The Chinese Alchemist

Two

Life does not always unfold as we hope, of course, particularly when we make our plans without understanding the course of action others intend for us. I was not to become a soldier like my brother, nor a civil servant scurrying about the corridors of the August Enceinte where, Number One Brother informed me, the important business of managing the empire took place. Both my brothers were successful at their careers, none more so than Number Two Brother who, posted to the northern frontier, spent his idle hours trading with the caravans on the Silk Route, or perhaps, given his ne’er-do-well attitude, robbing them, thereby amassing a considerable fortune. The money he sent for the family was well regarded by all, irrespective of the manner in which it was acquired. My father was addicted to the gaming tiles, and regularly gambled much of the family income away. We lived, I suppose, in a state of decaying gentility.

No, my destiny had been decided long before I was born. My family, it seems, had a long tradition of service to the Imperial Court. I was to be adopted by Wu Peng, a very important personage in the court. Wu was a eunuch in the imperial household. I was to be a eunuch, too.

I did not understand when I was sent to Wu Peng on my tenth birthday what a eunuch was. I was soon to find out. Number One Brother, who by now had a wife and two concubines, told me to take it like a man, which was, I suppose, his idea of humor. My mother and father told me to be brave, that it was a tremendous honor. Brave about what? An honor for what? I was told that the Son of Heaven’s closest advisor and confidant was a eunuch, someone so powerful that he walked the chambers of the Son of Heaven. I was told that the workings of the Imperial Palace depended upon the skill of eunuchs as much as on the ministrations of the most senior mandarins, a position to which Number One Brother aspired. I did not understand any of this. I did know that my mother cried herself to sleep for several nights before I left.

Perhaps that is what they told Number One Sister, too, that it was an honor to serve the emperor. And it was.

Dory suffered a massive heart attack and died on the spot, seated in her favorite armchair. She’d had a heart condition for a few years, something she’d neglected to mention to me. Her maid found her when she returned to the house with the groceries. Her husband was at his club at the time. Dory died alone. In fact, it didn’t matter that neither George nor the maid was on hand. The doctors said there was nothing that could have been done. It was a shock. Dory had looked younger than her years, but even so, she was taken way too soon. More than anything else I blamed the Cottingham, convinced Dory would still be alive if they’d let her work as long as she wanted to, or at least for a few more years until she turned sixty-five. Rob, Clive, Alex Stewart, and I all went to the funeral. I saw no one that I knew from the Cottingham, and certainly not Burton Haldimand.

I also blamed whoever it was who had changed his or her mind about selling the T’ang box. The auction house wasn’t revealing any names, which would be standard procedure, so this person was both nameless and faceless. That didn’t stop me from being mad at them. Dory had been so excited about that box, the idea that she would have two of the three boxes her stepfather had, in her mind, stolen from China. Maybe if I’d been able to get it for her…

It was at the funeral that I saw Dory’s husband, George Norfolk Matthews, for the first time. He looked to be older than Dory by maybe ten years, and he seemed to be a very sad man, not just because of Dory but because of life. I have no idea why I thought that. He had plenty of money, and Dory had always spoken of him with affection. She had many photos of the two of them in her former office at the Cottingham, and of course at her home. Their daughter Amy, a doctor, came from Florida. It was the first time I’d seen her in person, too. She looked like her father, not Dory, and I knew that she was divorced. With her was a young man whom I recognized from photos I’d seen at Dory’s as her much-loved grandson, George, named for his grandfather, but better known as Geordie. Geordie looked like Dory’s side of the family, which is to say more Asian. He was an extremely attractive young man, the sort who would have the girls swooning. There was also a half brother of Dory’s by the name of Martin Jones. I didn’t get a chance to talk to any of them.

Several weeks later, long after Dory was buried, I was still playing at being Charlyn Krahn, to my displeasure. Taking care of these bad people, to use Rob’s expression, was taking rather longer than either of us wanted. Rob and I had been moved to a small apartment, which was a good thing, given that we’d have killed each other after that long in a hotel room. The only positive news, at least from my standpoint, was that my lovely little cottage was still standing. One of Rob’s brothers and sisters on the force went in and got my mail and checked the place from time to time. No new cement floor in the basement. No smoke in the front room. Maybe the Heritage Act was more powerful than Rob thought.

Still, I was slowly, or maybe not so slowly, going gaga. Again Dory came to the rescue, not in person, needless to say, but through the offices of one Eva Reti, barrister and solicitor, of Smith, Johnson, McDougall and Reti.

