by A. H. Wang
Taipei. This can’t just be happenstance.
“See how well preserved these pieces are?” Max is craning over her shoulder, scrolling through other images to show her. “I just can’t believe our luck in acquiring this collection.”
“Yeah, about that,” she says, turning to look at him. “Can you tell me about the person who donated it?”
“Never really met him. The guy would only deal with Ethan and Rob—the director—and no one else. You know how private some of these donors can be.” He shrugs. “I did see him in passing once though, when Rob was giving him a private tour of the gallery. Only found out ‘cause Rob’s secretary whispered to me quickly that he was the mysterious donor.” Max turns back to the tea as the kettle boils, pouring hot water into the small tea pot.
“Can you tell me what he looked like? Did he have any distinctive features?”
“Distinctive features?” He cocks his head, thinking. “Tall, thin. Maybe in his forties? Some kind of Eurasian, I think. And uh—” Max frowns as he gazes into the distance. “He had these really eerie green eyes. Gave me the shivers when he looked at me, like, for two seconds when we passed each other.”
She sucks in an audible breath, her mind reeling.
“Georgia? You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, accepting the cup of tea offered by Max. She sips it slowly, feeling the hot liquid warm the chill in her body.
Max’s mouth forms a large ‘O’ as his mind visibly works on an idea. “Listen Georgia, you’ve got to come to the opening tonight. My date bailed on me, so you can be my plus one. You can’t leave town without seeing these pieces. You can give me feedback on the first show I helped to put together.”
She smiles at his infectious excitement. “Okay. Sure.”
He sits at the edge of the desk before her, leaning back as he looks her up and down, arching one flawless brow. She feels her cheeks warm under his scrutiny.
“What?” she asks.
A mischievous grin spreads slowly across Max’s boyish face. “You better dress to seduce, Georgia girl. This opening is ultra VIP.”
22
For the second time that day, Georgia steps into the NGV building, this time dressed in a form-fitting, silky red cocktail dress that shows the full length of her back. Her hair is artfully arranged into a springy mass of curls that cascades over her right shoulder and down her chest. Her face is expertly made up by Max, and she had to fight tooth and nail to stop him from sticking fake lashes on her eyelids. She feels as if she is dressed like a queen—and not in the good sense.
“Are you sure I’m not overdressed for this?” she asks Max again.
He rolls his eyes at her in reply, shaking his head as he chuckles softly.
To say that Georgia feels self-conscious is an understatement. To make matters worse, she is trying her hardest to not trip in her killer heels. She knows her back is going to hate her for it tomorrow.
“Stop fidgeting, Georgia,” Max chides, “you’re totally cramping my style, and I’m intending to pick up tonight.”
She regrets letting Max take her shopping that afternoon, but she really had nothing to wear for the occasion. He spent hours dressing her up like his personal doll, taking obvious delight in the whole process even though Georgia groaned with protests the entire time. Evidently proud of his handiwork in her makeover, he has been unabashedly eyeing her up and down on their way here, grinning from ear to ear.
“If only Ethan could see you tonight,” he now says, slapping his thigh theatrically. “Jesus, I’d probably have to pry him off you. That would definitely give Belinda something to bitch about!”
Georgia glows red in the face, uttering no reply.
As they drop off their coats at the cloak room and take the escalator to the Asian collection gallery upstairs, she can sense heads turning towards them. She cringes inwardly at the attention. Max, on the other hand, is vivaciously greeting everyone they are passing, oozing with infectious charm from every pore of his being.
As Max explained, the opening is reserved for only a select group of benefactors of the museum. She counts no more than fifty in the gallery at the moment, all of them dressed formally with expensive-looking diamonds and gems draped over the women’s necks and wrists. There are waiters scattered about the room, each carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and Max waves one of them down.
“Here.” He hands Georgia a glass of champagne, smirking. “Drink up. You look like you need it.”
She complies mutely, trying to take her mind off the ache in her feet by focusing on the exhibition. The large gallery space is dimly lit, with subdued accent lights shining on the individual works. All of the silk and paper paintings are encased in glass cabinets, and as she moves about the room, she takes a deep breath, absorbing the beauty around her.
The Tang Dynasty, spanning 289 years from 618 to 907 CE, is generally regarded as a high point in Chinese civilisation. During this time, the state became the most powerful and prosperous country in the world, its economic, political, cultural, and military strengths reaching unparalleled levels. Trade prospered along lucrative routes on the Silk Road. Arts and culture blossomed under this period of progress and stability, and many still consider it the Golden Age of Chinese literature and art. It was also during this time that woodblock printing was invented in China, making books more readily available. The cultural environment of this age was so vibrant that it extended its influence to neighbouring countries such as Korea, Japan, and Vietnam.
“Wow,” Georgia utters as she looks at the paintings on display.
“I told you.” Max grins. He grabs her by the elbow and leads her to a long, horizontal display case in the middle of the room. Inside, there is a long scroll stretched flat across the table. “This is it. This one is my favourite.”
