Jade Woman l-12

by Jonathan Gash

  The point of all this is price. It’s easy to decide the cost, say, of a loaf. The farmer must grow the grain, harvest it. Somebody winnows, bakes, delivers. Add all that up and you’re heading for the minimum-possible price of your loaf, bicycle, house, anything.

  Anything except antiques, that is. Because there’s something called faith.

  Faith’s dicey stuff, but when it’s around it’s heap-big medicine. It’s why people queue in the street to pay zillions for a few daubs of pigment on a tatty bit of canvas—just because a bloke called Monet did the daubing. It’s faith—faith that everybody else would also give zillions for the same painting if they had that much. I mean, authenticity’s in the mind of the holder. I think Schwarz’s theory—that Mona Lisa’s face is actually Leonardo da Vinci’s—is barmy, though. Well, what can you expect from computers?

  No. It’s prices and faith. In antiques they are inseparable.

  At the Digga Dig, If-Ever letters, as I call them, were arriving. Chok, one of the waiters, kept them for me. The first was from Lorna expressing misery and saying If Ever I was in the States… A second came from her wanting me to phone, write, send photographs—me, who’d crack any camera at four hundred yards—and saying she was trying to wangle a return buying trip soon. She sent three photos of herself in affluent surroundings.

  And the presents. Women baffle me. I couldn’t get the hang of it. All the rewards were coming my way for a change. I was briefly tempted by a Monaco lady called Gabriella, if I’ve got her name right, who said I’d love her Mediterranean villa If Ever… About that time I was shocked by the sight of Algernon’s face on the front page: The idiot was doing well at practice laps in Macao. Unnervingly, he was even interviewed on television, large as life. I prayed he’d start losing and retire home. Now I was secure at least for a day or two, he was the last person on earth I wanted. I pulled myself together and headed for the Surtons’.

  It was the first time I’d been inside a proper house in Hong Kong. The Surtons had really put themselves out, so I put myself out too. I tried to be charming, pleasant, anxious, and diffident. I admired everything they showed me.

  “Lovely,” I said. “You must be really happy here.”

  “Exotic Hong Kong?” Surton chuckled. “The house is a boon, of course.

  Accommodation’s terribly expensive.”

  “Terrible,” Phyllis agreed. “This is university property.” She was in a rather faded oldish dress, powder blue with an incongruously wide belt, but appealing. The meal had been different sorts of pork, tons of rice, and colored pickles and things, with a pudding I hadn’t understood. The amah was a happy soul, delighted with company. “Luckily nobody wants these houses.”

  “No?” I was surprised. The veranda overlooked the Lamma Channel, a wonderment color with the South China Sea and Lamma Island and a sunset to stop the world.

  “Ghosts, you see, Lovejoy.” Surton shook with suppressed laughter. “In the war; Japanese. Down the hillside is a house that would be quite inhabitable. Except ghosts litter the gardens. It’s all overgrown.”

  “Real ghosts?” I asked.

  “So the locals say. We have one ourselves.”

  Ordinarily I’d have gone home at this point, though I mean I’m not superstitious. And I’m not spookable. No, really. The Surtons looked so matter-of-fact. The ceilings were tall, the fans the old central type, no air-conditioning. Wood was everywhere, teak, common as muck. The floors were parquet and the veranda shuttered great walk-throughs. It was stylish, airy, almost managing to be cool despite the hot thick air. Little lizardy creatures ran up the wall occasionally chuckling to themselves behind the pictures and the pelmets. Geckos I’d seen before, but had to have them re-explained to me by an amused Surton because I’d leapt out of my skin.

  “It doesn’t look very ghostly to me.” I smiled at Phyllis to show I admired her as well as her house. We were on the veranda. Gold light striped the evening through shutters. It was as romantically tropical as my imagination could cope with.

  “Our ghost’s nocturnal.” Surton had supplied strange liqueurs with the coffee. “She either has no feet or no head. Nineteen. Wears a lovely cheong-sam.”

  “Greeny blue.” From Phyllis.

  “You’ve both seen her?”

  “Not really. Well, hardly. If Ah Fung weren’t so loyal we’d be here alone. The thing to do is treat ghosts as incidental, or the amahs vanish for good.”