Ms. Reti was the executor of Dory’s estate, she informed me, and she hoped that I might meet with her at her offices downtown on a matter that she was sure would be of interest to me. She was a little brusque of tone, and she kept me waiting for several minutes before I got in to see her. With her was George Norfolk Matthews. He was holding a box that was about eight inches long covered in grey silk. After the usual introductions and pleasantries, he handed it to me. “Dory wanted you to have these,” he said. “They belonged to her mother.”

I opened the box to find a long strand of some of the most beautiful pearls I’d ever seen, a lovely creamy color, with a beautiful clasp. “I can’t accept these,” I said. “Surely your daughter would want them.”

“She favors less traditional design,” he said. “And she has received a great deal of jewelry from her mother. She is very happy for you to have them.”

“I will treasure them,” I said. “You know, I sell old jewelry, but I don’t have much of it myself, and these pearls are exquisite, and all the more valuable to me because of Dory.”

Ms. Reti and George smiled for the first time since I came in. Apparently my quite sincere expression of appreciation had melted the ice a little. “There is another matter arising from Dory’s will that we must discuss with you,” George said. “I will leave that part to Eva here.”

Ms. Reti shuffled a little in her chair before getting to the point. “The T’ang silver box has come back on the market,” she said. “It is to be auctioned in Beijing in two weeks.”

“That’s very interesting, I’m sure,” I said. “But obviously Dory’s original request is no longer practical, and while I thought it was extraordinary and would love to own it, I’m not really in that league.”

“Mrs. Matthews has provided for its purchase, and for the purchase of a third, even larger box, should it come on the market,” she said. “She believed they belonged together, as you know. Not only that, but she has provided for your expenses to go wherever they show up, and to pay you a significant commission when you acquire them for her estate.”

“That’s ridiculous, Ms. Reti,” I said. “I mean…”

“Unusual, yes,” Ms. Reti said. “Ridiculous, no. Please call me Eva. May I call you Lara? Dory told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you.”

I nodded. Alarm bells were clanging away in my head. This had the air of an obsession extending beyond the grave, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be a part of it.

“A large sum of money was set aside in Dory’s will for this purpose. I can tell you it’s in the seven-figure range, with a top-up possible. Under the terms of the will, you are to consult with me on the price to be paid, but please be assured I intend to take your word for it. I know nothing about this sort of thing, and I know Dory trusted your judgment implicitly. She also wanted those boxes no matter the cost, so my role in this is peripheral only.”

“George, how do you feel about this? How does your daughter feel?” I asked.

“Dory had her own money,” George replied. “She inherited from her stepfather. You probably know that I don’t need the money.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “But I don’t think you answered my question.”

George thought about that for a moment. He looked very tired, almost drawn, deep lines etched in his face. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words, but then he straightened up in his chair and said, “Anything Dory wanted is fine with me. Our daughter feels the same way. She’s a successful doctor, and like her father can afford to indulge her mother’s wishes. We know that the money set aside for this purpose will be tied up for some time, and if you are successful, will be used for the purpose of realizing Dory’s wishes. There are no other heirs. Eva, will you give Lara the details?”

“The silver box is being auctioned in Beijing as I’ve said, at an auction house called—just a minute while I consult my notes—Cherished Treasures House. That’s a translation, of course. I won’t even attempt the Chinese. It’s a lovely name, though, don’t you agree? Why don’t we just call it Treasures, for the sake of simplicity. I hope you’ll be able to be there, and will succeed in purchasing the box. If you are unsuccessful, you will still be paid a fee for your time that I think you will consider more than acceptable. If you do manage to acquire it, you will be paid a commission of ten percent on the price realized, which, if I understand auction terminology correctly, includes the buyer’s premium.”

“That’s right,” I said. “The price realized is the high bid, plus the buyer’s premium, which might be as high as ten percent, and any applicable taxes,” I said. “This would be a rather handsome commission for me. Are you sure?”

“Dory’s wishes were very clear. She was absolutely certain you would get the boxes for her,” Eva said, and George nodded. “Any other issues?”

“I don’t speak Chinese.”

“We can help with that,” she said.

“There’s something else bothering me, too,” I said. “Dory wanted the boxes to go back to China. That box is now in China. So…”

“But it still may go to a private collector,” Eva said. “That was not Dory’s intent. My instructions are that once the three are assembled they are to go a museum in Xi’an, the, let me see, Shaanxi History Museum in Xi’an.”

“I do recall her telling me that. I’m just not sure what’s going on here. I mean, why was the box withdrawn from sale in New York just before it went on the auction block? I suppose there are many reasons why that might have happened. Maybe there was a legal dispute over the ownership of the box, and it couldn’t be sold until that was resolved. Maybe someone was contesting ownership and got a court injunction to stop the sale or something. Maybe the owner died an hour before the auction. The auction house had no obligation to reveal what happened, and for sure they didn’t.” I was just thinking aloud here, but George and Eva waited patiently while I did so.