She studies the work before her, capturing all the details she skipped past on Max’s phone earlier. A silk painting mounted on a traditional Chinese scroll, it is of Tang court women in various elegant gestures, adorned in colourful, low-cut dresses with long-sleeve chiffon coats. The ladies have pale, white faces, and some have hair piled elaborately above their heads while others wear extravagant head ornaments and pearl necklaces. They have long silk scarves draped over their arms, and a few of them are leisurely enjoying the fragrance of flowers on a nearby tree.
Georgia smiles. The scene is typical of the lavish lifestyle during the most glorious days of the Tang Dynasty, and women of this time enjoyed a freedom of social rights and status that were unprecedented in China. They neither bound their feet nor led submissive lives. They could own property, participate in traditionally male activities like hunting, play sports such as polo, conduct business dealings, and even hold political positions at court. Many women gained religious authority by becoming Daoist priestesses, and high-class courtesans, who likely influenced the Japanese geishas, were well-respected and known as great singers and poets. It was within this liberal atmosphere that the only female emperor of China, Empress Wu, reigned for fifteen years.
Indeed, one of the reasons why this period of Chinese history is so attractive to Georgia—apart from being the pinnacle of ancient Chinese cultural development—is that it appeals to her inner feminist. Max, too, once confessed to her that this is exactly why he loves studying the Tang Dynasty. “Girl power,” he said with a cheeky wink, gesturing to the Wonder Woman figurine he kept on his desk.
“Hey Georgia,” Max now whispers as he looks distractedly around the room. “You’re gonna have to excuse me for a few minutes, I’ve just spotted the guy I was telling you about.”
She looks up, following Max’s gaze to a lanky blond in a grey suit. He is talking to someone, animating his point with effervescent movements of his slender hands, a dimpled smile wide across his face.
“What are you waiting for? Go talk to him,” she gives Max a nudge. “Take all the time you need.”
“You’ll be okay?”
She snorts a laugh. “I’ll be more than okay. I want to have a decent look at these works without you yakking in my ear.”
He glares at her with faux venom, poking out his tongue at her playfully, and walks away towards the blond across the room.
The man spots her immediately as he enters the gallery. Her dress is not entirely inconspicuous; in fact, she looks absolutely stunning and is turning heads everywhere she goes, especially with the exuberant young man accompanying her.
He frowns. What is she doing here?
He watches as her companion whispers in her ear, then walks away with a flamboyant spring in his step. Georgia shakes her head with amusement as she watches after him, and proceeds to study the exhibition pieces around the room.
The gallery begins to feel crowded as more people enter the room, the conversations growing loud. Yet she makes no attempt to talk to the people around her. It is obvious her mind is solely focused on the paintings on display.
He runs his long fingers through his matted hair. He does not know how, but she is getting close.
Too close.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” A man’s voice resonates through the speakers, and a hush descends across the busy room. The patrons shuffle slowly towards the centre of the room, where the director of the museum, Robert Clark, addresses the audience with a microphone. Robert begins to make a lengthy speech about the exhibition, thanking various staff and of course the benefactors of the museum who have made the exhibition possible.
The man remains at the back of the room as he watches Georgia through the crowd, intrigued by her.
Then, to his horror, she suddenly turns her head and looks directly at him.
23
Georgia’s breath catches in her throat, and she immediately walks towards the back of the room.
Just seconds before, she had that prickling sensation at the back of her neck again—the nagging feeling as if she was being watched—which has started to become a familiar experience these last few weeks. When she turned to look behind her, she caught a face through the crowd.
A face that made all of the hairs on her skin stand on their ends.
It was there, but then all of a sudden it wasn’t again. She pushes through the crowd, ignoring the glares and protests thrown at her as she makes her way to the spot where she spotted the face. Yet when she finally gets through the throng of people, there is no one there.
She frantically looks about her, then heads towards the door to the left, exiting as a waiter walks in with a jug of water, crashing into her and spilling the icy-cold liquid down the front of her dress. He fumbles for the glass jug, saving it before the catastrophic smash on the floor.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” the waiter exclaims. “Let me help you—”
But she’s already out the door, half running and half walking in her ridiculous heels onto the escalator leading down to the ground floor. From here, she has an elevated perspective of the level below. Her eyes scan wildly around the building, coming up with nothing. Once at the bottom of the escalator she quickly walks towards the exit of the museum. There is no one around except for the attendants at the cloak room by the entrance, watching her with curiosity as she searches for the man.
What the…?
“Georgia!” At the sound of her name, she turns to see Max running down the escalator to catch up with her. “Are you okay? Look at your dress!”
She shakes her head, trying to catch her breath.
“Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m going to make sure that waiter gets his arse fired!” He fumes, steering her towards to the restrooms.
“No, I’m fine, it’s just a little water,” she stops him. “Max, I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The donor… the donor of the collection.”
Max frowns. “Georgia, he’s not here. He was given an invitation but he declined it.”
“But I saw—”
“Honey.” Max grips the sides of Georgia’s arm. “He’s not here. He’s in Taipei. Ethan told me himself: he’s gonna go through all the last minute paperwork with the donor in a few days’ time.”
