The Face of the Seal

by Jennifer Cumiskey

  Yet privately, she couldn’t help but pat herself on the back. The decision she’d made a decade ago was a great one, cashing out of the tech company she’d founded and controlled for over twenty years. Pouring the first one hundred million she’d made into the country’s burgeoning real estate market was even more brilliant. She was now China’s richest woman, with a personal net worth of almost eight billion U.S. dollars. Opportunities to ascend to powerful positions had been banging at her door: the head of China Cultural Relics Academy, the directorship at the China Center for International Economic Exchanges, even the Minister of Education. She had declined them all. She had no intention of mixing art with politics and no stomach to be caught in the never-ending war between museums and public relations. As far as she was concerned, the government’s effort to recover those looted treasures had been nothing but meaningless tit for tat. Catalogues of stolen antiquities were incomplete and claim of a blanket legal right to those relics overseas, in her view, was inaccurate. Years ago, in a Sina Weibo microblog account, a former Chinese vice-premier had posed an inquiry to Her Majesty’s Government of the United Kingdom: “When will Britain return all the illegally plundered artifacts?” No answer had been provided by either the government or any of the British museums that allegedly were in possession of approximately twenty-three thousand pieces of Chinese antiquities.

  But Madam Jin had never let any political rhetoric cloud her thinking and judgement. The verbal disputes, accusations, and stonewalling could go on forever. The only way to get those treasures back required patience and research, followed by action. For over a decade she’d done just that under the political radar, out of the limelight, digging for irrefutable proof of the origin and identity of ancient Chinese artifacts showing up at foreign auction houses. Her tireless efforts had resulted in her country’s reclamation of numerous pieces of those lost and stolen treasures.

  Yet she refused to be recognized in public. “I’m a lucky woman. The country has given me fortune and wealth, and it’s my duty as a citizen to give back,” she’d said to high-ranking government officials at many behind-the-scenes meetings that honored her contribution to the preservation of China’s history. To her the best reward was to linger in the Palace Museum in front of the porcelain vases, silk scrolls, and jade seals whose recovery she’d spearheaded. Seeing her name on the bylines and knowing that they’d be there long after her time in this world was up made her blood sing.

  Of course, her relationship with art was not strictly platonic. It wasn’t limited to supporting galleries and museums and carrying out noble rescues. Her affection for art was intrinsic, passionate, even lustful. Encountering a piece of art she deemed rare and matchless in beauty was like facing destiny. Her desire to posses that object was all-consuming, ripping her apart from within her body and soul. She was only whole again when she could touch them in the special chamber of her country residence in the suburbs of Shanghai. The walls there were lined with Chinese landscapes of gold and black lacquer and draped with silk tapestries. Gold, porcelain, jade, and bronze, precious stones dazzling with magnificence, purchases from distinguished auction houses and antique shops around the world, collections confiscated from bourgeois families during China’s Cultural Revolution. The chamber was heaven itself. Each time she swung the door open the interior was abuzz with beauty. Each time was like the first time, she found it difficult to take it all in at once.

  Madam Jin cast a long glance at the meadow of Her Majesty’s Park and smiled. Her life had finally lived up to her name, Jin—gold or golden in Chinese. She closed her eyes, envisioning the phoenix-shaped Empress Seal reunited with its other half, the dragon-shaped Emperor Seal, encased in the gold-gilded display cabinet in the Forbidden City for the whole world to see. But before that happened, she had more work to do. The gaudy cloisonné bird might be considered the property of the People’s Republic of China but the face of the seal, the precious red stone etched with a rose, belonged to her. And she would possess it.

  Chasing down the Empress Seal was originally a clandestine undertaking. The goal had been for the seal to become a part of her private collection, nobody needed to know how it would be done, or that the seal had ever existed. But the uncooperative attitude of William Blackwell IV had derailed her plan from the get-go. Now the Empress Seal had been a breaking news story and the talk du jour of the art world. She’d have to settle for the seal’s face only, and it was not going to be easy. But she wasn’t called Madam Treasure Scout for nothing. The face of the Empress Seal would be hers. She just had to wait for the seal to get back to China first.