“But it wasn’t money. If the seller decided from the look of the crowd or even the prices realized on earlier items that they weren’t going to get what they wanted, or even if they decided they didn’t like the look of those who might be bidding, they could withdraw it. But it’s easy enough to guard against the money issue. You just place a reserve bid, below which you won’t sell, and if the bids don’t go that high, then no sale. That is exactly what they did, too. The reserve was two hundred thousand, and the presale estimate was three hundred thousand. I left my card and the lot number at the auction house and offered three hundred and fifty thousand if the seller changed his or her mind again and wanted to sell. I didn’t hear from the auction house. I thought perhaps someone else had put in a similar offer higher than mine, but that can’t be the case if it’s on the market again. I did ask for the name of the seller, but the auction house wouldn’t give it to me, and they were quite within their rights not to do so.” By “someone else,” I meant Burton Haldimand. He’d tried to make sure I didn’t see him do it, but he’d left his card at the auction house, too, and I assume he also made an offer, although I’d be the last person he’d tell about it.

“Does this matter?” Eva asked. “It’s back on the market. You get another chance at it.”

“It matters if it is just going to be withdrawn again. That’s a waste of Dory’s money, and I’ve already wasted some of it.”

“That was hardly your fault, was it?” George interjected. “Aren’t you being a little overly conscientious about this? Not that I don’t appreciate it, of course, but Dory didn’t care about your expenses. She could afford it. She just wanted the box. Her will is clear.”

“I suppose I’m fussing needlessly. I wonder if Burton Haldimand knows about the sale,” I said.

“Burton Haldimand?” Eva asked as George frowned and lightly pounded the arm of his chair with his fist.

“He’s… a rival for the boxes,” I said.

“The fellow from the Cottingham! Then you better get moving,” Eva said. “I thought it was disgraceful the way they treated Dory. From what she told me about how her so-called retirement was handled, I believe them to have been a little light in the due-process department. I told her she should sue, and I’d be only too happy to represent her, but she wouldn’t. She said if they didn’t want her, then she should just leave. True, she was pushing sixty at the time, but they still had to handle it properly. I told her she could at least get a better settlement. She said she didn’t need the money, which of course she didn’t. But let’s just make sure the Cottingham doesn’t get our Dory’s box.

“Now, as to how we can help here: Our firm has an office in Beijing, run by one of our senior partners, who has been in Beijing for five years now. Her name is Mira Tetford. She works with North American corporations that want to do business in China, and just about everybody does. Sign of the times. Here are her coordinates. She’ll arrange for someone to meet you at the airport if you let her know when you’re arriving, and she’ll arrange for your accommodation. She’ll also make sure the money is there for you, and provide a translator. Dory wanted you to fly business class by the way. Let us know when you want to go, and we’ll make the arrangements. You’ll do it?”

“Please,” George said. “I would be very grateful.”

“I’ll do it, yes,” I said.

“How about we get out of town?” I said to Rob about an hour later. “You know, go back to being our real selves for a few days, far away from the bad guys?”

“Okay,” he said. His enthusiasm was distinctly underwhelming.

“I have to go to Beijing.” I told him about Dory’s project. “Beijing,” he said. “Do I want to go to Beijing?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But you do want to fly to Taiwan.”

“Jennifer!” he said, his face brightening for the first time in about a month. “Brilliant idea! She’d like to see you, too, though.”

“And she will, once I get my work done in Beijing. But wouldn’t it be nice for the two of you to have some time to yourselves, just father and daughter?” By which I meant, of course, that Rob and I had been spending way too much time in the same room, and for all his talk about the two of us getting married, all this togetherness was putting a strain on our relationship. Not that this was a fair test exactly, given that under normal circumstances he’d be at work every day, not sitting around a tiny apartment that wasn’t even ours, getting more depressed by the minute. Still, we would definitely benefit from some time apart. I said none of this.

There isn’t much that gets past Rob, however. “You’re getting a little tired of life with the less-than-cheerful Herb Krahn,” he said. “You’re thinking it’s like living with a caged lion.”

“I won’t comment,” I said. “As long as you promise not to point out that Charlyn Krahn has not been the poster child for the perfect roomie herself.”

“Deal,” he laughed. It was good to hear him do that.

The next ten days were a flurry of activity. There were visas to be obtained, packing to be done, and shopping, too, given we couldn’t go back home to get what we needed. Fortunately we’d both taken our passports. It was not until the night before I left that it all caught up with me, the enormity of what I was undertaking. I sort of slumped on the bed beside my suitcase. “I don’t know about this,” I said.

