’clock.

Heading down towards the main road for a taxi, I noticed something odd. The sea below was now practically free of craft, all except for two big warships slowly moving in. And fewer cars on the roads, fewer people. The heat must have got to everybody at last. Yet there was a faint breeze cooling the skin. Joy! The sky was still blue glass, the sun scorching your head, but now the tops of trees were really swaying. In rustic old East Anglia they’re always at it, stirring the heavens to cloud. Nature in Hong Kong usually seemed motionless; the only place on earth with painted weather. Now this general shuffling. Maybe it betokened better things?

Pleased at having wangled the invitation I needed, I decided to walk. A group of canary singers were just folding for the day in the Hing Wai Teahouse by Queen’s Road. I stayed, listening to the racket. Johny Chen had told me about this Cantonese hobby.

You take your cage bird to this caff, hang the cage up, swill tea, possibly smoke a puff or two from a bamboo pipe a yard long, and generally encourage your bird to carol better than everyone else’s. You gain prestige if it does a good job. These scenes possess a seeming innocence.

Under the pretense of admiring one particular canary, I bought tea and sat under the sacking shade. Most were skeletal old blokes who grinned welcomes, appreciating my interest. After a while I asked to use the phone, dialed Surton’s home, and got

“Waaaiiii?” from the amah.

“Could I speak to Mrs. Surton, please?”

“Missie! Deeen-waaah!” led to the usual receiver clatter and sandal slap-slap during which I worked up my next character—timid, worried sick.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Surton? We’ve never really met, only your husband invited me to supper tonight.”

“Yes. Lovejoy, isn’t it? He’s just telephoned. You’ll rather have to take potluck, I’m afraid, but we’re so looking forward—”

“Look, Mrs. Surton. I’ve a confession to make. I didn’t realize until I saw your photograph on your husband’s desk. I… I was suddenly worried that you’d think I was…

well, trying to gain introduction to you by some underhand means. And I wouldn’t want you to assume that. I’ve been trying for so long to speak to you.”

The canaries sang. The scraggy old blokes puffed, grinned, chatted. “I don’t understand. Who is this, please?” came in a breathy alarm. I wasn’t Phyllis’ average caller.

“All week I’ve been so desperate to at least say hello. And now Dr. Surton’s suddenly invited me out of the blue, pure chance, honestly. I just don’t want you to think the wrong thing.”

“Wrong thing?”

I’d acted worried so effectively I really was anxious now. “It’s just that I made a pathetic mess the other evening—”

“Oh!” She’d got it, remembered me at the Digga Dig.

“I’ll quite understand if you don’t want me to come…”

“No, I… Yes. I mean…”

Reality had intruded into her fantasy life. I knew the feeling. She was lucky her reality was only me. Mine wasn’t.

“It was wrong to… well, speak without introduction. I’m so stupid. It was just that I, well, admired you and—”

“No, you see—” We were both desperate now.

“Perhaps I’d better decline, make an excuse? I’m a bit frightened. Dr. Surton might suspect I…”

We dithered for a lifetime. I’m sure it was my confession of fear that swung it. The novelty of someone else being terrified made buddies of us both.

“Mrs. Surton? You please won’t say anything about my… my being in those bars or anything?”

“Very well, Lovejoy.” Her voice outdid me in relief. “I mean, you’d… you’d better come.

Especially as it is genuine business.”

“You won’t mind having… well, somebody less than moral in your house?”

“No.” Bravely, adding, “My husband’s invited you in good faith, so…” We eventually rang off with suppressed delight.

I gave the canaries a ho leng of unstinted admiration and bought a catty of seed as thanks for the phone. This evening I’d dine with Dr. and Mrs. Surton. She had been his research assistant on Chinese manuscripts; they had published together in academic journals until a couple of years ago. Happily I kept in partial shade all the way down Wing Sing Street and made a tram in Des Voeux Road West, so I was only partially dissolved by the Star Ferry concourse.

Kowloon seemed stuporous, deep-fried, sullen. I made it to the Flower Drummer Emporium and asked for Marilyn.

“I have found you a scheme of the desired kind, Little Sister,” I told Ling Ling. “If successful, it will make Brookers Gelman request a merger with your antiques group.”

She sat beside Fatty. Sim stood behind, eyeing me. I tried to guess where his knife was. Plural? Two amahs pattered to and fro doing the tea bit under Marilyn’s eye. The furniture was Indonesian wood, class but neffie modern.

