The Concubine Affair

by Quig Shelby

  ‘Mr Lin,’ said Marcus ‘you’re late.’

  ‘Sorry Mr Forster.’

  ‘It’s all right Tyrone, you can let him in,’ he sighed.

  Marcus sat behind his desk, elevated above the diminutive Mr Lin.

  ‘Shall we take a look Mr Lin?’ asked Marcus, running out of patience as his visitor looked wide eyed around the gallery.

  ‘You have some beautiful pieces,’ said Hui Lin removing his cap. His head was shaven, clean and oiled, with a short ponytail hanging from the crown.

  ‘Indeed, and unfortunately this particular vase won’t be joining them,’ said Marcus despairingly, whilst turning the vase in his hands.

  ‘You’re certain Mr Forster? What about the mark on the base?’

  ‘Look Mr Lin I really hate doing this, but it’s a copy. Where did you get it?’

  ‘From a friend: And it’s been with me for many years.’

  ‘I see. Look I can understand that you might have a certain sentimental attachment to the vase,’ said Marcus.

  ‘If only you knew. But it has a certain haunting beauty does it not?’ said Mr Lin.

  ‘Indeed it does, and maybe you could find buyer at auction willing to spend a couple of hundred pounds.’

  ‘Is that all Mr Forster?’ asked Hui, disappointment drawn on his heavily lined face.

  ‘I’m afraid so. But maybe you want to hang onto it, it’s a nice ornament.’

  ‘I no longer have anywhere to keep it,’ said Hui despondently.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you’ll what I’ll do, considering you’re the best chef in Chinatown. I’ll give you five hundred smackers in cash right here, and right now.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hui, scratching his head.

  ‘It’s the best offer you’ll get,’ said Marcus ‘anywhere.’

  ‘And you’re certain it’s a fake?’ asked Hui.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Alright I’ll take it.’

  Marcus began to peel the fifty pound notes off of his money clip.

  ‘Just before you go Mr Hui, do you know anything about the scenes on the vase?’

  ‘It’s tells the story of the Emperor’s favourite concubine, who falls in love with a priest.’

  ‘And the outcome?’

  ‘Death,’ said Mr Lin.

  Tyrone let the old man out.

  ‘We’re packing up early today Tyrone,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Like taking candy from a baby,’ he whispered under his breath.

  Orvid observed a missing suitcase atop the wardrobe, and quickly flung open the door. He felt empty, lost; Libby had taken all of her clothes.

  Last year’s manacled maiden trick had sublimely eased into domestic discipline, but Libby had tired of his increasing appetite to bind her; at least off stage. He rang her mobile but it was switched off; he just hoped she showed up tonight.

  ‘You won’t believe what happened today,’ said a jubilant Marcus entering the kitchen whilst undoing his cufflinks.

  ‘You’d be surprised what I think Marcus, but go on,’ said Verity stirring the noodles.

  ‘That Chinese chef brought in his vase.’

  ‘I’m guessing from your voice it’s the real thing.’

  ‘One hundred percent: A Qing dynasty vase, with the best glaze I have ever seen.’

  ‘Worth?’ asked Verity.

  ‘Fifteen million wouldn’t be a foolish estimate,’ said Marcus ‘not in the current climate.’

  ‘Mr Lin must be over the moon,’ said Verity.

  She was great at remembering names, and another reason why she was good for business.

  ‘Sort of: But Verity, if you see him, never ever mention the vase. In fact we might give the Chrysanthemum a wide berth from now on.’

  ‘Oh Marcus you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘What am I supposed to do, make a loss?’

  ‘Oh well, can I take a look?’ asked Verity.

  ‘After dinner; what’s cooking?’

  ‘I thought I’d rustle up some Chinese of my own tonight,’ she said smiling.

  ‘Did he buy it?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hui Lin.

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  ‘And I guess he thinks he’s fooled you.’

  ‘Indeed, but tell me, how did you get on?’ asked Hui.

  ‘They offered me the job at interview.’

  Yi Peng was going to work at Monks Hill mental health hospital.

  ‘Marcus it’s beautiful,’ said Verity looking at the vase on the rosewood sideboard. ‘Poor Mr Lin.’

  ‘Let’s not start that again,’ he said frowning.

  The vase was oviform, and made of pink porcelain, although pink was not the predominant colour. It stood roughly sixty centimetres high, and had the most exquisite and diverse glazes. There was golden outlining, embossing, and light elegant engraving. The seal mark on the base was clearly no forgery, and dated the masterpiece circa 179O in the Qianlong period of the Qing dynasty. At the neck emerged two golden dragon handles.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Verity, pointing at the smooth faced man with the large ears.

  ‘The Emperor Chien-lung,’ said Marcus.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Verity.

  Marcus loved these questions; it gave him the chance to show off his expertise.

  ‘Because only the Emperor wears brilliant yellow.’

  ‘So who’s the guy next to him?’

  ‘A tax collector probably: Do you see the coins in his hand? Who knows it could even be Heshen.’Heshen.

