The Chinese Alchemist

Four

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

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

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

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

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

“I have an errand for you,” the woman known as Lingfei said. “I understand you can read and write. I would ask you to write down this list,” she said, gesturing to brushes and ink. When I had complied, she continued. “You will go to the lane of the apothecary, and thence to the stall whose name I will give you. Ask the proprietor to give you the powders that are listed and bring them back as soon as you can. There is more than enough money in the pouch for the purchase. You may keep for yourself what is left. There is plenty there for you to indulge your passion for dumplings and fried pastries,” she said. “There will be another coin for you if you return quickly.” With that she tossed the pouch, which resembled the ones distributed the previous evening by the emperor, toward me and disappeared into the shadows.

This was perplexing, to be sure. This woman knew far more about me than I did of her. It was true I liked the dumplings from a certain stall in the market, not far from the apothecary lane. It had been pointed out to me more than once that I was no longer the skinny child I was when I had first arrived at the Imperial Palace. How would a royal concubine like Lingfei, whose acquaintance I had just made, know that?

It was the first of many surprises during the time I knew Lingfei. It was also the first of many errands. I was regularly sent to the markets to fetch what she needed, most often to the apothecary lane. I often had to wait for some time, while she attended to some young woman or another, but it was a pleasant enough place to wait. It was many months before I summoned the courage to ask her if she would tell me about these potions, but to no avail: she declined, saying that time would tell whether or not I could be someone with whom she shared this information.

It took me a moment or two to get my bearings. I was in a narrow lane lined with high walls. The buildings were gray brick with gray roof tiles, so the place had a monochromatic aspect, punctuated here and there by a brighter sign and on one side by a lone red Chinese lantern that seemed to glow in this setting. It was quiet, the bustle of the street I had just left only a muffled sound behind me. Two men were sitting on the street playing chess, two birdcages hanging near them, the birds chirping away. Another man was repairing a bicycle nearby.

For a moment I just stood enjoying myself, drinking in this place so different from the new Beijing of traffic and towers. This is what Beijing used to be, a city of tiny streets like this one, called a hutong or lane. I was in a hutong neighborhood. This was the Beijing I’d loved twenty years ago, the one of little neighborhoods, and I was happy to have rediscovered it. The residents themselves run these neighborhoods, electing their own leaders, and setting the rules for everyone. Many things are shared, I was reminded, as a teenage boy came out of a doorway in his pajamas and a well-worn terry bathrobe, walked briskly along the street, and then into what was clearly marked, with the international man and woman symbols, as a public toilet. That made me smile for some reason. There were wires for electricity, and aerials for television, but there were also communal bathrooms.

It was all quite lovely, in an understated way. The rather stately gray walls of the lane were punctuated by doors, some ramshackle, others much more elaborate. In the latter case, the entrances were painted, often red, and they had lovely old door knockers. Sometimes I could look through to the courtyards beyond; in still others, my view of the interior was blocked by a decorated wall or screen, attractive in its own way.

I was enchanted. It was all coming back to me: the houses are called siheyuan, a typical northern Chinese style of home. The Forbidden City uses this same design writ large. The houses are a series of single-story buildings built around courtyards, sort of like a family compound. You go through a door, a gate really, called a “good luck gate,” and then you’re in the first courtyard. You can tell how important the person was who originally lived in the siheyuan by the number of crossbeams at the entranceway. You can see the rounded ends of the beams, some of them painted and decorated, protruding out of the gate over the door. No beam or one beam signifies a very ordinary family. Five beams and you’re in the presence of a pretty important person. Nobody got seven beams because seven is an unlucky number in China, and nine was a number reserved for the emperor.

It was captivating to be sure, but unfortunately there was no sign of Burton. I’d given him too much of a head start when I’d waited for him to come out of that shop. I decided I should just savor the experience and look around, and with any luck he’d turn up. If he didn’t, then I’d had an enjoyable time, and I’d just go back to the hotel. Knowing I was in a hutong neighborhood technically meant I couldn’t get lost, as the houses in hutongs are aligned as the Forbidden City is, in fact as all of Beijing is, or at least used to be, on a north-south axis. The main avenues tend to also run in that direction, the hutongs run east-west by and large, linking them. If I kept going, I’d hit a main thoroughfare, and transportation back to the hotel.