Georgia’s eyes widen. She can’t be imagining things, she is sure of what she saw. She saw him.
Did she, though?
Georgia feels as if she is losing her mind.
“Are you okay, hun?” Max asks, his brow knitted as he guides her to sit down at a bench.
Seeing the concern etched on his young features, Georgia takes a deep breath, rearranging her face to compose herself.
“Yeah. Yeah—I’m okay, I just thought I saw someone who looked like the man you described, that’s all. I wanted to ask him… ask him some questions about the collection, the pieces are just so remarkable,” she lies. She is such a terrible liar.
Seeing that Max is unconvinced, she adds, “And you did such an amazing job with the pieces, you really did, Max. It’s a beautiful exhibition.”
His face lights up at the compliment. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” she says. Looking up, she sees that the lanky young blond is now coming down the escalator, gazing at them inquisitively.
“Hey, I’m keeping you from Mr. Hottie,” she whispers to Max. “He’s coming over here.”
Max turns to look towards the escalator, then turns back to her, a huge grin on his face. “Oh. My God. He does like me, I knew it!”
“Look,” she says, knowing this is the perfect time to make an exit. She gestures to the big wet patch on her dress. “I’m a mess. I’m exhausted. And these heels are killing me. I think I’m gonna have an early night.”
Max frowns, still looking concerned, then conflicted as he sees his new friend walk towards them. Georgia puts her hand on his arm. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He gives her a long look, then a small nod of his head. “Okay Georgia. Text me when you get back to the hotel.”
She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re such a gentleman.” Then she pats him on the back. “Have fun.”
Leaving Max to his new date, Georgia collects her coat from the cloakroom and fishes the phone out of her purse as she exits the building. Shivering from the cold night air, she hails a cab and quickly climbs in. Then she begins to dial the number she has long-ago committed to memory, her heart—the damn thing—beginning to race as she brings the phone to her ear.
It only rings twice before it connects, not even giving her a chance to prepare herself.
“George?” the familiar voice says on the other end of the line.
24
Ethan Sommers steps through the doors of Hyatt Taipei, scanning around for Georgia’s face. The large atrium has an elevated glass ceiling all the way up at the third level, and of course no five-star hotel is complete without its own ostentatious marble fountain and crystal chandeliers. Its spacious foyer is dotted with guests and staff milling about, but he decides within seconds that she’s not here yet.
He’s always been able spot her in a crowd.
He paces, feeling anticipation laced with anxiety mixed with excitement. He hasn’t seen her in—what, like five years now?—and a lot has changed since then. He’s sure both of them have transformed in that time.
Ethan tries to remember the last occasion when they said more than two sentences to each other, and decides it was over six years ago, when Georgia flew to Melbourne for work. Lucas encouraged her to stay the weekend for a well-deserved mini break from the crazy lifestyle of a new mother. Jacqui was about ten months old back then, and Georgia had just gone back to work after her maternity leave. Naturally, being the pair of art-geeks that they are, Ethan and Georgia spent two full days in museums and galleries. And Georgia being Georgia, there was also a whole lot of food in between. It never ceases to amaze Ethan just how much the tiny woman can eat.
It’s hard to imagine that they haven’t seen each other for so long, but Georgia became distant after Jacqui’s sudden illness and death; and sensing her and Lucas’ need for space, E
than wanted to give them time to grieve. Apart from his quick trip to Sydney for Jacqui’s funeral, Ethan and Georgia have hardly maintained contact over the years.
He was therefore more than surprised to receive her call two nights ago, and equally surprised to hear she was coming to Taipei. He arrived here himself at the beginning of the week for work—a happy coincidence.
Ethan stops in the midst of his pacing, realising he’s drawing a bit of attention to himself with his angst. But then again, it’s hard to go around Taipei as a six-foot-one, light-haired, blue-eyed foreigner without attracting lingering looks from the locals. The Taiwanese seem to have a sense of awe towards anything that looks vaguely American, ever since the Yanks helped them during the war. There are even roads here named after Franklin Roosevelt and Douglas MacArthur.
He opts to sit down on the grey sofa instead, and lets his mind drift to a childhood memory, an incident that had happened when he was in grade five, and one he has replayed in his mind over the years.
The school playground was flooded with kids within seconds of the recess bell, with boys and girls squealing and laughing in the midst of play. Ethan ran straight for the monkey bars—his latest favourite—and hopped his hands from rung to rung, feeling the exhilarating sense of flight and freedom.
Something stopped him halfway. Across the playground, he saw a bunch of kids gathered in a circle, looking down at something on the ground. They were yelling with excitement, and he squinted to see in between their skinny legs, spotting a face he recognised.
He flew off the monkey bars, running towards the group and shoving the kids out of the way. In the middle of the circle, Georgia was on her hands and knees, her brand-new blue and white dress muddy and soiled, her books scattered across the wet grass. Misty was standing over Georgia, laughing shrilly.