  The telephone rang. She hooked the handle up with two exquisitely manicured fingers. “The guest you’re expecting has arrived,” a voice announced.

  “Send him up, please.”

  *

  A week before William Blackwell IV would hand over the Empress Seal to representatives from the People’s Republic of China at London’s Tate Museum, Wesley Walters’s gallery in New York City had received an invitation, requesting the honor of his presence at a pre-Tate ceremony, an intimate gathering at the Green Park Suite of Ritz-Carlton in London’s Piccadilly. The invitation came from the Center of Cultural Exchange in Shanghai and was signed by the director of the center, Jin Quan.

  Since his gallery’s rise to prominence, invitations from international art entities were not unusual to Walters, though they often came from branch offices in New York City. This invitation struck him as a bit odd, but also flattering. Who’d be hosting an art event reception in a suite of a hotel? But then everything that had anything to do with the Empress Seal seemed to be strange and secretive. Maybe it was the Chinese culture, or maybe they didn’t want to appear to be stealing the thunder of the main event at the Tate that evening. Didn’t the invitation say it was going to be an intimate gathering? So, it could be a small group of VIPs from the international art world in a large suite of a well-appointed hotel. He’d say it was quite clever, understated but elegant. And to be invited to such a gathering could only mean one thing—he was now a member of the elite circle of the art world.

  “I’m here for the gathering hosted by the Center for Cultural Exchange,” Wesley Walters announced to the man at the door to the Green Park Suite on the seventh floor. The man, wearing dark glasses with unnaturally black hair swept to one side, nodded and pushed the door open.

  In the corridor Walters was greeted by a young woman in a dark pantsuit. She gestured to Walters that he could give her the coat he carried on his arm. “Thank you.” He handed over the coat and was guided into the lounge area.

  “Welcome Mr. Walters, we finally meet,” a woman’s voice, low and velvety, greeted him.

  He had deliberately timed his arrival on a fashionably but acceptably late basis. He was expecting to see at least a few people in the same room he was in now, holding cocktail glasses, quietly chitchatting with each other. Instead, the only person besides himself in this sizable lounge was a woman, a total stranger, floating toward him in a floor-length red gown. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

  “No, you don’t know me, Mr. Walters, but I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Madam Jin Quan.” She offered her hand and smiled broadly.

  “You’re the director of the center. Pleased to meet you,” Walters mumbled and shook Madam Jin’s soft, smooth hand. Another surprise, he’d thought the director was a man.

  “I’m glad you agreed to see me today, Mr. Walters. I came here for the seal’s return ceremony and I would like to take this opportunity to meet you, so I can thank you and to apologize.” The way she spoke was formal, a bit awkward, but her velvety voice and slight King’s English accent made her rather appealing.

  “Pardon me if I sound confused, but thank me and apologize for what?”

  “Let’s sit down, shall we.” As she motioned for Walters to sit down on the burgundy-and-gold-striped couch, he took a closer look at the woman in front of him. Unlike her voice, there was nothing smooth about her physical a
ppearance. Everything about her seemed to be making a statement. Her pixy hair cut was short and angular with thick bangs across her forehead. Her raised cheekbones rendered her face with a permanent expression of tenacity. A pair of dagger-like gold earrings dangled dangerously around her slightly jutting, pointed chin. Under that V-neck gown with imposing shoulder pads, Walters visualized a yoga-toned body.

  She was a force, the kind of woman Walters considered darkly elegant, the kind he preferred to steer clear of.

  “Well, Mr. Walters. Let me first apologize so we can clear some old issues that must’ve caused deep resentment over the years,” Madam Jin declared. Walters noticed the tiny, almost unnoticeable crow lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes—a woman well into the cougar years.