“What’s bothering you?” Rob said.

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. I know we haven’t been talking much, even though we’ve been spending way more time together than usual, but let’s give it a try. You haven’t been sleeping well, and you’ve been a little cranky. It’s not like you. Usually you look forward to trips. Talk to me.”

“I am unsure about going back to China. I was there twenty years ago. I loved the people, I loved the sights, but I got out into the countryside and I saw how poor and oppressed the people were. I saw the ravages of the Cultural Revolution still affecting people years later, and I was upset, afterwards, about the massacre at Tian’anmen Square. I wondered if some of the young people I met had been injured or killed.”

“I expect things have changed a lot since then. You need to go and reassess.”

“True. I’m apprehensive about everything, though. I don’t know how to handle auctions in Beijing, particularly in Chinese.”

“I can certainly understand that. But they’re going to get you help with the language, aren’t they? The lawyer in Beijing?”

“Yes. I won’t know my way around, though, after all these years.”

“There will be maps, and you’ll have help. What else?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I really don’t know. I just feel anxious about the whole thing. There is something wrong about this, an obsession of a dead woman. Yes, Dory was right in wanting to return the box to China, but if the Chinese government wants it to stay there, they can purchase it. George isn’t entirely comfortable with this, either. I can tell, even if I don’t know him at all well. He should just send the box he already owns, tell them about the other one on auction, and suggest there might be a third. Case closed.”

“They were married a long time, did you not tell me, thirty-five years or something like that? It would be difficult not to respect the wishes of a partner of thirty-odd years, and a dead one at that, even if you thought the idea was completely ridiculous. Relax. You’ll do fine. Everything will work out as it should,” he replied. “I’m anxious, too, you know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know how I’ll manage without having you underfoot constantly.”

That’s one of the best things about Rob, the way he can make me laugh. The next morning we were on our way, Rob to Taiwan, and I settling down in business class en route to Beijing.

Despite my misgivings, I was looking forward to the flight, a little pampering in business class that I don’t normally enjoy, and a full day of no phones and no Clive. What more could I ask? Well, I could ask that Burton Haldimand be on another flight. Unfortunately, I heard his voice almost immediately upon boarding. He was asking for a blanket that had been sealed in plastic and some fresh orange juice.

“Hello, Burton,” I said as I walked past his seat to mine. He had already put a little sign up on the top of his seat to indicate he didn’t want to be interrupted for anything during the flight. Personally, I thought that would be a shame, missing the champagne.

“Lara! A pleasure to see you again. How are you feeling today? Over that cold?”

“Quite over it, thank you, Burton.” I had looked up the Yellow Emperor, not prepared to let Burton tease me about it again. The Medical Classic of the Yellow Emperor, or Huang Di Nei Jing, is the theoretical basis for traditional Chinese medicine, and is supposed to have been compiled something like two thousand years ago. The Yellow Emperor is one of the mythical founders of China, and the book expounds on medicine through a conversation between this mythical emperor and some wise men and doctors. Just so you know.

“That’s good. Now you can begin to work on good health.” That was no doubt true, but Burton himself wasn’t looking quite as perky as he had been the last time I saw him. Too bad the auction wasn’t the day after we arrived, because I would be in better form than he.

“I plan to rest for the flight,” he said, indicating the sign at his seat. “But I look forward to seeing you in Beijing. Perhaps we’re going to the same place?”

“Perhaps we are,” I said.

“Your first visit to China, is it?” he said, sticking one earplug in, but holding the other for my reply.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “Although it has been a number of years since I’ve been there.”

“You’ll find it changed,” he said.

It had changed all right. The truth of the matter is, if I hadn’t been told Beijing was the destination of my flight, I could safely have assumed, except for the racial homogeneity of the people, that I was in a large city almost anywhere. When I’d been there two decades previous, no one except high Communist Party officials were allowed to have cars, people all wore the same uniform, the so-called Mao jacket in either grey or navy, and while there were some high-rises to be seen, Beijing was still a city of little neighborhoods and thousands upon thousands of bicycles. I’d heard about China’s headlong rush to modernize, of course. Who hadn’t? But nothing prepared me for what I saw. Office towers loomed over expressways and wide avenues. The whole city seemed to be one large construction site. I kept looking for the neighborhoods, the hutongs or lanes, and the street markets that I had loved. I couldn’t see them.

And the cars! I had never seen anything like it anywhere in the world. I suppose, given that cars had only been allowed a few years before, that I was looking at an entire nation of new drivers. It was one of the scariest experiences I have ever had.