  Marcus lay back in his chair, swirling the brandy in his glass, and pleased with his good fortune.

  ‘Historical characters push up the price,’ he said gloating.

  ‘There’s a lady hanging from a rope on the other side,’ said Verity.

  ‘A disgraced concubine: If you look next to the apple tree you can see her lover tied to a post; a Jesuit priest no less.’

  ‘What’s that man doing to him?’

  ‘The death of a thousand cuts,’

  ‘Gruesome.’

  ‘Play with fire my dear. But don’t worry collectors are a blood thirsty bunch. That vase is my retirement.’

  Verity pursed her lips.

  Then he really would have no need for her. But would he auction her off, or keep her in his collection?

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m taking it to the safe; I can hardly leave it out,’ he replied.

  ‘And then are you coming to bed?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m seeing a client about the vase tonight; he leaves for Berlin in the morning.’

  ‘Shall I wait up?’ asked Verity.

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you; he does like to talk.’

  Ten minutes later, Marcus was out the door; they both knew he was off to see his mistress, and celebrate.

  She had to see it one more time, and upstairs in a lonely bedroom the bolts of the safe shot open. Who was the poor concubine she wondered, her fingers trailing over the glaze? And the priest, he must have known the risk, but gambled all for forbidden love.

  It was like an electric spark, a voltage shooting through her hand. She left the vase on the Persian rug, and collapsed on the bed. But she couldn’t escape the voices, even with her head under the pillow, as her ruby red lipstick smudged the sheets.

  ‘Heshen, some of the Court officials are becoming quite jealous of you.’

  ‘Surely it is an inevitability my Emperor, now they see how close we have become.’

  ‘And the great wealth you are amassing has no influence?’ asked the Emperor.

  ‘Everything I do is
in the service of the Emperor. If you do not believe that, then have me killed.’

  ‘My dear Heshen, there is no need to be so dramatic. But I am now an old man, and my son might not see things quite the same way.’

  ‘He carries his father’s wisdom, and it is that upon which I rely.’

  ‘Perhaps, but tread carefully Heshen, I don’t wish to lose another I love so soon after Wa Yu’s suicide.’

  ‘It is most unfortunate she escaped her punishment,’ said Heshen.

  ‘But did the priest not pay the price?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Heshen grinning.

  ‘And what of the other Jesuits?’

  ‘They learned a most valuable lesson, one they will not easily forget.’

  Suddenly Verity heard screaming that chilled to her very bones, and she passed out.

  Chapter Six

  She wore a black trouser suit with a white blouse and a short striped tie. Verity had the habit of stealing the show but didn’t want to be the centre of attention at Milly’s funeral; if she could help it. But she did want to catch someone’s eye.

  Milly’s tearful elder sister threw a handful of soil on top of the coffin, as it was lowered into the ground.

  ‘I hardly recognised you,’ said Alain, manoeuvring by Verity’s side.

  He finally took the courage to speak before the crowd dispersed, and his chance was gone forever.

  ‘And do I scrub up well Mr Fontaney?’ Verity asked.

  It was now or never. She had given him the chance to show his appreciation or rebuff her, and perhaps blow his only opportunity.

  ‘Very well,’ he said.

  She lifted up her black lace hat a little, and tucked the loose hair behind her ear. She was waiting.

  ‘Look you know I never could say this at work, but ...’

  ‘Well go on Alain there’s no need to stammer, and I’m sure Margaret has told you everything about my marriage.’

  He went red.

  ‘Dear me Mr Fontaney are you blushing?’ she asked, delighting in his awkwardness.

  ‘Sorry it’s just that you’re incredibly ...,’

  ‘Go on,’ said Verity.

  ‘Beautiful.’

  There, he’d said it.

  ‘You know I never understand people’s reluctance in complementing attractiveness,’ she said.

  Alain was looking at her tight trousers, and underneath the faint outline of a stretched belt with looped suspenders.

  ‘I hope the outfit is to your liking,’ she said ‘I did choose it with you in mind.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he mouthed ‘restrained yet passionate.’

  They looked around; the crowd had dispersed, and she stood closer. Verity was wearing her Chanel No.5, but he could still smell the brandy on her breath.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said matter of fact.

  He didn’t want to chastise, but be chastised perhaps.

  ‘You’ve found me out, a little Dutch courage.’

  ‘But Verity ...’ he began.

  She placed her warm finger upon his lips.

  ‘Alain I’m no longer your patient,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry Verity.’

  ‘Forgiven, but where are you going to take me?’ she asked.

  ‘For a coffee?’ he wondered.

  Verity laughed.

  ‘My dear Alain, how very sweet. Are you really that naive?’

  Then she whispered in his ear, and he became even more intoxicated.

  Later in the afternoon she awoke in his bed. His head was on her stomach, and she could see the back of his broad muscular shoulders. Her long nails had left their mark, but there were older scars too. Did she have a rival?

  Alain awoke with her claws arousing him. She licked the side of his face.

  ‘Have I worn you out my poor darling?’ she asked.

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Alain your back it’s rather, well how can I put it? Whipped.’

