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“Even I know those are just old turtle and ox bones.”
“You’re very practical, Inspector,” Quon decided.
“I don’t believe in Chinese ghosts or fox spirits either.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if Yu’s dragons did exist?”
“There’s no such thing as a dragon,” she insisted.
“How do you know? There are scholars who believe that China may
have had dragons once upon a time. Call them dinosaurs if you prefer, but still huge, powerful creatures that lived in the time before the great climatic change. Look at this slice of river, where almost every hill has a pagoda with a dragon locked under it, where every rock or curve has some story related to how Yu came through with a dragon and saved the people. Where do you think those stories came from, and why are they all so similar?”
“They came from the minds of simple village people.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that those simple village people, as you call them, may know more than you?” His disappointment in her was palpable. “Come on, let’s go back.”
AT SIX, DAVID DRESSED IN HIS NEW SUIT, GRABBED THE CATALOG, and walked the few blocks to the Ritz-Carlton. The storm was about to hit Hong Kong, and the wind was furious, but this hadn’t deterred a group of demonstrators from parading outside the Ritz with plastic-wrapped placards in English and Chinese that read, DON’T SELL OUR HERITAGE, OUR HERITAGE BELONGS IN CHINA, and RETURN OUR HERITAGE TO THE MOTHERLAND. David was here to see if he couldn’t help some of those slogans come true. As Fitzwilliams had said, there wasn’t time today to stop the auction through legal means, but tonight David could watch where the pieces that matched Ma’s descriptions went and on Monday begin litigation against their new owners if the Cultural Relics Bureau wanted him to.
He pushed through the revolving doors and into an immense air-conditioned lobby scented by bouquets of lilies and tuberoses. He rode the elevator upstairs with Daisy Ting, a Red Princess from Beijing. David had been at her daughter’s wedding last year—a lavish affair at the Palace Hotel. As soon as he got off the elevator, he recognized another couple of people from Beijing, including Nixon Chen, Hulan’s old lawyer friend who’d vouched for David’s abilities to Director Ho.
“Are you here on business or pleasure?” Nixon asked after they’d shaken hands. “We all know that your dear wife has one of the best art collections in the capital.” It was Nixon all over—florid, unctuous, but fully aware of what he was doing. Soon he’d be hauling out the American metaphors that he loved so well but usually mangled.
“Those are Liu family pieces,” Daisy Ting corrected, sidling into the conversation. “Everyone knows that Hulan’s mother’s family had some of the most beautiful artworks in the country.”
“Had is right. Those things were destroyed or confiscated,” David said.
“In the Ting family too.”
“And even in my family,” added Nixon, “which is why I’m here.” He angled in close to David. “If I may ask, what are you bidding on tonight?”
“Nothing,” David answered. “I’m here for the Cultural Relics Bureau.”
“Of course! Now we’ll learn nothing! Attorney-client privilege! Attorney Stark always plays his cards close to his vest, just like you, Daisy. I know you have your eye on those Song Dynasty ceramics.”
“And you, dear Nixon, on the snuff bottles,” Daisy bandied back. “No one tonight has a chance against you.”
“You rank me too high,” Nixon said modestly.
“Tell me who here today does not already know the strength of your paddle?”
Nixon burbled happily at the subtle innuendo, then he and Daisy drifted off. A young woman approached and in an efficient though extremely polite succession of questions determined David’s needs. Since he already had his catalog, he wouldn’t need to check in unless he wanted to bid. If he wanted to bid and didn’t already have a Cosgrove’s account, he’d need to make financial arrangements based on how much he might spend this evening. That this was Saturday night wouldn’t be a problem as long as Mr. Stark could provide his banker’s home phone number. None of this was necessary if he wanted to pay in cash. When David said that he didn’t think he’d be bidding, the young woman said that he should go into the ballroom then and enjoy the last few minutes of the preview.
Just inside the ballroom, a staff of uniformed men stood at the ready with flutes of champagne on silver trays. The paintings David had seen in the catalog hung on the walls. The other artworks stood on risers around the perimeter of the room. Folding chairs lacquered a glossy deep forest green filled the middle. A center aisle through the chairs led straight to a podium that had been set up on a platform at the front of the room. Two huge screens flanked this. To the right were lined long tables with computers and other electronic equipment, while on the left another elevated platform provided space for a table thirty feet long with fifteen chairs set behind it. On top of the table were telephones, pads of paper, pitchers of water, and glasses, all set just so.
Most of the hundred or so people here mingled around the risers, turning the objects this way and that to admire the detail, check for artist marks, and look for imperfections. None of the pieces was behind glass, and the number of security guards seemed paltry given the value of the objects and the fact that people could handle them so freely.
Once David figured out the numbering system for the lots, he made his way to the display area for the three ruyis. They lay side by side and were as different from each other as could be, although they all followed the same scepterlike design that Ma had drawn in the dirt the day before yesterday. The first was composed of turquoise cloisonné with an interlocking lotus design in red, yellow, and white. The catalog said it was from the sixteenth century and listed the estimated price between fifty thousand and seventy thousand Hong Kong dollars.
The second ruyi, dating from the late Qing Dynasty, was far less colorful but no less ornate. An elaborate rendering of the Eight Immortals had been carved into the jadeite shaft and head. Although this ruyi came with its own carrying case, the estimate was a meager HK$1,500 to HK$2,000.
The third ruyi was completely different, yet immediately recognizable from Ma’s description. It looked like a dried mushroom on a stick. The estimated price was HK$22,500 to HK$38,000, or $3,000 to $5,000 U.S. David felt like a bumbling philistine: He didn’t know a lot about art, but he knew what he liked. And he just didn’t see how any of these ruyis could be so valuable or what anyone would do with them if they owned them.
“David Stark.”
David turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Stuart Miller dressed in an elegant suit of beige linen. A middle-aged woman in a skintight cheongsam hung on his arm.
“I thought you were at the dam,” David said.