Burton hadn’t arranged for a limo and driver at the airport. We were, it seemed, staying at the same hotel, chosen I suppose for its proximity to the auction house, which made it difficult for me not to offer him a lift in the car Mira Tetford had sent for me. I was beginning to realize I was destined to spend way too much time with Burton, a thought only slightly less terrifying than the traffic.

Burton might worry excessively about his health, but the traffic didn’t seem to bother him. He chatted away amiably to a young woman by the name of Ruby who had accompanied the driver, and who introduced herself as Mira’s assistant. It was only as the Mercedes hurtled through a red light, narrowly missing a woman pedaling a three-wheeled cart loaded with persimmons across what was clearly a deadly intersection, and coming inches away from being’t-boned by a bus that was making an illegal left turn, that Burton reacted. “One has to wonder if they have to take a drivers’ test here or if they just buy a car and drive it off the lot,” he said in a disapproving tone.

“Of course we do,” Ruby said, giggling into her hand. “You are not the first foreign visitor to mention the driving. You will get used to it soon enough.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Burton said. “I just want to survive it. You’ll be happy to hear, Lara, that except under rather limited circumstances, foreigners are not allowed to drive in China.” I guess he thought I might still have germs, because he tried not to look at me even though he was addressing me. “A good thing, don’t you agree? Those of us who think traffic lights, turn signals, and lanes are a useful concept would be squashed like bugs within minutes of venturing forth.”

If the driving wasn’t to my liking, the hotel room certainly was. It was not all that large, but it had an absolutely spectacular view over the golden roofs of the Forbidden City, wave after wave of them, now glowing in the late afternoon sun. If I stood on tiptoe I could see the large plazas that separated the various palaces in the huge complex, and even pretend that the tourists flocking along the streets on either side or crossing Tian’anmen Square to the south were servants of the emperor, or perhaps foreign delegations paying their respects. It had been home to emperors, “forbidden” to almost everyone else. From this viewpoint, Beijing was absolutely enchanting.

Mira’s office was atop another tower, this one just a little east of the hotel, in the foreign embassy section of Beijing. After the usual pleasantries and a cup or two of Chinese tea the next day, we got down to business. Mira was maybe forty, and struck me as very competent in a quiet, unassuming way. She appeared to be fluent in Mandarin, although I was no judge on that subject, and she clearly knew what she was talking about. Joining us was her assistant Ruby, the young woman who had met me at the airport the previous day.

“I’ve done some research on the art auction scene here with Ruby’s help,” Mira began. “Let me digress a little to say how much I’m enjoying this. For some reason I’m finding it more interesting than yet another joint venture between Chinese and North American companies wanting to manufacture plastic widgets here. To summarize my findings: One, art auction houses are a new concept here in China. We don’t have the experience of, say, Hong Kong.

“Two: auction houses are supposed to be licensed by the Cultural Relics Bureau of China. My conclusion is that most are not. In other words, there are many more auction houses than licenses. Three: if you asked four people the number of licensed facilities here, you’d get four different answers, meaning it is difficult to tell which are licensed, and which are not. Four: this may be because Beijing Municipality also licenses auction houses. Its standards are reputedly lower than that of the CRB. Five: even licensed auction houses have, because of the infancy of the profession, no prior experience in art auctions. Six: there are probably only five auction houses in Beijing that are truly licensed by the Cultural Relics Bureau to conduct auctions, and seven: Cherished Treasures House is not one of them. So, in conclusion…”

“Caveat emptor,” I said.

“Caveat emptor, ”buyer beware,“ in spades,” she said. “The art market here on the Chinese mainland is pretty much unregulated. Under those circumstances, you cannot assume any appraisal is accurate…”

“Tell me how this is different from anywhere else. You can’t assume that at home, either. All kinds of stuff is labeled ‘as found.” In other words, no guarantees.“

“Of course. But at home you have reputable auction houses with expert staff…”

“That still doesn’t guarantee anything, I can assure you. Some top auction houses have been implicated in various scandals rocking the art and antiquities market. I’m not comparing established European and North American auction houses with the ones here, because I wouldn’t know, but I am saying that you should be careful anywhere.”

“I doubt you’ve seen anything like this. One quite reputable auction house here has been rocked by an allegation that it has been selling stolen paintings. They are contemporary paintings, and as it turns out, the artist is still very much alive and has accused the auction house of selling stolen work. Now, who knows what the real story is. I mean we don’t know who actually put the paintings up for auction because in China, as elsewhere, the auction house is obliged to protect the name of the seller and buyer if requested. But it does not inspire great confidence.

“As for Cherished Treasures House, it’s new in the field. In a sense, it came out of nowhere. I tried to find out who owns it and got the name of another corporation that I didn’t know either. Cherished Treasures House did, however, have an amazing inaugural auction a few months ago.

