by Lyn Hamilton
I’d had enough of Burton for one day, but there didn’t seem to be a polite way to get out of it. I could hardly say I had other things to do, when clearly I didn’t. Reluctantly, I went with him. He ordered, not even bothering to ask me if there was anything I wanted. However, he knew Chinese food as well as he knew Chinese art. Platter after platter of food arrived in front of us, all really delicious. Over the course of the meal, I discovered that Burton could be quite amusing when he tried. I may have even found myself warming to him just the tiniest bit. He had the good grace to make fun of his health fetish, which he had to, really, when I asked him what on Earth he was doing as he proceeded to wipe down the chopsticks. In some cases, cleaning the chopsticks might be a good idea, but these had come in sealed packages, the kind you actually have to tear open to use. I tried more or less unsuccessfully not to laugh. Heaven knows, I try to be careful when I’m traveling. If I find myself some place that I think doesn’t measure up from a sanitary standpoint, I won’t eat anything that doesn’t have steam rising from it. It’s my number one rule. I’d sized this restaurant up pretty quickly and decided it was okay. Burton, however, was taking no chances. When he put disinfectant drops on the spotless serving spoons, though, I got the giggles. Even he started to laugh.
When I’d managed to get my hilarity under control, I got around to a question I was determined to ask. “You speak Chinese, don’t you? Mandarin?” I asked when I’d eaten as much as I possibly could.
“Yes,” he said. “Also a little Cantonese.”
“So what did that guy in black, the one who has enough pull that he avoids spending time looking at videotapes and being questioned with the rest of us, say to the doorman?”
“The guy with the expensive shoes? He said something along the lines of ‘Grab the young man’ or something. Why?”
“Well, what would you say under those circumstances?”
“ ‘Stop, thief,” I guess. I’ll grant you it was a little ambiguous, but really, wouldn’t you think the doorman would grab the guy with the silver box under his arm if that is indeed what the guy said?“
“I don’t know. The two were about the same age—David and the thief, that is.”
“Where are you going with this, Lara?”
“Promise you won’t laugh? I think there is a possibility that the man in black was in on the theft.”
“Whoa!” Burton said. “Chinese army. Be careful.”
“You’re not planning to discuss this with them, are you?”
“Of course not, but why would you think such a thing? Surely it is not because he left so soon after it happened and he didn’t come back the next day like the rest of us. Perhaps his shift of duty was about to begin. I don’t know, maybe they went and took his statement from him at his home or work as a professional courtesy. I don’t think you can assume he is a criminal just because he dodged some of the most incredibly boring hours I’ve put in while here.”
“It’s not that at all. He was ostensibly looking at a painting. The trouble is, he was standing in the wrong place to do that. That was a detailed painting. The rest of us stood much closer to look at it. I watched the videotape very carefully: where you stood, where I stood, and indeed where everybody stood when they were looking at it, and then I went over to it myself afterward. He was standing way too far back.”
“So maybe the guy doesn’t know how to look at paintings properly. Why does his ineptitude in that regard matter?”
“I think he was standing in the perfect place to block the young employee’s view of the silver box.”
“He hardly needed to do that,” Burton said. “The idiot wouldn’t have taken his eyes off that computer screen for a magnitude-nine earthquake. The building would have come down around him, and he’d be found dead staring at the screen.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t know that for sure would you, if you planned to grab the box? You couldn’t count on the fact that there was a computer-game addict in charge that day.”
“No, but you could probably count on poor security, I regret to say. They haven’t yet got the hang of it here. They actually rent compartments on trains to move works of art. I mean, you’ve got to hope thieves don’t know what they’re looking at when they pry open compartment doors, or that they’re interested in stealing something other than art.”
“I guess. Maybe you’re right and I’m just irked because the guy pulled rank and avoided two rather boring sessions with the police.”
“This is China, Lara,” Burton said.
“That must be the tenth time someone has said that to me.”
“Remember it.” Despite the fact that he lectured me, and clearly thought I was imagining things, we spent a pleasant enough evening after that, managing to avoid contentious subjects like Dory and the name of my client. We parted on good terms, Burton telling me he wouldn’t see me the next day as he had to leave early for the airport, and to phone him when I got home.
I didn’t expect to see Burton in Beijing again, but as I was to discover soon enough, Burton rarely did what he said he was going to do. For myself, I decided if I had to wait another couple of days, I might just as well go to the auction even if I didn’t plan to bid on anything. In the meantime, I would attempt to entertain myself by seeing the sights. I started with the Forbidden City, naturally, a must-see for anyone in Beijing. I began at the south end, across from Tian’anmen Square, at the Gate of Heavenly Peace, graced as it is with an enormous portrait of Chairman Mao. If you want to see the great one himself, you can do so by filing past his remarkably well-preserved corpse in the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall. I’d done that once, however, and once was enough. In the early days of our marriage, I’d told Clive about the experience and he’d suggested that we should do an embalmed leaders world tour, Mao, then Stalin in Moscow, supplementing it where necessary with impressive mausoleums in which embalmed dictators were interred, like maybe the Perons in Argentina. The idea didn’t seem nearly as amusing to me now, a much older and wiser person, but it did remind me that there had been a time when I’d enjoyed being with Clive. We never did the tour, I might add. Instead we collected watches with dead dictators on the faces, in Mao’s case, a particularly impressive model with Mao waving his arm for the second hand. Clive got the watch collection in our divorce, I regret to say, something he likes to remind me about from time to time, pushing his sleeve well up and making much of looking at the time when he’s wearing one of them.