Still, after a few minutes, I was feeling a bit anxious. Yes, technically hutongs ran east-west, but there were side lanes that didn’t, and I didn’t have a clue where I’d started. It was now a bit overcast, and a light snow was beginning to fall, making all the streets look even more the same. After several minutes, I still hadn’t come upon a main thoroughfare as I had thought I would.

I began to think that not only had I lost Burton, I was pretty much lost myself. Still, luck was with me on both counts. My first break was a very loud drumming sound that began quite suddenly not that far away. It had to be the Drum Tower, which marked the north end of the old city of Beijing, and I knew where that was. Realizing that the drumming would not continue for long, I started off at a fast pace in the direction of the sound. As I rounded a corner, I realized all was not lost on the Burton score either. I backed up a few paces in the direction I’d come, and then carefully peered around the corner again.

Burton was standing in front of one of the more elaborate siheyuan, talking to someone in the doorway. This home had a rather large, richly ornamented good luck gate flanked by imposing stone sculptures, guardians of the gate. The wall of the compound stretched along the hutong for many yards, and I could see a rather impressive roofline inside the wall. If I were a betting person, I’d say whoever lived there had his own bathroom. After all, there were five beams on that gate. And to all appearances, the lucky person in question was the man in black.

This was all very perplexing, to say nothing of irritating. As personally rewarding as touring the hutong neighborhood might have been for me, following Burton everywhere was not my idea of a good time, and his constant obfuscation as to his plans was definitely getting up my nose. Still, I too had a plan, one that involved finding my way back to the hotel and then ambushing him. With the Drum Tower, a fabulous structure that was used to sound the time both morning and evening for the inhabitants of ancient Beijing in the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, located, and a taxi hailed to take me to the hotel, I put my plan into action. I rather hoped the army officer hadn’t recognized me. I seemed to be the only Caucasian woman in the neighborhood, and therefore more obvious than usual. I’d worn a hat and scarf against the cold and snow, and I hadn’t noticed any glimmer of recognition on his face in the second or two before I’d hightailed it out of there. Indeed, he and Burton had been very deep in conversation. I was reasonably sure that Burton, with his back to me, had no inkling of my presence.

I ordered myself a coffee in the lobby and waited for Burton to return. I gave him about five minutes to get to his room and get his coat off before I pounced. I knew which room was his. He’d bought the drinks when we’d met in the bar, and I’d noted it when he signed for them. He answered my knock with a can of disinfectant spray in his hand. I held my breath for a few seconds in case he decided I had to be hosed down before I would be permitted to enter. He didn’t look happy to see me, but at least he didn’t blast me with the disinfectant, and after a long pause, he stepped aside and gestured for me to come in.

“I have a proposal for you, Burton,” I said.

“Could it not wait until this evening? I’m going to see you at the auction. I was hoping to have a bit of a rest. I’m not feeling completely well.” Actually, he didn’t look well, now that he mentioned it. He kept his head down as he spoke, and still had his sunglasses on. This did not stop me.

“Your qi is no longer harmonious, is that it, Burton? I’m sorry to hear that. Here is what you are up to. You aren’t looking for a substitute for the T’ang box. I think you’re looking for the box itself. Mira Tetford, whom you met the other day, has had all the newspapers checked, and there is no word of the theft from the auction house yet. You think if you put the word out, the thief, who may think he’s relatively safe given the lack of publicity, will come to you. You are following every lead. Am I right?” Actually, although I had decided not to mention it, the lead he’d been following that morning had been mine: the idea that the man in black had deliberately blocked the view of the custodian at the auction house so that the thief would have a head start. The man in black might even have given the doorman the wrong impression as to which young man to tackle.

He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “I suppose I might be doing that,” he said. “There’s a chance, you know.”

