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“It would be helpful if tonight at dinner you could tell the group that you’ve given me your brother’s notebook. Or if anyone asks about it, just tell them to come see me.”
“But I didn’t give it to you.”
There was stupid and there was beyond stupid, Hulan thought. “Can you just do as I ask?”
“I’ll do whatever you want if you let me stay here.”
It was a bargain Hulan could live with.
DAVID SCANNED THE ROOM AND SAW THAT STUART MILLER AND Madame Wang had taken seats on the center aisle about eight rows from the front. He made his way to them and sat in the chair they’d saved for him, his mind racing with everything Ma had said. This case had seemed so straightforward when David and Hulan left Beijing, but now he was being asked by a Ministry of State Security agent to retrieve the ruyi without waiting until the courts opened on Monday. How exactly was David supposed to do that? Why would he do that? What was it about the ruyi that was so important to the Ministry of State Security? The ministry’s mandate was to ensure the stability and security of the state by preventing foreign-inspired conspiracies, subversion, and sabotage. David simply didn’t see how the Site 518 ruyi could play a part in any of that.
The catalog had stated that the auction would take place from seven to nine. Though David had thought two hours was an underestimate, it seemed that things would indeed move very quickly. Fitzwilliams was already on Lot 12—a seventeenth-century bronze Lohan seated on a Fu lion. A projection of the figure filled the screen on the left side of the podium. The screen on the right registered the bidding increments in 7.57 Hong Kong dollars to one U.S. dollar, and then the equivalent in pounds, euros, and yen.
Fitzwilliams’s rigid posture was completely gone. His body undulated from side to side, his arms moving gracefully through the air as he acknowledged different bids in a sonorous voice. “Fifty thousand, fifty-five thousand, sixty thousand to you, sir. Sixty thousand. Do I have any advance on sixty thousand?”
“Here, sir,” a man called out from the phone bank, where now every chair was occupied by a Cosgrove’s employee. Some were on phones with customers bidding on this lot, others were dialing and getting ready for the next lot, while a few simply sat and waited for their customers’ lots to come up later. Those on the phones cupped hands around their receivers, which meant that not only could no one on the bidding floor hear them but neither could their colleagues next to them. Although Cosgrove’s employees, in this moment they worked on behalf of customers at the other end of the line.
“Sixty-five thousand, sixty-five thousand, sixty-five thousand. Anyone else? Are we all through then? Fair warning to you.” Fitzwilliams brought the hammer down decisively. “Sold for sixty-five thousand Hong Kong.”
The man at the phone bank quickly gave Fitzwilliams the bidder’s number, and it was on to Lot 13—a blue-and-white porcelain vase, which sold in less than a minute for just under the published estimated price of HK$1,500.
Stuart leaned over and whispered, “This next one should be interesting.”
Lot 14 was also a blue-and-white porcelain, but instead of coming from uncertain origin in the late Qing Dynasty, it had a mark showing it had come from the Chenghua period. This particular piece had been exhibited in London, New York, Washington, D.C., and here in Hong Kong as part of an international tour. It was being sold from the private collection of someone from Salem, Massachusetts, whose great-great-grandfather had been in the China trade. The catalog estimated that the bowl would sell for between HK$1.5 million and HK$2 million, making it the most expensive piece in the auction.
At the front of the room, split-screen photos showed the bowl’s silhouette and interior. To David’s left, eight employees on the phones waited to bid for people not in attendance. Fitzwilliams also explained that he had several bids on the books—meaning he would be bidding for absentee customers who’d submitted written bids.
The action was lively and fast, with Fitzwilliams handling the crowd like a snake charmer. Paddles lifted here and there about the room. The men and women on the phones raised their hands periodically to indicate that their bidders were going up another increment. In less than thirty seconds the bidding had reached HK$1.5 million.
“Watch Fitzwilliams, David,” Stuart whispered. “If you knew the players, you’d know that he’s acknowledging bids for longtime Cosgrove’s customers before the bidders who are strangers to him or who he doesn’t like.”
“I’m out and off the book,” Fitzwilliams announced. The bidding had now gone above what the absentee bidders had offered. “Any advance on two million two hundred thousand?”
“See how people are no longer holding their paddles up high,” Stuart said. “They don’t want the others to see they’re still in the game. See that! Just a slight nod of the head or a lifted finger. Most people want to hide in the crowd to do their bidding. But some like to make a big show of it, hoping to intimidate others from even trying. As I said before, it’s all in how you play the game.”