The Forbidden City is called that because for much of its history as an imperial palace it was strictly off limits to almost everyone, your average person not even allowed to venture near the place. Now, however, you can wander at will, which is exactly what I did, admiring the large plazas, the brilliant red of the halls, the extraordinary carved staircases, impressive incense burners in the shape of cranes and tortoises, and of course, the throne room with the dragon throne. The further one moved north in the Forbidden City, through one vast plaza to the next, the closer one got to the emperor, known as the Son of Heaven.
I was heading for the most opulent of the imperial residences, the Palace of Heavenly Purity when I thought I saw Burton off in the distance just past a group of uniformed men—police or military, I didn’t know. It was not so much that I saw Burton, but rather the flash of an azure scarf and a head of blondish hair. I started to move closer, but the group disbanded and I could see no sign of anyone remotely resembling Burton. I reminded myself that he was leaving that day for home. It was still early in the day, but the nights went out in the early afternoon, so he wouldn’t have time for sightseeing. Furthermore, Burton did not hold a monopoly on azure scarves. I must have been mistaken.
Despite the grandeur of the buildings, my favorite part of the City was the garden at the north end. I browsed in the bookshop and purchased some woodcut prints that I thought might look nice framed for the shop, and generally lazed about. I felt guilty, though, as if I should be doing something. Mira had told me that my expenses would be paid
until I left, but I thought I should see if I could make the trip pay for itself in some way, given that I wasn’t making any commission on the purchase of the silver box, by finding more treasures to take home for the shop. If I could, then I’d tell Mira I’d pay the last few nights in the hotel. With that goal in mind, and guilt therefore assuaged, I went shopping.
Liulichang Street, which is just south and a little west of the Forbidden City, is a pleasant tree-lined street for pedestrians and scooters only, lined with old houses, or at least houses that look old. Like much of Beijing, it was flattened not that long ago, but it has been reconstructed and certainly looks authentic. It’s supposed to be the premier antique street, but there are not a lot of real antiques to be found, more curios than anything else. I suppose it’s a pseudoantique street with pseudoantiques, when you think about it. It’s still attractive, though, most particularly the shops selling old books and calligraphic supplies, ink wells, stamp pads, and beautiful natural hair brushes in all sizes, even extraordinarily large ones, hanging in the windows of the shops. There are some interesting things to purchase, shadow puppets made of leather, for example. There are few truly old ones, but some of the new ones are beautifully done. I’d passed along my love of shadow puppets to Jennifer, and decided to bargain for two particularly lovely ones as a gift for her.
One of the best things about the area is that you get away from the high-rises, and catch a glimpse of the city that once was. There are markets, and tea houses, and ordinary little shops in addition to the tourist traps, and if you wander a little farther, which I did, given it was a clear winter day, cold but nice and sunny, you can find yourself on Dazhalan Lu, a real street with silk shops and a huge Chinese medicine store.
I was just wandering along, enjoying myself, when I saw Burton Haldimand framed, perhaps predictably, in the doorway of the medicine shop, putting on his sunglasses. Even though he was wearing a surgical mask, I was certain it was indeed Burton. I had also quite distinctly heard him say he was leaving early that day, which left me with the distinct possibility he’d lied. Perhaps because of this jaundiced view of mine, I decided that Burton was acting suspiciously. He looked carefully left and right before walking briskly in the direction from which I had just come. He was very intent on something. I followed. Fortunately the streets were crowded, which afforded me some cover. Soon we were back on Liulichang, where Burton proceeded to go into every single antique shop, and even some that looked pretty borderline in terms of antiques. Waiting for Burton would have been exceptionally tedious if he’d spent any time in the shops, but in each, no matter how big or how small, he spent only a few minutes, long enough for only a cursory look at the merchandise on offer. He had a piece of paper in his hand, which he folded each time he came out of a shop, and it didn’t take me long to develop a theory as to what he was doing. Eventually, after about a dozen shops, I got bored and decided it was time to show myself.
“Lara!” Burton said with a start as he came out of a shop to find me standing there.
“Burton,” I said, mimicking his tone.
“This is certainly serendipitous,” he said, after a slight pause during which he was doubtless formulating his next lie. “I’m glad to see you. I was hoping for company again at dinner. I’ve decided I might as well attend the auction. Dr. Xie will be there. He’s going after that poet’s folio, as I think you know. He said he was treating to champagne afterward in celebration if he was the successful bidder, or a wake of some kind if he wasn’t. It sounded good to me, either way.”