There was a small drawing by a Ming emperor for which they managed to fetch a rather breathtaking price, so it has established itself quite quickly. As for the T’ang silver box, I’ve been told by my partner Eva Reti that you know what it looks like, and that you should be able to identify a forgery if indeed that is what we have here.“

“I know what it looks like. I went over it with a fine tooth comb in New York. I have the photograph from the Molesworth and Cox catalog, and I also have very good photographs from all angles of the box already in Dory’s possession, or her estate’s, that is. I think I’ll be okay on that score. I’m worried about language, however.”

“Both Ruby and I will be there with you to translate.”

“You may have to translate fast,” I said. “These things can really move along if there’s a lot of bidding.”

“We’ll manage,” she said. “We’ve translated for some pretty big deals here. We know what’s at stake. I’m fairly fluent, but I can’t read Chinese. Ruby, of course, can. So she’ll help with any text we need to deal with, and she’s faster than I am on the numbers. Now, once you get the box, in the happy event that you do, we will take it from there. We’ll see it is properly presented to the museum in Xi’an. You can’t take it out of the country, anyway, given that it’s much older than what’s allowable. You probably know that China is clamping down on exports of antiquities.”

“I’m wondering why someone who already had an object legally out of China would bring it back to sell it,” I said.

“Because of the prices they’re getting? There is a lot of money here now, in certain circles, and people want the best. I mentioned the Ming drawing. It fetched in the range of four million yuan. Right now you get about eight yuan to the U.S. dollar. I’m told that is more than it would have sold for outside of China.”

“I suppose that might also explain why the person who owned the box withdrew it at the last minute in New York.”

“I suppose it might. The preview is tomorrow afternoon. Are you up for it?”

“I am,” I said.

“Good. Both Ruby and I will be there.”

To reach Cherished Treasures House, you enter a rather sterile office tower just off Jianguomenwai Dajie, or what we would call Jianguomen Street. “Dajie” is a term for a street or avenue. The “wai” part of the name indicates that this street would have been outside the original city walls that enclosed the ancient city. Jianguomenwai Dajie is essentially a section of the major east-west axis of Beijing, often referred to as Chang’an Avenue, although it changes its name a few times, which runs right in front of the Forbidden City, between it and Tian’anmen Square. The north-south axis of ancient Beijing was, and still is, the Forbidden City itself, which is oriented north-south.

Cherished Treasures House was on the second floor, reached by a long escalator to the left of the building entrance. The glass doors to the room were open. There was a desk just inside the door, at which sat a man in a blazer with the auction house logo on the pocket, who was peering at a computer and generally ignoring us. The room was empty of other visitors with the exception of two. I was disappointed, if not surprised, to see that Burton Haldimand was one of them. He was conversing in what sounded to my ears to be fluent Chinese to a rather attractive young man. I don’t know why I would be surprised that Burton spoke Chinese. After all, this was his field. Why wouldn’t he learn the language? But it made me feel at a disadvantage for the coming bidding war. “We meet again, Burton,” I said, by way of warning my fellow visitors that the enemy was very near. Mira nodded very slightly to indicate my message had been received, and gently nudged Ruby in the ribs.

“Indeed, we do,” he said. “This is perhaps your client?” he said, indicating Mira.

“No,” I said. “Mira, meet Burton Haldimand of the Cottingham Museum. Burton, this is Mira Tetford. She’s helping me with the purchase.” I decided that was all Burton needed to know. “And this is Ruby, Mira’s assistant.”

“How do you do, ladies,” Burton said. “And may I introduce Liu Da Wei. He is assisting me while I’m in Beijing.”

“Please call me David,” he said, shaking hands all ‘round.

Da Wei, David, I thought. I suppose that’s how they choose their English names, something close to their Chinese one. David and Ruby obviously knew each other, and I thought that might be a subject for some discussion when Mira and I were alone, just to size up the opposition, as it were.

The formalities dispensed with, I decided to have a look around. There were a number of contemporary paintings, rather attractive ones, up for sale, as well as much older pieces. There were several folios for sale. I didn’t have a clue what they were, but they were attractive. I didn’t stand a chance of understanding the catalog, so Ruby explained that one of the folios was by a renowned seventeenth century poet and scholar.

It was all very informal. People just came and went. The man at the desk carried on peering at his computer. He didn’t even look up when I was a few feet away. That was because he was playing a game on his computer. It was as if we weren’t there. The silver box was there, however. It looked okay to me.

Burton was taking a cursory look, as I was, at everything else in the room, and sidled up to me when I found myself alone for a minute. “Will you tell me who your client is this time?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “You’re getting tiresome on this subject.”

