The Chinese Alchemist

by Lyn Hamilton

  I wasn’t sure how far I was going with this man, my newly discovered confidence in my safety not stretching so far as to enter a blind alley with him, but I did follow along. He kept to well-crowded streets, which helped, and as he chatted away to me, I began to feel more confident.

  He stopped at a tiny house on a very small street, opened the door and gestured to me to go in. I didn’t think that was a good idea, but I looked in, and saw a woman playing with a very young child. She, too, gestured me in. An older woman, the grandmother, I expect, immediately went to a pot over a fire and started to make tea. It seemed pretty harmless. In fact, it was playing out the way it so often did when I was on a buying trip, with the approach in the street, the ritual cup of tea at the home of the dealer, and then the unveiling of the merchandise, for a special price, of course, just for me.

  The Chinese version of this time-honored and nearly universal ritual included excellent little pancakes with green onions in them that the grandmother made, something I thought added to the occasion considerably and might happily be picked up by salesmen elsewhere. The rather stilted conversation from the dealer, the only family member who spoke English, was sadly familiar, however. After the social niceties had been observed, I was led out a back door into a little courtyard, and then to a padlocked door in the building to one side of the courtyard. There was no way I was going any further with this man, and I said so.

  He grabbed my arm. “Please,” he said. “Tang.”

  I peered into the room, being careful to stand just in the doorway so I could run if I had to. There was T’ang all right, several pieces, in fact, including sancai, or three-colored glazed earthenware pottery, in this case four ceramic figures of musicians, all women, each about eight inches tall. The earthenware is called sancai but in fact it often employs more than three colors, as was the case here. The colors, red, green, blue, yellow, and a soft purple were faded, as were the facial expressions, but if anything this enhanced their beauty. They were undoubtedly authentic. There was a dusting of dirt on them, which is a pretty easy way to give the impression, to the uninitiated at least, that the objects were old. In this case, however, I was pretty sure they really were. They were almost as certainly looted merchandise. “T’ang,” the dealer repeated, as he whipped out a calculator. It was his favorite word. He keyed in a few numbers and showed the result to me.

  Despite my conviction these were stolen artifacts, something of which it would be almost impossible to convince oneself otherwise in such a setting, I wanted them. I admit it. In fact, I would have given my firstborn for them. I could have bargained him down to something I was prepared to pay—of that I was sure, given his starting position—just a few hundred dollars for the lot. They were exquisite. The women were slim and graceful, the faces charmingly expressive, the little instruments perfect in almost every detail. Figures like this, I had learned from Dory, came in the slim variety and the well-rounded. Dory had told me the latter came into vogue because one emperor rather fancied a little excess flesh on his concubines. These women, though, followed the more traditional svelte lines.

  Who would know I had these? I found myself asking. There ate lots of T’ang tomb figures to be had on the open market in North America. Once out of China, they would look perfectly legitimate. Furthermore, if Burton had been right, I would have little trouble getting these out of the country. I was reasonably sure that any moment now my newfound friend would offer an export stamp as part of the deal. Reluctantly, I told myself to get a grip. What was I thinking? In the first place, I really enjoy not being in jail, most especially a jail in a foreign country. Furthermore, one can only imagine what my Rob would think if he found out. Not only that, but I rather fancied myself as an ethical antique dealer. Clearly my commitment to ethical behavior is not as robust as I like to think it is.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked.

  “Tomb,” the man said. “What you pay?” I told him I wasn’t going to buy them, as beautiful as they were. It was not easy to do so, and predictably he took this as my opening gambit rather than a firm decision on my part. “How much?” he demanded again. “T’ang. Very beautiful.”

  “No,” I said, taking the photograph out of my bag. “Silver box.”

  “T’ang,” he said again. He picked up one of the musicians. “T’ang. Stamp for export, yes. I will give you.”

  “T’ang, yes, but not a silver box. I want this silver box.” I wondered what an export stamp would cost me in addition to the price of the musicians.

  He continued to wave the musician under my nose. “Special price for you,” he said over and over. “You tell me what you pay.” In retaliation, I kept waving the photo of the silver box under his nose. There was a lot of arm-waving going on.

  It was a fruitless gesture, however, on both sides. As lovely as these pieces were, it was pretty clear I’d been brought to this house under false pretenses. He didn’t have the box.

  He’d have brought it out by now if he had. It was time to go. The man looked disgusted as I walked back through the courtyard and through his house, pausing only to say thank you to the two women and to smile at the child. I handed the wife a few coins, which I hoped she wouldn’t give to her husband.

  It was only as I left the house that I realized that I was very near the spot where Song Liang had died, at the other end of the L-shaped alley in fact. When I turned right, I could see that the alley was blocked off with tape at the end. I took a quick look and, sure enough, it was almost certainly the same place where I’d witnessed the murder. There was a dark stain on the ground where he’d fallen. I’d just come at it from the same direction as the motorcycles, rather than the way I’d entered it before, which was probably just as well, because I would never have followed the man into the alley from that direction. Had that happened, I would not have learned what I had from the visit, which is to say that T’ang tombs were being looted somewhere nearby.