“I think it’s a really long shot, and probably a waste of time. But I want that box, too, as much as you do, if not more. What I am suggesting is that we look for the box together. It will save time. If one of us finds it, the deal is that it goes back to the auction house. We both get to compete for it again, and we’ll let the legal process take its course. May the best person win, as you would say. You might as well agree. Purchasing it is one thing, but you would have trouble getting it out of the country if it has been reported stolen.”

“I could probably get it out.”

“They definitely don’t want stolen antiquities taken out of the country. If you got caught, they’d assume you were the one who stole it. Even if you legally purchased it at the auction, China probably doesn’t want you to take it out.”

“That’s ridiculous. I mean, yes, the Chinese government is asking the U.S. to ban imports of Chinese antiques and antiquities over ninety-five years old. Hypocritical if you ask me.”

“What’s hypocritical about wanting to protect your heritage for your own citizens?”

“Protect your heritage? Surely you know that during the Cultural Revolution people were encouraged to destroy much of the country’s heritage—antiques, temples, tombs, you name it. It was state-sponsored hooliganism, if you ask me. Almost everything of value from an historical perspective was a target.”

“That was then, this is now. Now they want to protect it.”

“They have a funny way of doing it. You wait until tonight at the auction. You’ll see. There’ll be dozens of Chinese collectors paying large sums for the merchandise. The biggest market for Chinese antiquities is the Chinese themselves.”

“So?”

“So these bidders will by and large be private citizens, the new wealthy class, young and aggressive. These objects are not going to museums where they can be shared with the proletariat, I can assure you. They are going to people like Xie Jinghe, who, elegant gentleman though he may be, will be the only viewer, unless of course he lets some of his equally wealthy friends have a peek at his treasures every now and again. So why shouldn’t we, as North Americans, either individual collectors or dealers or museum curators, have the same access?”

“What about—?”

“Please don’t give me the argument about buyers and collectors encouraging looting. The Chinese government urges its citizens to get out there and collect Chinese art and antiquities. If anything is encouraging looting, that is it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me put my feelings on this subject another way. If I found out you were trying to smuggle something out of the country, I would report you in a flash. Despite what you say, I believe the penalties here have become quite harsh for exporting something of real cultural significance, which this arguably is, particularly when it’s been stolen. The death penalty, isn’t it?”

He paled. He should have, too, because people have in fact been executed for smuggling fossils out of China. “How do I know you won’t find it and not tell me?” he said, after he managed to compose himself.

“You don’t. I’m just giving you my word that I will play fair here. Personally, I think I’m the one taking the greater risk.”

He thought about it all for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Deal. Let’s shake on it.”

We shook, my bare hands to his surgical gloves. “Do you want some tea?” he said, gesturing toward a rather complicated bit of tea paraphernalia and a box of some kind of tea that I didn’t recognize. “I’ve brewed a pot. This one helps remove blockages of the qi.”

Once again, it smelled like drain cleaner. I declined. “What is that thing?” I asked, pointing at a small cylindrically shaped machine of some kind that was humming away rather noisily.

“It’s an air filter,” he said.

“You travel with an air filter?” I asked incredulously.

“I do,” he said. “Dual voltage, of course, with a set of international plugs so I can use it anywhere. The same goes for my tea kettle. You can’t count on a hotel to have them in the rooms, and anyway, who knows who’s used them and what they put in them.”

“You travel with an air filter,” I repeated.

“What’s your point?” he asked in a peevish tone.

“No point, I guess.”

“It’s flu season. Everyone is coming back from Asia with these horrible bronchial conditions.”

“I see. I’ll try not to do that. To get back to the real point of this conversation: where are we going next?” I asked.

“Panjiayuan Market,” he said. “Do you know it? It’s south and east of here. It’s big, so we’ll go tomorrow morning and spend a good part of the day if we have to.”

“Let’s go together,” I said, determined not to let him out of my sight. “I’ll meet you in the lobby whenever you say.”