“I wonder who was on the telephone that night,” Burton chattered on. “Now, it could have been one of the Matthews. Or it could have been Xie Jinghe.”

“Who is Xie Jinghe?” I said. I knew perfectly well, but I can never resist the temptation to tweak Burton’s nose, metaphorically speaking. He’d be annoyed I didn’t appreciate the fact he knew Xie Jinghe. While I’d never met the man, I did know Xie was wealthy and a philanthropist, having donated a quite spectacular collection of Shang bronzes to the Cottingham. He had a fabulous home in Vancouver, featured in a design magazine I tend to favor, and an Asian art collection that was regularly referred to in magazines on that subject.

Burton looked pained and began to explain, just as, in true speak-of-the-devil fashion, a tall, thin man entered the room. Burton looked startled for a moment, but regained his composure, and went over to talk to this new visitor. He even shook his hand. A minute or two later, Burton beckoned me over as well, although he looked reluctant to do so.

“Lara, Xie Jinghe would like to meet you,” he said. “Dr. Xie is head of Xie Homeopathic, as I’m sure you know. I use his company’s products on a regular basis. He is a great scholar and arts patron as well. You will find him a delight to talk to. Lara McClintoch is an antique dealer from Toronto, Dr. Xie.”

While I knew of Dr. Xie, I didn’t know much about Xie Homeopathic, but then I didn’t spend as much time on my health as Burton did. What I did know was that Burton’s fawning introduction of Xie was making me nauseous. Perhaps it was making my qi disharmonious again. I wondered how Dr. Xie himself felt about it. I was soon to find out. “Burton had no luck convincing George Matthews and his firm to sponsor his soon-to-be restored Asian galleries,” Xie said. “He has therefore turned his attention to me, as you have no doubt already surmised, Ms. McClintoch.” I tried not to smile. “I believe you knew my late friend, Dory Matthews.”

“I did,” I said. “I miss her.”

“As do I,” he said. Burton looked really uncomfortable. He couldn’t possibly have been surprised that George Matthews wouldn’t donate to the Cottingham, given their treatment of his wife. Perhaps, though, Burton was unaware of Xie’s friendship with Dory. That comment should have told him in an instant that all this sycophantic posturing of his had been for naught.

I had a pleasant chat with Dr. Xie, who, it turned out, supplied various brands of homeopathic remedies throughout the world, including North America. Dr. Xie had homes in both Beijing and Vancouver. He also had an office in Toronto. “You are surprised, perhaps, that I and George and Dory Matthews are friends. George and I are competitors of a sort, I suppose, but not really. His company and mine both manufacture products to make people well, but we take completely different approaches. He holds patents on drugs I suppose you would consider traditional, while I supply products that stem from a long tradition of Chinese medicine, treatments that 7 would call traditional. We often have heated discussions on the relative merits of our approaches, but we remain friends nonetheless.”

“I don’t know George well at all, but I adored Dory,” I said. “She taught me everything I know about Chinese history and art.”

“She was indeed very knowledgeable—George as well in the field in which he collects. Now, what do we have here?” he said, stopping in front of the silver box. It was open, and placed on a pedestal so that you could view it from all sides, which Dr. Xie did. “This contains a formula for the elixir of immortality,” he said after some study. “The author of the writing in this box was almost certainly an alchemist. That is most interesting.”

“Alchemist? You mean someone who tries to turn base metals into gold?”

“That was part of Chinese alchemy,” he said. “Yes, people did want to produce gold, just as alchemists in Europe did. But, like alchemists everywhere, there was a more spiritual dimension to their pursuit as well. Chinese alchemists wanted to become an Immortal, and to dwell in the otherworld with other Immortals. Alchemists here would have almost certainly espoused Taoism as their religion, and Taoists believe that both the po and the hun, the body and the spirit, remain after death. Just as a matter of interest, people went to extraordinary lengths to preserve their bodies. Some alchemists, and some Taoists, managed to more or less mummify themselves while they were still alive by eating only mica and pine gum.”

I managed not to gag. Despite this rather strange interest in achieving immortality, Dr. Xie was an interesting and scholarly individual. “The pill or elixir of immortality was part of that process,” he continued. “You partook of it, and you became immortal. It could happen suddenly. One minute you’d be there, and the next you’d vanish, leaving your clothes behind you.”

“Given the ingredients, things like arsenic and mercury, this elixir of immortality sounds a bit dangerous.”