  This proximity did lead to some interesting questions, however. Assuming Song Liang was indeed Mr. Knockoff and furthermore had stolen the box, and if he had had it in his possession the day he died, as I had surmised he might, was he bringing it to the man I had just met to sell for him? Did the man have the silver box even if he hadn’t shown it to me? Or had the men on the motorcycles stolen it from Song before he could get there? Did the dealer I’d just visited have an inkling of any of this, or was Song just trying to unload the box as fast as he could? There were many questions I would have liked to ask the dealer, but I didn’t think there was any way he’d answer them, and furthermore I wasn’t sure it was in my best interests, given that I wanted to get out of this country in one piece, to pursue it with him.

  When I got back to my hotel room, I dug Liu David’s card out and called his cell again. I’d been reluctant to call him directly, but there was nothing for it. Not entirely unexpectedly, he didn’t answer, but his message was in both Chinese and English. “Nice to see you today,” I said after the beep in as neutral a tone as I could manage. “I would like you to call me back, please. Here is my mobile number. It works intermittently here, but if at first you don’t succeed, keep trying, and please feel free to leave a message. I will pick up my messages regularly. I think you owe me one. There are perhaps other things we could discuss at the same time—for example, the murder I witnessed in the alley close to where you were today. I believe Song Liang was the man who tried to buy the silver box in New York, and stole it in our presence in Beijing. Now you owe me again. Here is how you can repay me. I would like to know the name of the army officer who was present when the silver box was stolen. I am tired of people telling me I don’t want or need to know. I look forward to your call.” I left my mobile number, not telling him where I was staying in case I’d completely misjudged the situation, and hung up. He probably knew where I was staying anyway. Everybody else seemed to know.

  I figured that should do it. If it didn’t, I’d tell him where he could find a stash of looted T’ang tomb figure
s. Then, still protected by the bubble I’d created that insulated me from the realities of this world, like murders for example, I headed out one more time. I moved west along Dong Dajie and soon found myself once again underground at the main square, at which point I headed up the stairs toward the Drum Tower, intending to visit the market behind it again.

  I was close to the Drum Tower when I was approached by a beggar on crutches. There are unfortunately a lot of beggars in China. The burgeoning economy has created an enormous gap between rich and poor, between city- and country-dwellers, that is quite evident for anyone to see. This man, however, was particularly aggressive, frightening really, and not the kind of person I would stop to help under any circumstances. He kept pace with me, even though I tried to wave him away. I was walking faster and faster trying to get away from him, but I couldn’t do it. I reversed my direction heading back to the steps that led down to the underground passage at the Bell Tower, thinking the stairs would certainly stop a man on crutches. They didn’t. He kept right beside me, matching me step by step, his entreaties getting louder and louder. Call me crazy, but I didn’t think he needed the crutches. I was getting really anxious, and didn’t know how I would get rid of him. Then I saw the door to a rather fancy department store on the tunnel level and ducked through it. I knew the two doormen were not going to let the man, dirty and disheveled as he was, into this fancy establishment.

  I felt safe for a few minutes, surrounded by familiar cosmetic counters and bright lights, and decided I had overreacted. It was a zealous and possibly desperate beggar, that’s all, one who used crutches as a ploy for sympathy and therefore cash. I was annoyed at myself for being frightened by someone who clearly needed some money, but in truth there had been something about him. When I was certain the man was gone, I went out another door, and continued my way west and then north into the market area behind the Drum Tower.

  I’d been so intent on following Burton when I’d last been in this area that I hadn’t really savored it at all. It was a vibrant and exciting place. People thronged the streets, their children running and jumping along with them, the merchants outside the shops trying to lure customers in. Soon I was back in the Muslim Quarter. I’d learned enough about the Chang’an of T’ang times to know that it had been a very cosmopolitan city, a magnet for traders from far and wide. The people of the Muslim Quarter were said to be descended from Arab soldiers who’d arrived in the eighth century, right about when Illustrious August was emperor.

  I had left the puppets I’d purchased for Jennifer in Beijing, but thought I should get something for Rob— although I had no idea what—if I was going to arrive in Taiwan bearing gifts for his daughter. I found some lovely inkwells, and had a beautiful jade stamp carved with his initials in Chinese while I waited. I doubted he’d be stamping his correspondence with it, but it’s the thought that counts, and it would look nice somewhere in his place. If we ever got around to moving in together, it would be something I’d permit him to keep, too, unlike, say, his red-and-green plaid recliner with the duct tape on the left arm, no matter how hard he tried to persuade me the nasty thing was an antique.

  I made my way to the lane that featured antiques, and started going from shop to shop, trying to make myself understood. Everybody shook their heads no. Most of what they called antique wouldn’t have qualified as such in my shop, so I held little hope for success, particularly when one dealer who spoke a little English told me someone else had been looking for the same box. I assumed that person was Burton.