“I thought you were heading back to Toronto, Burton,” I said, in a perhaps somewhat snappish tone.
“I was, but I seem to have developed an aversion to the idea of going home empty-handed. I thought I’d see if there was something else I could purchase. The auction goes ahead tomorrow night as planned, minus one box, so I thought there might be something else. Courtney Cottingham pretty well gives me carte blanche as far as purchases are concerned.”
“And you thought Liulichang Street was the right place for museum-quality antiquities, did you?” I asked, voice dripping with disbelief.
“Not really,” he said. “But the auction does present a possibility or two.”
“I decided I’d go to the auction, too. I can’t get a flight for a day or two. Dr. Xie invited me for champagne as well, and perhaps young Mr. Knockoff will show up and we can sound the alarm.”
“Mr. Knockoff?”
“The fellow who was at Molesworth and Cox in New York, and who I think stole the box here. The fellow you can’t remember.”
“Hmmm. That would be something of a long shot,” Burton said. “I expect the thief knows better than to show up.”
“You never know,” I said. “How about we get a cup of tea? I’m finding it a bit cold now that the sun is going down.”
“Why not?” he said and we picked a little tea shop nearby. Once again, Burton ordered. I suppose it made sense, given he spoke the language, but I have a real aversion to men who order my food for me, particularly when they don’t ask me what I want.
“What have you been up to, Burton? Did you get your hand stuck in a car door or something?” I said. He’d taken off his mittens, and now was carefully peeling off one set of surgical gloves, and had another pristine pair waiting. I suppose he couldn’t possibly hold a tea cup with the same pair he’d worn in the street.
“What?” he said.
“Your nails look bruised. Both hands, actually. Hard labor, perhaps?”
“They do look a little blue, don’t they? But no, I can’t recall having them smashed or anything. I’m sure I’d remember it.” He quickly put his fingers in the new gloves. I noticed he didn’t remove his sunglasses.
I didn’t believe him, but there didn’t seem to be much point in pressing him on the subject. There was so much about Burton’s behavior that was perplexing, to say nothing of just plain annoying. “What are you doing?” I asked as the waiter brought the tea, a pot, and cup for each of us. Burton had fished a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket, and was dipping a tea bag into the single pot.
“I’ve brought my own tea,” he said. “I ordered Chinese green tea for you and hot water for me.”
“That tea of yours stinks, I’d have to say.” Perhaps it didn’t actually stink, but it sure overpowered the delicate scent of my green tea.
“It does smell a little strong, but it’s very efficacious,” he said. “Fights bacteria, keeps the blood running properly, eliminates blockages in the qi. You would get used to the strong flavor, and it would do you a world of good.”
I was tempted to say that when it wasn’t eliminating blockages in the qi it could probably be used to clear clogged drains, but I restrained myself. Instead, I returned to a more important subject, first tucking into one of the scrumptious custard tarts he’d also ordered, although he wasn’t eating them himself. I might have to concede that it had not been such a bad idea for him to order on my behalf if this is what I got. “What are you planning to do tomorrow?” I said. “Just the auction?”
“Probably. I’ll take it easy during the day, maybe visit the hotel’s fitness room. You can’t use a trip as an excuse not to keep in shape, you know. Then I’ll go to the auction and see you there.”
He didn’t do that either. At this point, I was starting to take these lies of his personally, and was therefore ready for them. I’d given him ample opportunity over tea to confess what he was doing. He’d chosen not to do so. That fast led me to the conclusion that he was not just an eccentric genius of overweening ambition, but essentially a slug.
The next morning, I watched as he scanned the lobby quickly when he got off the elevator, probably looking for me. I was strategically placed behind a potted palm, and had been just about to give up and move on when he appeared. Once he got going, though, he moved fast, out the door and into a cab in a matter of seconds. I took the next one in line and followed him, which takes some doing in Beijing traffic, but the driver managed it onc
e he understood what I wanted, thanks to the hotel doorman who didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked for his translation services. Burton headed north and west from our hotel, skirting the north end of the Forbidden City, but after that we began to wend our way from street to street and I got hopelessly lost. My only consolation was that I had a card from our hotel with its name in Chinese, so at least I could get back. Finally, the cab ahead stopped and Burton got out. After giving him a minute’s head start, I did the same.
We were on a lively street, lined with gnarled old trees and many shops. It was crowded, which made it difficult to keep him in view, but it also afforded me some protection once again, necessary given he and I were the only non-Chinese on the street. He never looked back, but occasionally looked up to read the signs or numbers on the shops or peered in the windows, as if he were looking for something specific. There were no antique stores around that I could see, which begged the question, Why were we here? I had a sudden crisis of conscience, thinking I might have been wrong about him. Maybe he was visiting some Chinese herbalist for a consultation on the state of his health, or for another supply of vile-smelling tea. I mean, what would I say if he looked behind him and there I was?