“And it was. You do know, though, that poisonous substances are used in the treatment of disease all the time,” he said. “Arsenic was, for a long time, just about the only successful treatment for syphilis, and after all, digitalis, or foxglove, is a poison that is used in the treatment of heart disorders. I could name many more. We treat allergies using tiny amounts of the substances the patient is allergic to, as well. Large amounts might result in anaphylactic shock and possibly death, but tiny amounts help you build up immunity. As for the elixir of immortality, many Chinese people, including emperors, knew the ingredients were toxic, but they took it in small doses anyway. Several Chinese emperors, possibly including the first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huangdi, the man we know from the terra-cotta warriors in Xi’an, died trying to become immortal. It is possible that five of the twenty-one Tang emperors died of poisoning in their quest for immortality.”

“Was this Illustrious August mentioned here one of them?”

“No. Illustrious August was deposed in a coup, abdicating in favor of his son, and dying some time later. Not nearly so glamorous.”

“You’ve made a study of alchemy, have you?” I asked.

“In a way, yes. I am a Taoist. Technically, in the People’s Republic of China there is no religion. But now, people are not usually persecuted for their beliefs, with some notable exceptions. I am happy to say I was able to contribute funds toward the restoration of a Taoist temple close to my home that was damaged during the Cultural Revolution, and I occasionally go there for spiritual renewal, and sometimes solace, I’m interested in alchemy, I suppose, because of my business. But really, striving for immortality is not so different from believing in heaven, is it?”

“No, I guess it isn’t. Are you thinking of bidding on the T’ang box, Dr. Xie?”

“I don’t believe so. It would be interesting to own, of course, but unlike George Matthews, I don’t collect in my area of business. I am very interested, however, in the folio of the seventeenth-century poet over there. It is that I have come to see. And you?”

“I’m interested in the T’ang box,” I said.

“For yourself?”

“For a client.” It was tempting to tell the very pleasant Dr. Xie, who claimed to be friend to both George and Dory Matthews, who that client might be, but I’d made a promise and I was going to keep it.

“I expect you will find Burton a formidable opponent.”

“I expect I will. I plan to emerge victorious.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” he said. “I will enjoy the encounter, especially if you are the top bidder. Dr. Haldimand may be a good customer of Xie Homeopathic, as he is wont to tell me at great length and often, but I will be in your corner in this endeavor.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Now if you will excuse me, I am going to take a look at that folio. Perhaps you and I will have a celebratory glass of champagne after the auction.”

“I would like that very much.”

“Excellent. I will look forward to seeing you then.”

Ruby, who was looking very smart in her fake Prada shoes and handbag, headed my way when she saw that I was alone. “I am wondering if you have done something to offend Dr. Haldimand? He looks at you with some annoyance.”

“That is because I have been having a lovely chat with someone he was hoping to impress,” I replied.

“Xie Jinghe is a very important man,” Ruby agreed.

“Yes, and I hope to annoy Dr. Haldimand even more on Thursday when I purchase the silver box that he wants.” Ruby giggled. I left her to take another look at the art on offer.

I would have cause to think long and often about what transpired next. Burton was looking at a lovely watercolor on the far side of the room. Dr. Xie was chatting with Mira near the folio he wanted to purchase. They seemed to be conferring on some subject of importance, as opposed to just small talk. Ruby and David were sharing a joke of some kind. I was just standing there, trying to get a feel for the place and what I thought the prices might be like, how the room might be set for the auction—anything, really, that would make me feel more comfortable about what I had to do. I suppose I sensed rather than saw someone enter the room, and turned to see that another person had joined us.

He was dressed very fashionably in a black turtleneck and slacks and Gucci loafers. Real Gucci loafers. He looked as if he could afford to be there. He surveyed the room from the door, glanced briefly at the young man at his computer game, and then came and stood in front of a painting, studying it from a distance. Then another man, equally well dressed, came in. I couldn’t see his face, but he had spiky hair, and there was something in his stance that made me recognize him as the third bidder in New York, the man in fake Hugo Boss, the person I called Mr. Knockoff. This time the man was wearing ersatz Armani.

As I watched in dismay, Mr. Knockoff took several swift steps farther into the room, grabbed the silver box, and headed for the door. I yelped, and all of us turned, including the man at the desk who finally stood up. Dr. Xie, who was closest, made an attempt to stop the man by tripping him with his cane, but to no avail. David, who was a lot faster than the rest of us, sprinted toward the doors, with the man in black right behind him. Mr. Knockoff ran down the escalator, David in hot pursuit.

Near the front door of the building, Mr. Knockoff stumbled slightly, and David, who had been steadily gaining on the thief, reached out to grab him. The man in black shouted something. The doorman rushed over and grabbed, not the thief, but David. The man in black shouted again, the doorman released David, but it was too late. Mr. Knock-off and the silver box had both disappeared.