“Good. We’ll share a cab. No, wait. I have an appointment for a therapeutic massage first thing. Spot of tummy trouble I want to get under control. It’s on the way. I think the market opens early, but why don’t we meet there at nine thirty. Does that work for you?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll meet you there. We can divide it up and get it done in half the time. I’ll bring my copy of the photograph, and I’ll get myself lots of cards from the hotel, and just put my name on them.”

“Get the taxi driver to take you to the antique section, not the curio part of the market. I’ll meet you there. We’ll stick close together. If you have language difficulties, I won’t be far away.” I wanted to say that I was perfectly aware that the reason he wanted me close was not to help me with his Chinese, but to keep an eye on me at all times. That suited me just fine. I wanted to keep tabs on him, too. I also wanted to ask him what he was doing talking to the man in black, but that would have meant letting him know I’d been following him. I thought it best not to do that, given that at the moment I appeared to have the upper hand, ethically speaking, no matter how undeserving I might be. He hadn’t mentioned that he knew I was following him, which either meant he hadn’t seen me, or that he was being as cagey on that subject as I was.

We didn’t talk about our arrangement again that day. In fact, we were not to talk about it ever again. I did see him at the auction, however. There was a good crowd, which included Mira Tetford, who said working on this project with me had gotten her interested in Chinese art, something she was sure was going to cost her money. I told her there was no turning back.

The bidding was fierce. I had to admit, painful though it might be, that Burton was right about one thing: most of the bidders were Chinese, young, ostentatiously dressed, and doubtless buying for themselves, not a museum. Dr. Xie was the oldest bidder in the room. He was also the high bidder for the folio, paying an astounding three million dollars U.S. That went a long way to explaining why the mystery seller had decided to move the box to Beijing from New York. He or she would definitely be doing better here than in New York. I did think about bidding on some lovely porcelain, but Burton, who saw that I was about to put in a bid, stopped me. “Not worth it,” he said. Again, he was probably right. Mira, however, did bid, and managed to acquire a very lovely nineteenth-century painting with advice from both Dr. Xie and Burton. She was thrilled.

Dr. Xie was determined to celebrate his acquisition, and celebrate it we did. It was not quite the quiet glass or two of fine champagne that I’d been expecting. Rather it was a sumptuous party at his penthouse apartment. Once again, the view over the Forbidden City and the lights of central Beijing was spectacular. The apartment was gorgeous, all gold and blue, with silk carpets everywhere, and very beautiful hand-carved furniture. The art was breathtaking. I could have spent days there examining every piece. There was a cabinet of Shang bronzes, beautiful porcelain, lacquerware, and jade objects that were just exquisite, and some gold and silver objects as well. He had an entire glass cabinet filled with T’ang dynasty funerary objects, terra-cotta figures of horses and camels and riders, servants, and soldiers, glazed in yellow and green. I almost forgot to drink my champagne.

Dr. Xie was particularly fond of his collection of scrolls and folios. A nicely masculine den with dark furniture had almost every square inch of wall covered with beautiful scrolls. He joined me in that room. “You have an extraordinary collection, Dr. Xie,” I said. “I heard about the collection you donated in Canada, but I haven’t had a chance to see it yet. If it is half as beautiful as this, then the museum is indeed fortunate to have it.”

He acknowledged the compliment modestly. “I’ve been very successful both here and in Canada, and happy to have found a way to share that. I admit I’ve become somewhat addicted to collecting. Eventually I will give all of this to a museum, but I want to enjoy it myself for now. Shall I show you where I’m going to put the folio I just purchased?”

I followed him to a sort of antechamber off the den. In it was a glass case, humidity and light controlled. “This is where it will go, my little sanctuary,” he said. “Now I must join my other guests. Dinner will be served shortly.”