  “The Cantonese are so superstitious.” Phyllis was so fetching in the patterned light.

  “The poor thing is a Hungry Ghost, an unrevered spirit. Nobody to send her things.

  They’re so expensive, you see.”

  I gave a sigh, to humor the loony pair. Send a ghost things? Did spirits have Christmas?

  “Money’s a problem, isn’t it?” This was the in I’d been angling for. “I’m struggling myself.”

  “Everybody’s the same,” Surton sympathized, “except people working for the big banks, multinationals.”

  “I was sent to do a reconstruct,” I lied, rueful. “But my allowance barely buys essentials.” Phyllis kept her eyes on her cup. “The firm’s central office gave me no guidance about the reconstruct. I was lucky to dig your name out of the university registry.”

  “Reconstruct?”

  “Well, we know a few facts about Song Ping, but we have nothing really original, as I told you. What we need’s a replica of all his artifacts. The London end’s got a few original papers coming from China, but—”

  Surton was beside himself and rushed to replenish our glasses. “Documentary artifacts?”

  “Mmmmn. Reconstructs of his exhibition catalogs, as authentic as possible. Newspaper cuttings. Even parts of his diary—we’ve only unlearned English translations of that, I’m afraid, so it’ll need a lot of scholarship reconstructing it back into the original Chinese of a century ago. Plus reviews of his work that’ll have to be reconstructed from a schoolboy French translation we’ve come across. And a few letters; they were translated into English by a Victorian traveler. We got copies from one of his descendants. That sort of thing.”

  “So you want them translated back into last century’s Chinese manuscript? And typefaces? Capital, Lovejoy!”

  “And on the right paper, the right inks, calligraphy—”

  “What a lovely task!” Surton rubbed his hands. “With any luck I could start a research student on it next year.”

  I felt myself pale. The frigging Triad would execute me tomorrow if I didn’t set the scam up instantly, and here was this daft old don programmed on some Paleolithic sidereal clock, the loon. “Money of course is available immediately,” I croaked, cleared my throat, pressed on. “I’m authorized to pay it over within the week.”

  “Money?” He spoke as if I’d invented a problem word.

  “Oh, Stephen!” Phyllis gave him one of those desperate wifely glances saying for God’s sake be practical for once.

  “Yes. To any expert who would do it for us. We need it urgently, you see…”

  And I was home and dry. We chatted and swigged, but the deal was already settled.

  Phyllis would come out of retirement, become Surton’s assistant for the duration of the Song Ping project. I would cable my London firm, whoever they might be, for everything they had on the elusive artist. Surton would make every detail perfect. Song Ping’s original material, on its way from Canton, would prove his authenticity, should Dr. Surton entertain any doubts. He politely pooh-poohed this. I promised that they should both be guests of honor to the first Song Ping exhibition.

  “Maybe they’ll commission Stephen to do a book on him,” I said at the door to Phyllis, departing about midnight. Surton had wrung my hand and shot upstairs to his study in a fever of academic zeal.

  “He’s so thrilled, Lovejoy.” She accompanied me along the forecourt, a balustraded walk lined with bougainvillea and hibiscus. “He’s superb. You’ll not be disappointed.”

  “I know that. And, Phyllis—tha
nk you for not sending me packing just because… those bars. You’re kind.”

  “Oh, I understand financial difficulties, Lovejoy. We can’t afford a car, haven’t taken home leave for years. I know how desperate…” She petered out and stood there, face down. I felt her agony. She was right. She did know how it was. I said a tentative so-long in the lanterned darkness.

  “You’ll get a taxi if you walk down towards Kennedy Town, Lovejoy. The number seven bus stopped an hour ago, I’m afraid. The typhoon warning.”

  Eh? These daft local weather customs. The air hung balmy and still. “Right, love. Good night.” I paused. “If I… I see you elsewhere, is it all right if I say hello?”

  A pause. “Very well, Lovejoy.”

  I walked out of the villa’s small area onto Mount Davis Road and struck downhill towards the lights of Kennedy Town market. I was jubilant.

  25

  « ^ »

  THAT same night Hong Kong taught me another lesson. It’s called a typhoon. Dai Fung, big wind. Believe me, it is all of that.