  “Enlighten me please, Madam Jin, for I’m truly mystified.” Walters tried to appear relaxed and calm, stretching his arm to let it rest on the back of the couch.

  “Remember when you wanted to be Professor Walters at Harvard forever? Well, I apologize on behalf of my daughter who has taken that dream away from you. I want to make sure there’s no more hard feelings after all these years.”

  So, this is the mother of that bitch who stole my tenure at Harvard. “I wouldn’t say she stole it from me, there were gossips at the time that her tenure at Harvard had something to do with an endowment check with quite a few zeros attached to it. I admit I was upset at first, but I soon learned the power of money, it buys everything, including diplomas and coveted positions at the world’s most prestigious academic institutions.” Cocking his head slightly to one side, Walters put on a practiced smile—his armor of defense, suppressing the anger burgeoning inside. But he couldn’t smooth over the jagged tone in his voice.

  “I understand your resentment, Mr. Walters. I’m truly sorry. You see, my daughter is my only child. Her father died early and I raised her alone. After spending decades of my life in poverty I was lucky to have made a sizable fortune from the technology company I founded. My hope was to have my daughter take over the business, but she’s bent on being an art professor in a good university . . .”

  “She certainly picked one of the best,” Walters snorted.

  “True. You may think I bought the tenured professorship for her, but honestly, she’s not all without talent.”

  “I understand Madam Jin, a mother’s love is the greatest love in the world.” Walters mustered all his power of self-control to sound sincere when all he wanted to say to her was that she was just another bitch who’d fucked with his life. “But I’m sure you didn’t want to see me just so you could talk about something that’s water under the bridge.”

  “I’m glad we can put this behind us. Now, let’s talk business. But first, a glass of champagne, perhaps?” She snapped her fingers. The pant-suited assistant appeared carrying a tray with two flutes of bubblies. She set the tray down on the coffee table in front the couch and retreated quietly.

  Ms. Jin picked up one flute and handed it to Walters. She picked up the second one and held it up. “Cheers!”

  Walters gave a nod. The glasses clinked.

  “Now, let’s talk about the Empress Seal. I want to thank you for your help convincing Mr. Blackwell to return it to China, though I would have preferred it done privately.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. It’s Mr. Blackwell’s decision, I’ve nothing to do with it.” Walters sounded unsure.

  “But we know you and Mr. Blackwell are good friends, you must consult each other on a lot of things. I’ve never met Mr. Blackwell, but I think he’s not as resourceful as you are and he’s easily scared. I’m sure he told you about the note he received from us a while ago, asking him to return the seal quietly . . .”

  Walters’s emotions had flitted from surprise, to confusion, shock, and anger in the last few minutes, but now a chill of dread settled upon him. The temperature in the room suddenly seemed to be freezing. “You mean you sent that blackmail letter to William?” he asked incredulously. The woman’s a force all right, without scruples.

  “Wait a minute.” Her raised palm ordered him to be quiet. “Blackmail is such an ugly word. You see, it’s undeniable the Empress Seal is a treasure of my country, a witness of a time when the West inflicted shame and humiliation on China and its people. But I don’t like to lecture who did who wrong during a war that’s more than a century old. However, I do like to see treasures like the Empress Seal returned to their rightful owner, in a quiet and private way if possible. That’s why I included a phone number on the note I sent to Mr. Blackwell. I’d hoped he would see that it was in the best interest of everyone to contact me directly and settle the issue quietly before it could turn into a politically charged problem. Unfortunately, he refused to cooperate.”

  Walters could feel the veins in his temples pulsating, blood whooshing in his head. “To be fair, I read your note to William. I’d say it sounded like nothing but blackmail. You insinuated that his great-grandfather, who’s been dead a long time, had somehow personally stolen the Empress Seal from the Forbidden City in China. I found your claim laughable since the old Blackwell, a distinguished journalist by the way, wasn’t even in China when the British and French troops raided the imperial palaces of the Qing Dynasty.”