I was admiring the T’ang funerary figures in the living room one more time when it occurred to me that as lovely as they were, not one piece in the cabinet, and possibly the entire apartment, could really hold a candle to a set of nesting silver caskets, not because the figures in front of me weren’t absolutely top-notch, because they were, but because there was something very special about the boxes. Every now and then, there are pieces of art that somehow capture our imagination, because they encapsulate an age, perhaps, or because there is a story attached to them that continues to have resonance for us, or because they carry some symbolism that is profound. Art like this can move us deeply. Yes, the funerary figures in front of me were particularly lovely, and undoubtedly authentic. Yes, the workmanship was superb. Yes, both the funerary figures and the boxes dated to the same era and chances were both had come from a T’ang tomb. Somehow, though, the silver boxes with the rather poignant, indeed hopeful, formula for the elixir of immortality stood head and shoulders above the rest. Burton was right. It was just that kind of antiquity that a museum like the Cottingham would want to have as the anchor piece for its Asian galleries. Any museum would.

I hadn’t heard Burton come up behind me until he spoke. “Fabulous stuff,” he said. I nodded, “But not as fabulous as that silver coffret.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“We have to find it, Lara. It doesn’t matter which museum gets it, mine or the one your client plans to donate it to. But we have to find it.”

“Yes, we do, Burton. We really do.”

“And we will. Time to eat,” he said.

There were several people there I knew, and several I didn’t. Mira and Ruby were there, as were Burton and David. Mira pulled me aside and pointed out some of the people, including a gentleman on the far side of the room. “Big man in the government,” she whispered. “Very influential. Son of a close friend of Mao Zedong. Harvard educated.”

“I thought you didn’t get to leave China to go to Harvard,” I said. “When I was here twenty years ago anyway, which I suppose would be about the time the man you’re pointing to went to Harvard, you had to get special permission to leave the country, didn’t you?”

“Anything was possible if you were the son of a friend of Mao’s,” she said. “Does the term red prince or red princess mean anything to you?”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It’s the offspring of someone who was closely associated with Mao. I’d say several of the people in this room would qualify. Friends of Mao got special privileges, a better place to live, they were allowed to accumulate wealth where other people couldn’t, and yes, their children could go to Harvard.”

“Now that the country is opening up a little, maybe the concept doesn’t have as much relevance.”

“They’re still around. Ruby would like to leave the country to study. Do you think she’ll get a passport instantly? No, she won’t. I’ll do my best to get it for her, because she’s talented and should be doing more than simply assisting me. I would miss her. She found the office for me, and she deals with the bureaucracy that I don’t understand. But if she wants to go abroad, I’m going to try to get her there. I brought her tonight because I want her to meet the influential Dr. Xie. I’m here to chat up the government big guys.”

“I guess if Dr. Xie put this party together, he was pretty sure he was going to be the successful bidder on the folio. He did say he would hold a wake if he didn’t, but this looks pretty much like a victory party to me. If the people here are as important as you say, you wouldn’t just call them up from the auction house and tell them to come on over.”

“No, and you wouldn’t have food like this just sitting in your refrigerator, either,” she said, as a waiter passed some really delectable shrimp hors d’ouevres. “When you can outbid anybody in the room, and you are absolutely determined to get something, then, yes, you can plan your victory party in advance. Dr. Xie is that wealthy and that determined.”

“And the Chinese government doesn’t care if he owns all this art? I mean there are objects here that have got to be five thousand years old! That cabinet of Shang bronzes would make any museum proud.”

“As long as he keeps it in the country, and as long as he has such influential friends, I don’t think it’s a problem. Really, the government just wants the stuff kept in China, and Dr. Xie is doing that.” That pretty much confirmed what Burton had said earlier in the day.

I found myself sitting between Mira and David, which was nice, because several people were speaking Chinese. Mira whispered to me that she was going to have to chat up the man on her right, the red prince she’d pointed out to me. That left me to talk to David, who was on Burton’s right. That was fine with me. David turned out to be an interesting man.

“So how do you know Burton?” I asked. “He said you were assisting him while he was here.”

“Nice of him to say that. I met him a year ago at an auction. We chatted and spent some time together. He got in touch when he was coming here to purchase the T’ang silver box, and I’m really just tagging along. To be perfectly honest, I wanted to meet Dr. Xie, seeing as he is an extremely important man and therefore a great contact for me. Burton was good enough to suggest he’d introduce us. I was quite unexpectedly about to meet him at Cherished Treasures House, but when the silver box got lifted, there wasn’t a chance to talk about much else. Burton then brought me along tonight. It is a blatant attempt on my part to get ahead in life.”