  His face felt warm; damn he was blushing again.

  ‘At least I’ll be able to tell when you’re lying,’ said Verity, and she laughed.

  ‘Well come on tell me,’ she cajoled.

  ‘It’s a religious thing,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I’ve heard it called many things Alain, but never that.’

  ‘Honestly,’ he said.

  He didn’t want to mention the voice of the Jesuit priest, but he was connected.

  ‘It’s called self-flagellation. It purifies the body of sin, and brings me closer to God,’ he said.

  ‘And are you going to tell me you wear horse hair shirts as well?’ she asked.

  ‘You mean you know someone who sells them?’

  Verity burst out laughing.

  ‘It really is the quiet ones you have to watch,’ she said.

  He smiled.

  ‘OK well that’s fine with me,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I can put you to better use than I first thought.’

  Verity dressed in front of him.

  ‘You can put that away for now,’ she said ‘and no more touching it.’

  He obeyed.

  ‘When will I see you again?’ he asked, pleading.

  ‘Give me your number, I’ll phone,’ she replied curtly.

  She was clever enough not to discuss her marriage, and Marcus; these minor details could take the shine off of things.

  ‘I have to go,’ was all she said, leaving Alain’s heart instantly in chains.

  He watched her leave from the bedroom window, and then opened his wardrobe; curled at the bottom like a snake was his penitence for sleeping with a married woman.

  He was kneeling on the bed with the cat o’ nine tails slung over his shoulder. With the sweat running off of his forehead he slowly but surely began to flail his back, whilst praying for absolution.

  ‘How was the funeral?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘Perfect. How did you get on last night?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ replied Marcus.

  ‘And was your client interested in the vase?’

  ‘A little, but naturally he wants to see the vase.’

  ‘Hungry?’ asked Verity.

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got another client to see this evening.’

  Actually Marcus was off to see his favourite hooker, and this time he was the client seeing the goods on offer.

  Another lonely night; and Verity hit the bottle. She toyed with the mobile phone in her hand, looking at Alain’s number. But she didn’t want to overburden him so soon, nor sound so unbelievably desperate.

  She unscrewed another bottle, this time a chardonnay, and unlocked the safe. The vase both intrigued, and captivated her. She saw the concubine hanging, before a mass of voices, like a swirling swarm of bees, bombarded her head. She collapsed to the floor, drunk, psychotic, or both.

  Mrs Kay Calder was swelling with pride. It was their evening dance lesson, and Lawrence waltzed her around the room with his on call phone attached to his belt - just in case the newcomers didn’t know he was a doctor.

  ‘Darling you’re like a man possessed,’ she cooed.

  She smiled for the crowds, but never looking this happy in the bedroom.

  ‘That’s because I’m in love,’ he replied, but he didn’t say with whom.

  He leant her back, and she attempted a dazzling smile. Kay and Lawrence had met at university years before, and their passion undulated. Unfortunately the peaks were often due to Ralph’s infidelity, and this evening was no exception - he’d found another new lover on Hotnights.com.

  Alain had his head in the clouds, and in his books, searching for more proof, if he needed it. He knew why people heard voices; they were distant memories, bedfellows,
from previous lives. The cause of schizophrenia was really quite simple - reincarnation.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Nurse she’s coming around,’ shouted the care assistant.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘Not so bad, but where am I?’

  ‘You’re in hospital Verity,’ said Sheila.

  She didn’t say psychiatric hospital; it tended to frighten most new patients.

  Marcus had returned home in the morning to find his wife slouched by the safe, and speaking in tongues he couldn’t understand. The hospital called the psychiatrist, and she was sectioned to Monks Hill for assessment and treatment.

  ‘How are you today?’ asked Dr Calder.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ responded Verity.

  ‘Five days.’

  ‘Someone must tell my husband,’ said Verity.

  ‘Don’t worry, he already knows,’ said Calder.

  ‘And Alain?’ she asked.

  ‘Whose Alain?’ asked Sheila, whilst wrapping the blood pressure cuff around her arm.

  ‘Oh it doesn’t matter,’ replied Verity.

  She didn’t want to get him into trouble, but he was the best to person to help her; she couldn’t put her finger on it, but Dr Calder looked a little slimy.

  ‘BP’s fine,’ said Sheila.

  ‘How’s she been?’ asked Calder in the office.

  ‘Coffees?’ interrupted the new care assistant.

  ‘Yes please,’ said Sheila. Calder nodded.

  ‘Delusional most of the time, and extremely agitated,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Aggressive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Grandiose ideation, paranoia?’

  ‘Well when she stops speaking Chinese, she has been known to warn us that someone called Heshen is watching,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Who is?’ asked Calder.

  The new care assistant, Yi Peng, put their coffees on the desk.

  ‘The Emperor’s tax collector,’ said Yi.

  ‘And who are you?’ asked Calder looking him up and down with his eyes screwed.

  ‘Yi Peng.’

  Sheila interrupted him, to prevent what would be a rather unpleasant dressing down.

  ‘He’s new on the ward Doctor Calder,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’