  Steerforth wasn’t quite his usual self when we met by the Yaumatei Ferry. He looked hung over, lacking in zest. He started nervously when some children larked about with a ball.

  “You okay, Steerforth?”

  He gave me a bloodshot gaze. “Course. You? With all your high connections?”

  So that was it. “Look. I didn’t ask to work for the Triad. You pay them squeeze too, mate. People who live in glass houses.”

  “I’m warning you, Lovejoy. You’re in too deep.” He lit a cigarette and stared out over the silent harbor. The water was uncannily still, the oily glisten unspoiled by wakes. “If you cross the Triad, they’ll top me too.”

  I examined him, curious. Normally he raised his game. Waiting for clients he’d be casual, at ease. When they appeared he was instant camp, loud, outrageous. “Surely you’re not at risk? There must be some way out for a bloke like you. With all your pals, tour operators, guides, women.”

  “Not a chance, Lovejoy. Unless I bought myself out.” I shifted an inch or two along the rail. His exhaled smoke clouded him. “You don’t understand, Lovejoy.” He was in a morose mood. “My prospects were nil, umpteen deadbeat years, then a pension.

  Suddenly it was the high life. Okay, a different woman every evening. All shapes, all ages. But wealthy enough to pay.” He coughed a bubbly reverberation that wafted a tunnel in his smoke. “Call it penny-shagging, the gigolo game, prostitution. Millions do.

  But my clients lap me up, treat me like a king. There’s a waiting list for me, know that?

  I’m top dog on all the dick brokers’ lists at the sea terminals. Champ at the fame game, me.”

  “So what’s the problem, champ?”

  He did his bloodshot inspection. “You, Lovejoy. You’re rocking the boat— my boat. I’ve enough to buy myself out. Another two years and I can retire. Then I’ll fix on one or two clients. Deep purses. Buy a villa somewhere, leave Hong Kong.”

  “That’s your problem, eternal luxury?”

  “Yes, if you ball it up, Lovejoy.” He looked away. “I’m not young anymore. Oh, I make up for it. Old bull and the young bull, y’know? I’m a smoothie, wine lists, waiters. I’m discreet. I can sus a client with a glance, know exactly what she wants. Satisfaction guaranteed. The things I’ve done’d turn your hair. Steerforth the magician.”

  A sampan nudged along below the rail, the only vessel moving in the world. The ferries had all stopped running.

  “Age fucks you up, Lovejoy. Some days I’m just so frigging tired. Laughter lines don’t vanish overnight. My jokes sound repetitive. Last night I’d have given anything just to sleep. Instead, it’s whoopee until four in the morning.” He shuddered. “A year or two and I’ll have to charge less. The Triad’ll demand a greater squeeze. I’ll grovel for clients. I’ve seen it happen to others, Lovejoy. And been delighted because I was the flavor of the month.”

  “Cut out now while you’re ahead.”

  He shook his head as if irritated at my stupidity. “There was a bloke called himself Lance Fanshawe. Supposed to have been a Guards officer. High connections back home. They say the women even bid for him on cruise ships—highest bid got him for the evening. Christ, the presents old Lance received! Like a film star. Then age struck.

  It only took a year to fall from grace.”

  “And you became…?”

  “Top log, top dog.” He nodded at Tai Mo Shan, a mountain in the leaden sky. “He did it there. Service revolver. Gentleman to the last.”

  “Silly sod,” I said, quickly adding when he glared, “God rest him. Your trouble is you’re obsessed with Ling Ling. Forget her. Settle for some other woman instead.”

  He lit another cigarette from the stub. “How often does a man see a perfect woman, Lovejoy? Even God had to search for donkey’s years. All men crave her.”

  “Not me, mate.” I felt as sad as he was. “I’d love her, natch. But look at me, for God’s sake. What perfect woman would have a scruff like me? I’m not daft—or ever likely to be that rich. No, Steerforth. You addicts are all the same. You’re pillocks, round the twist. I’m off out of here first chance I get. You’ll stay forever, chasing your dream.

  You’d pay all your savings if the Triad’d let you have her once, and it won’t be enough.

  You’d have to have her twice. Then forever. You’ll die like a male bee in its flight.”

  Another dream that died of size?