I laughed. “Do you collect art?”

“I’d like to. I think I need to learn more about it, to say nothing of make more money, before I get into it.”

“Very wise. Most people just leap right in, and learn through their mistakes. So what do you do for a living, then?”

“I’m a lawyer by training. I went to law school in California. I work as a consultant to businesses in, I suppose, the same way Mira does, except that she is retained by the foreign firms, and I represent the Chinese firms.”

“Does law school in California mean you are one of those red princes that Mira has told me about?”

David laughed. “I suppose so. Second generation, however. Did you enjoy the auction?” I thought perhaps it had been rude of me to ask the red prince question, which was why he was sidestepping the whole issue, but we had an enjoyable chat nonetheless. Despite what he said about his relative ignorance about art, he was very knowledgeable about Dr. Xie’s collection, certainly more so than I, and I’d had a good teacher in Dory Matthews. We exchanged cards at the end of the evening, and David told me if I came back to Beijing, he’d be happy to show me around. I thought he was adorable.

We left Dr. Xie about one in the morning. I headed back to the hotel with Burton, who’d worn sunglasses the whole evening, citing a migraine. “Don’t forget,” he said, as we parted for the night. “Panjiayuan Market, nine-thirty in the morning. Be there or be square.” As if I needed reminding!

The trouble was, morning didn’t come as soon as it was supposed to. We were up very late, and I’d had a fair amount of champagne. I admit it. That morning, of all mornings, I overslept. I had tried to set the hotel telephone alarm, and had obviously botched it, because it was 9:45 when I awoke. Having spent much of the night wandering around the room, I had managed to fall asleep shortly before I was supposed to get up. Jet lag and champagne will do this to you. I leapt out of bed, and was bolting through the lobby at about five minutes after ten. As it turned out, my timing was perfect. Burton was getting into a cab. Thinking he was late too, I headed for the door, but stopped as the doorman loaded Burton’s luggage into the trunk.

The slug had lied again! I stood motionless, absolutely fuming, as the taxi pulled away. When I had recovered a measure of composure, I went to the front desk. “My colleague from Toronto, Mr. Burton Haldimand, hasn’t checked out yet, has he?” I said in what I hoped was a panicky voice. I’m not entirely sure I was faking it.

The very pleasant woman at the desk typed away at the computer in front of her. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid so. Just a few minutes ago. Is there a problem?”

“He’s forgotten his papers,” I said. “He’s going to a meeting in… in… I can’t pronounce it, sorry.”

“Xi’an,” she said. Xi’an is very easy to pronounce, or at least to approximate the Chinese pronunciation, which is to say more or less see ahn, and most tourists in Beijing would know how to say it, given its fame for the terra-cotta warriors, but I didn’t care how dumb I looked. I’d got what I wanted. “He is coming back, though,” she said. “He asked us to keep any phone messages he received while he’s away. I would be pleased to take a message from you as well. Here, I’ll get you a pen and paper.”

“This can’t wait until he gets back. I have to get him these papers.” I pulled a packet out of my shoulder bag. It actually contained my travel documents, but what did she know? “He needs them for his meeting in Xi’an. Did he tell you what hotel he’s staying in? I’ll phone him. Perhaps I could fax some of the material. You could help me do that, couldn’t you? I’d be very grateful.”

Bless her. She told me what I wanted to know. She offered to fax the documents if I brought them back later in the afternoon when Burton would have arrived in Xi’an. I didn’t, because later that afternoon I was on an Air China flight to Xi’an, heading for what was once the capital of the T’ang dynasty, and therefore quite possibly the home of Lingfei, original owner of the silver box. I was also heading for a big dustup with a slug. To say that I was annoyed with Burton would not come close to capturing my feelings, after all that garbage about how we had to find the box no matter which of us got it, how we had to work together. I was really ticked.