“If? Proceed.”

Really I wanted to know who else was to be in on the scam, but didn’t dare ask. Fatty looked sour. He seemed to grow even bigger when angry, and Ling Ling had an aura of restlessness. Twice when I looked at her she glanced aside as if deliberately cold. How did she stay cool in this heavy heat? Today even the air-conditioning was having a hard time. I drew a soggy breath. “This is how I see it, folks. Hong Kong is the outlet for China’s antiques, smuggled or legit, for onward export to the world’s collectors. I guess we double or triple their number by high-quality fakes—er, replicas. Right?”

“You were told this, Lovejoy.” Ling Ling meant by Chao.

I pressed on. “We invite antiques firms like Brookers Gelman. We feed them genuine antiques at auctions, private sales, whatever. That whets their customers’ appetites.

And it helps to authenticate our fakes.” I paused. Right so far. “When a millionaire buys an antique, he’s trying to buy a new personality—because he’s made the terrible mistake of mislaying his own. But greed is the Ho Chi Minh trail of antiques.”

Ling Ling, dryly: “We comprehend the philosophy, Lovejoy.”

“Er, aye. Now, we could go with modern collectors away from Ming ceramics and aim for 1100 b.c. bronzes at half a million a time, Chinese sculptures, pre-Ming. But we don’t.”

“Your scheme?”

“Concerns Song Ping.”

Silence. “Who is Song Ping?” Fatty shrilled.

My big moment. “Back in Impressionist days, the 1870s, you could get their best works for a groat. Even Van Gogh, who came later, sold only one painting, and his agent was his brother. Yet nowadays one Sunflower painting would maintain a thousand families for life. Luckily the Impressionist Song Ping is as yet unrecognized. His paintings are still cheap. Fame would increase their value a millionfold.”

“Everybody fakes paintings,” Fatty piped impatiently. “We have our own artists.”

“Not Song Ping’s. Look. There’s a limit to fakery. You can copy a painting and pass it off as the original. Or you can make one up from new but in the unmistakable style of an artist—that’s done oftener than you might suppose: David Stein with Chagall; everybody with Rembrandt. Or you can do an unsigned period fake, but collectors aren’t keen on those. And that’s it.”

“We already use those three old tricks recreating Maya antiques of 800 to 1500 a.d.

Which is yours?”

“None. We do something utterly new.”

“You said there’s no other ploy.”

“There isn’t. Yet.”

They all stared suspicion. “Your scheme is new?”

“Utterly. Pristine.” I gave them a second, timing it. “Song Ping lived in China in the 1870s, an artist. Using the old Trans-Siberian Railroad, he visited Paris during the Impressionists’ battles over the salon exhibitions. He saw Monet’s works, Renoir’s, Sisley’s, met them and developed his own style. He returned to China hoping to popularize the movement. Admitted, his exhibitions were failures. But he worked on.

Only lately has a glimmer of his genius begun to filter out. China is frantically trying to collar his fabulous masterpieces. He even developed a late post-Impressionist period, Van Gogh and all that. And influenced a group of Chinese artists likewise…”

Pause. Then: “What are his paintings worth?”

“Currently? Pennies. But eventually we should wangle a start price of, say, three thousand ounces of gold.” I avoided the shifting sands of paper-money prices. “The auction price of the first Song Ping will determine all his later works.”

“You have one?” The world leaned in anticipation. Even Ling Ling unfroze momentarily.

“Ah, no. There you have me.” I was so sad. “It’s always other people who’re lucky. Lora Leighton’s lost painting, Sybil, was found in a Connecticut gents’ lav. We can’t wait for that kind of luck.”

“But you know where Song Pings can be obtained?” Fatty’s anger was swelling him visibly. “You told Song Ping’s name to Dr. Surton. You are a traitor.”

They knew about that too. Okay, I was used to everybody knowing everything. That nice girl with the tea, probably. “We need Surton’s help.”

“Help in what?”

“In making Song Ping come back to life.”

They all blanched. For a second I remembered about local superstitions, ghosts. Fatty swayed gigantically, silly sod.

“Explain.” From Ling Ling, the only one with any composure.

“I’m Song Ping,” I said. They recoiled. I grinned and shook my head. “No. Not me me.

Song Ping never existed, see? Got the name from the South China Morning Post.

Therefore I need help to make him up. And”—I smiled sincerely—“all his works. Have faith.”