  I kept an eye out for the man in the mosque, not really hopeful of success. Still, I looked, and I asked, and eventually a woman directed me to a shop down one of the little lanes. My heart soared, my pace quickened. I was getting closer, I just knew it. Burton had just had an easier time of it because he spoke the language. I, however, had persistence on my side.

  It was a particularly large stall, one that you actually entered as opposed to stood in front of, and to my surprise, I found some real antiques once again. There was no one there, however, to assist me. That seemed a little strange to me, as an antique dealer. I wouldn’t have left my stall unattended. That would be way too much temptation for locals and tourists alike.

  I called out, but there was no answer. I then noticed there was a teapot, and I could smell the tea, so perhaps the proprietor had made a quick dash to the communal toilet down the street. I waited a few more minutes, standing in the doorway. It was then I saw the beggar with the crutches again, the man who’d aggressively followed me down the stairs. I recognized him despite the fact that he’d apparently made a miraculous recovery, no longer requiring the crutches.

  He was standing a few yards from the shop I was in. I couldn’t tell whether he’d seen me or not, but I knew I didn’t want to risk another confrontation with him. I ducked back inside and moved as far into one corner as I could so that if he happened to look in, he wouldn’t see me. There was a pile of carpets on offer, and I decided if I moved behind it and stayed down low, he would pass right by.

  It was in the corner near the carpets that I made a horrible discovery: a hand, and a hand only. I reeled back, then ran out of the shop, getting several yards along the lane before my rational self regained a measure of control. I stopped a man on the street, and with hand gestures and sounds that were possibly tinged with hysteria, I convinced him to follow me.

  Police were called. They found the rest of the body behind a curtain. Despite the body’s bloodless aspect, I recognized him as the man in the mosque. In addition to having both of his hands severed, his throat had been cut.

  Soon I was back at the police station. “Violent events appear to follow you, madam,” said the interviewing officer, the same one, in fact, I’d spoken to before. His name I believe was Fang, Officer Fang.

  “Burton Haldimand killed himself by accident,” I said. “You are the ones who decided that. This was a terrible crime. I’m calling Dr. Xie.”

  At the sound of that name, the man blanched. Apparently Dr. Xie did not even have to be there for his power and influence to be felt. I was very happy to have him on my team.

  “That will not be necessary,” Fang said. “What were you doing in the shop?”

  “Shopping, of course. What else? I was looking for souvenirs, and also some things to sell in my own antique shop in Toronto.” I wished I hadn’t said that. It would have been better to let him think I knew nothing about antiques. On the other hand, maybe he knew all about me anyway, and it was just as well I’d been forthcoming on that subject. “I called out, but there was no answer. I didn’t think he’d leave the shop unattended for long, so I waited for him. I was looking at the carpets when I saw the, you know, the hand. Who was he?”

  Fang grimaced. “Just a shopkeeper.”

  I wanted to chastise him for saying just, being just a shopkeeper myself, but I resisted the temptation. I also declined to ask him if this is what regularly happened to shopkeepers in his town. It didn’t seem politic, and I just wanted to get out of there.

  “You don’t know this man?” he went on.

  “No. How could I?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” he said rather tartly, but then perhaps he recalled my relationship with Dr. Xie. “I apologize for this inconvenience. Please be assured that this does not happen here often. We expect to arrest the killer or killers very soon.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by not happening often. Didn’t I read in China Daily that someone else was murdered here a couple of days ago?”

  Fang gave me a look that would have frozen the Yellow River solid. “That crime, too, is unusual, and it also will be resolved shortly.” I hoped he was right.

  There was some good news. Fang did not take my passport this time, and he had a policeman drive me back to my hotel. The bad news was that Liu David had not returned my call. There was, however, another voice mail awaiting my return. It was a message from a man who sounded as if he had a sock in his mouth and an accent I now recognized as
Chinese saying he’d like to book an appointment to measure me for the suit I needed for the funeral. I had no doubts that it was my funeral he had in mind.

  Nine

  Neither of us said anything about that unnatural incident ever again, nor did I mention it to anyone else, tempting though the prospect of sharing such juicy gossip might be. The next time I saw Lingfei, she looked as she always had. She had covered her mutilated locks with an elaborate wig so no one would be the wiser. Our time together went on as before, she dictating formulas to me, I, in my best hand, recording them. I could not fail to notice, though, that after the failure of her petition, the ingredients for which she sent me were not always the medicinal herbs she’d been working with before, but rather others, more costly, like cinnabar and powdered oyster shells, mica, and pearls. I also recorded detailed processes for formulating something, I knew not what. From time to time our work together was interrupted when the emperor moved his court to the hot springs east of Chang’an where he was spending more and more of his time. While I quite enjoyed the time spent there, Lingfei was impatient to return to her work.

  Finally I could contain my curiosity no longer. “What is this you are working on?” I asked in some exasperation, having had to redo, with only the most minor of changes, a formula that I had already written three or four times for her.