When the blue-and-white languished at HK$2.4 million, Fitzwilliams said, “I want to remind everyone that Christmas is just a few months away.” Laughter rippled through the room from all except the two people still locked in the final phase of bidding. One of the men raised his forefinger, and Fitzwilliams said, “Two million five hundred thousand. Thank you, sir.” The auctioneer’s body oscillated slightly in the direction of the other bidder. “Going on? No? Fair warning then. Sold to paddle 417. Merry Christmas and good show.”
After a small but appreciative round of applause, Fitzwilliams moved straight on to Lot 15.
Madame Wang and Daisy Ting had a lively battle for the Song Dynasty dingyao, with the former triumphing. Nixon Chen, as predicted, bid repeatedly on the fifteen snuff bottles that came up as separate lots. After the blue-and-white bowl, the snuff bottles seemed like bargains, priced as they were between HK$500 and HK$6,500. Nixon came away with five, though none of his had gone over eighteen hundred. As Stuart Miller put it, “He’s a typical lawyer. He’s not the sort to get caught up in the moment.” David suspected it had more to do with the years Nixon had spent at the Red Soil Farm in the countryside with Hulan. Nixon had a fondness for luxury, but it was always tempered by the fear that it could be taken away again.
Stuart bid on the jadeite ruyi with the carvings of the Eight Immortals but dropped out when the piece went over the estimated price. Ma bid on all of the jade pieces, winning all of the bis but falling out early on the one that looked like a boomerang, which went to someone in the front row. The latter, David read in the catalog description, was actually part of a larger musical instrument. Typically these chimes—whether made from stone,
bone, or bronze—were hung from a double-tiered support system and hit with a hammer, creating sounds reflective of the size of each piece.
Lot 47 was the cloisonné ruyi, which Stuart easily added to his collection. After that, a pair of green-glazed early Tang Dynasty figures sitting astride horses sold for just over their estimated price. Through all of these lots, Fitzwilliams worked the room, enticing people to join the bidding, luring the audience with extra details about a piece, coaxing people to go higher, and praising them when they did. And when the action stalled or when prices soared, the waiters who lingered on the sidelines passed through the audience refilling champagne glasses, keeping bidders merry and purse strings loose. It was the most beautiful act of commerce David had ever seen.
At 8:45, the Site 518 ruyi came up as Lot 95. Only one woman was on the phone and at the ready when Fitzwilliams opened the bidding at two thousand, a full thousand below the estimate. The price rose in the required increments of two hundred until it reached three thousand, then by three hundred until it reached five thousand. Fitzwilliams’s movements and the sound of his voice were mesmerizing as he quickly shifted between Dr. Ma and the person in the front row who’d won the chime. David could see only the back of the bidder’s head but could tell by the haircut that it was a man and by the color and texture of his hair that he was probably Chinese. Chinese American, as it turned out, which David learned when Stuart Miller once again filled him in.
“That’s one of those Silicon Valley guys I told you about. Bill Tang is very greedy, very nouveau riche. He even gives the Red Princes a run for their money. Our old friend Dr. Ma doesn’t stand a chance.”
The bidding passed ten thousand, then twenty thousand, then jumped to one hundred thousand. It had taken less than a minute, and the price was already considerably beyond the estimated value. People who’d gone to stretch their legs came back. Others, who’d become bored with the proceedings or were waiting for the reception and banquet to start, were suddenly intrigued. Feeling that there must be something to this piece they hadn’t realized, a few of the dealers Stuart had pointed out earlier joined in, driving the price up faster than the screen with all the foreign denominations could keep up. In the front row, Bill Tang held his paddle steadily aloft, signaling to everyone that he wouldn’t drop out.
The bidding hit 250,000, and Stuart Miller had yet to raise his paddle. A brief round of applause at one million caused Fitzwilliams to pause in his melody of numbers just long enough to chastise, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Then the bidding resumed, now jumping in increments of 100,000. There was a temporary lull at 1.5 million, with Bill Tang holding that bid, his paddle still held high enough for everyone to see.
“One million five,” Fitzwilliams said. “Any advance on a million five? No more bids?” Fitzwilliams addressed Ma directly. “You, sir, staying in?”
Ma shook his head.