  For an uncomfortably silent moment Madam Jin’s dark eyes bored straight into his, her lips tightly pressed together, her cheekbones sharpened. Walters held her gaze defiantly, waiting for her next move.

  As quickly as it came, the tension in her face eased, animation returned with a wry smile. “I see you know your history very well, Mr. Walters, but let’s stop digressing from what I really want to discuss today. You may think my way of persuading Mr. Blackwell to part with the seal—what do you Americans say?—not transparent, or shady. I know it scared him. So, Mr. Blackwell took a different route, but the end result is the same. The seal is going back to China, only it’s broadcasted to the world, and I have you to thank.”

  “As I’ve said, ultimately, it was William’s decision, I don’t have much to do with it.”

  “But you do. You’re the one who advised him to contact the cultural attaché at the Chinese Embassy in London to make the return of the seal public, to appear to be of Mr. Blackwell’s own volition. One stone killing two birds tactic—Mr. Blackwell is now a hero and what you thought was blackmail goes away. Then you convinced Mr. Blackwell to make a replica of the seal so you could put it on show at your own gallery and gain notoriety . . .”

  “I did no such thing,” Walters seethed. “My gallery doesn’t need the help of a metal trinket.”

  “Really, then how do you explain this?” Ms. Jin’s manicured finger stabbed her cell phone on the coffee table, a voice recording played.

  “Wes, it’s William. I think I’ve got a problem . . .” Blackwell’s fearful voice came on.

  The recording hit Walters’s heart like an ice bullet that exploded into hundreds of jagged shards, tearing through his veins and arteries. For a second, a dimmer was switched and everything around him seemed to darken. When his consciousness snapped back, he allowed his chest to puff out for a much-needed deep breath. He steadied himself.

  “William, are you having an episode of paranoia again?” Walters’s own voice came on. There was noise in the background.

  “Stop, Wes, I’m serious. Listen to this, it’s an anonymous note I just received.” Blackwell began to read the note, then described the red wax flower seal on the signature line. “Hold on William, it’s too loud here, let me go to somewhere quieter.”

  A few seconds later, Walters was back on. “What seal are you talking about, have I ever seen it?”

  “It’s a piece of cloisonné art my great-grandfather brought back from China. It’s been sitting on the shelf of a curio cabinet in the family study ever since. I’m not sure you’d notice it.”

  There was a gap, noise of static. When the conversation picked up again, it quickly turned into what Madam Jin had described, Walters giving Blackwell the kill-two-birds-wi
th-one-stone advice.

  “Satisfied, Mr. Walters?” Madam Jin stabbed the phone one more time, it went quiet.

  “You do understand, Madam Jin, that tapping a private citizen’s phone with no court order is illegal in the U.S. and U.K.,” Walters said gravely. He rose, staring down at the woman still perched on the couch. “William is a law-abiding citizen. You’ve committed a crime. We’ll see what the authorities have to say about it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an event to attend.” He buttoned his suit jacket and walked away from the woman who was devil reincarnated.

  “Oh—Mr. Walters, I’m not a criminal. I can assure you the British authority will never find any evidence that Mr. Blackwell’s house had been broken into.” Madam Jin looked up, one eyebrow arching up.

  Walters ignored her and continued on his way.

  “Like it or not, you and I have been doing business for a while now. As we speak, a new batch of Chinese watercolor silk scrolls are being delivered to your prestigious gallery in New York City. I’m sure it’ll make a certain client of yours very happy.”

  Madam Jin’s silky voice slammed a brake on Walters’s brisk steps. His spine tingled, feeling the hellish stare of the woman he’d come to know only minutes ago. Reality set in, he was now afraid of her. Don’t lose it, you can get the upper hand in this. Slowly, he turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, his baritone voice once again cool and composed.