  He was about to give me the ultimate rejoinder—I wish he had, seeing what happened—but a taxi drew up. He crossed to speak with the occupant, a young undertaker suit who gave Steerforth orders through the window. J.S. beckoned me, pointed to where the big white liner was berthed. I watched him. Amazing. Already he’d straightened, walking buoyantly, smiling. Our clients tonight must be big spenders. See what I mean about addicts? They all come to a bad end. I’ve heard that.

  Typhoon Emma struck about one in the morning. I was sleepily saying good night to a pleasant brunette in the vast terminal building, wondering why on earth an attractive rich bird like her wanted to hire a bloke like me. I was pleased she did, though, because she wore a French-Egyptian-motif bangle, 1820 or so, and loved antique jewelry so much we’d done nothing but talk about it. Well, nearly nothing. I forget her name.

  “I’m sorry you have to go, er, love,” I was saying. You have to be careful saying things like this, in case she decides to stay and you find yourself battling nightlong pitfalls when you’re at your weakest.

  She paused, melting, so I quickly added, “But it’s best you do. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” That proved I was Good Deep Down. We said tender farewells by the exit.

  The ship’s duty officer took her arm. “I’ll take the lady from here, sir,” he said. “The typhoon’s on us.” I drew breath to say I’d accompany her, but he whispered, “Piss off, you cheap hustler,” which narked me because I come pretty expensive. He triggered the door, grabbed the bird, and ran at a low crouch into the maddest weather I’d ever seen. The bird went with a squeal.

  I peered through the glass at the liner. Its huge bulk was straining massively in its berth. I heard the wind huthering. In the arc lights I saw a tree— small, but entire—

  whiz skittering along the wharf. And a rickshaw, simply bowling past. The world in a tumble drier. Hellfire, I thought, as water splashed up the liner’s side. The weather had worsened fast while we were snogging.

  My journey to Steerforth’s flat was nightmarish. Even though I clung to walls, hugged doorways and ventilation grilles, I got blown off my feet several times, narrowly not smashing my head in. And the bloody gale began howling—really up-and-down bawling that peaked in a frightening screech. Buffeted and bruised, I saw a car whipped up and lobbed into the harbor. It took me an hour to reach Steerforth’s. Then the rain started, whooshing out of the maniacal sky and slamming me to my knees.

  The door broke as I unlocked it, literally slammed back and fractured under the win
d’s press. The single bulb swung crazily, imploded its glass over my head. I scrambled upstairs.

  Steerforth gave me a warm greeting. “You fucking lunatic!” He shoved the apartment door to. “Have you no sense?”

  The long mirror showed me myself: gaunt, soaked, clothes ripped, one shoe missing. A drowned rat. “I didn’t know it’d be like that.”

  “Is the grumble safe?”

  “Aye. She’s back on board.”

  “Well, that’s something.” He eyed me, snickered. “You look worth ten cents an hour, Lovejoy. Here, have a celebration drink—you’ve survived your first typhoon.”

  Hong Kong also survived it in a shambles of flood damage, deaths, landslides, broken roads. Buildings had collapsed in Kowloon, killing several people. A Greek freighter trying for the Lamma Channel was missing. Mudslides had engulfed cars near Peak Road, killing two horribly. Electricity was haywire. Water was cut off, nothing but gurgles from taps. Junks had vanished. The winds had roared through the harbor, picking up boats and vehicles like handfuls of gravel. Lighters were cast ashore on Stonecutters. Squatter villages had suffered heavily, shacks slithering down the mountainsides as the downpour gouged out new nullahs and undermined fragile foundations.

  The mess gave me two days’ rest. For once my grumbling at Hong Kong’s heat, its commerce, its berserk criminality was silenced as I watched the colony fight back.

  It was brilliant, a superb display of organization. Incredibly, everybody wore the same jaunty grins, calling the same Cantonese hilarities. The phone service was restored almost immediately. Queues formed at water standpipes. I too went and stood in line, patiently moving my two gallon cans until I reached the taps. I was so proud, puffing up the stairs hardly spilling a drop. Steerforth galled me, using too much water shaving.

  The selfish swine even washed his shoes free of mud, and was too drunk that first day to take a turn in the water queue.