A Cup of Light (11 page)

Outside the apartment he pressed his bulky body lightly against the edge of the hall window frame and watched through the glass as Dr. Yang stepped out of the building down below and walked away up the street, her steps snapping against the sidewalk. She was small, compact, professionally dressed. Then An came out with the tiny tooth in a glassine envelope, labeled, in its box.
“Zou-ba,”
he said, sliding it into his pocket, Let's go.

Doyle woke up the next morning on his back, not sure where he was for a second, in his old low-slung fifties house in Mar Vista maybe, where the light had poured in through the glass walls over the banana plants, the birds of paradise, the spreading ficus. He had lived there with Daphne, his wife, small and round-shouldered and curly-headed, the opposite of this American woman he'd just met.

Daphne was a lawyer. They'd been satisfied by each other, by who they were and their positions in the world—that was part of their magic. They had the gratification of the well-placed partner. Their love brought that kind of happiness.

But her feeling for him was burned out by the long storm of loving him through his illness. She crawled with him all the way to the wet edge of dying. It was beyond intimacy and fear. He felt she'd give anything to make him live. At times that was what kept him breathing. Much later he realized she was saying good-bye. Maybe both were true. He did survive. And she left, because things never worked between them again.

But now he was a world away, in China. He had a different life. He knew its boundaries. And he knew every inch of himself now too. He put his hands on his abdomen, pressing it, circling the mysterious float of forms and functions inside him, feeling for the grain, the pea, the tiny pebble that did not belong. The tumors could easily come back. The chance of it happening again was high. And so he checked, he felt, he knew his body as well and as far down inside as a man possibly could using his own hands against his skin. He did this to comfort himself. Each time he did it he felt as if he had bought himself another day. He could go forward. And forget what he would never have. Just forget it.

He stretched, letting go of it. He looked at the clock. Time to get going.

On Hollywood Road in Hong Kong, Bai watched as Unloader Ma took the crate out of the back of the truck and walked it gently up to the edge of the sidewalk, under the awning of the building. When it was snug against the wall, out of the sidewalk's bobbing stream of people, he stepped back and sent a formal nod to Uncrater Leung, who stood off to the side under the awning, relaxed, smoking a cigarette. Leung dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and walked to the crate. He eyed it a moment, then began taking out delicate little prying tools, producing from his many-pocketed vest everything he needed to tap the crate open and prize out its securing tacks and nails. Everything—every nail, every ounce of packing material, every scrap of wastepaper, every spiral of wood shaving—would be thoughtfully packed away by him for reuse. Now he had the crate open and the pink tissue was flying.

Much as he wanted to stay and see the treasures about to emerge, at that moment Dealer Ng opened the door and beckoned him inside. Bai followed him. “You have something nice for me?” Dealer Ng said over his shoulder.

“Very nice.” Bai smiled because he carried the famille-verte plate, famille-rose vase, and the Qianlong bowl in
falang cai
. He knew the dealer was going to like them.

Ng took Bai into his back room and poured tea, then set the plate, the bowl, and the vase out on the rimmed, felt-covered table. He turned up the lights, a specially installed spectrum. And only after a careful, harrowing examination did he erupt with admiration and pronounce them, with great pleasure, very
hoi moon
. They discussed price, at some length, and enjoyed it, and leavened the process further through the prolonged viewing of additional pots. They consumed tea and reached agreement.

And then came the information exchange.

“What's going on in Jingdezhen?” Dealer Ng asked. His voice was light but he was listening hard. He knew the ah chan understood: Who was making what. What copies were coming down the pipe.

Bai dropped to a low tone. “There is a potter named Yang Shu making a substantial series of monochromes, borrowing from the Song. Also, someone at the Institute is making a set of twelve-month cups.” Bai would never trade his most prized artist contacts, like his highly esteemed friend Potter Yu, on this modest bargain. “Now if I may have the benefit of
your
opinion.” Bai brought out a photograph of a Qianlong overglaze enamel vase.

Ng looked at it, tipped down his glasses. “Lovely. It is very like one that has been written up in the Idemitsu collection.” He went to his side wall and pulled an exhibition catalog from a long, tight-packed shelf. “See,” he said, opening the book.

Bai saw. The style of decoration, the range of hues from the famille-verte palette, the particular mustard and brick and green, the pattern along the rim. “Trouble you to copy this page?” he asked.

“Of course.” Dealer Ng processed a few pages through a machine and handed them over, to the ah chan's ornate thanks.

They settled in cash. As soon as the Mainland man was paid, Ng felt impatient for him to leave. The dealer wanted to be alone with his new acquisitions, to call his most treasured friends. He would close the shop, they'd come over, he'd bring out his best tea. Ah, if others knew the delight of holding objects of divine beauty for a time, having them to show your friends—if others knew, everyone would want them. And everyone would become an art dealer.

Bai sensed the dismissal. He offered a concise string of formal thanks and good-byes. But even as the ah chan turned to the door, his cell phone was ringing and he was digging it out to answer it.
“Ei!”
he said when he heard his friend's voice. “Now? Yes? All right. The Luk Yu. I'll be right there.” He turned back again, inclined his head once more, and was gone.

Ng Fan watched him through the glass until he vanished beyond the edge of the gallery's windows. The dealer went to the front door and locked it. He dialed down the store lights. Then he drew out his mobile and called his friend Stanley Pao.

“Ei,”
Stanley answered.

“It's me,” Ng Fan said. He listened. Through the phone he could hear the air conditioner going there in Stanley's porcelain room. He could see Stanley sitting there, white hair slicked back, comfortable paunch, face lined in well-lived elegance. “I have a few things for you,” Ng said. “Some real stars.”

“Mmm.” The older man's voice took its time, as always, to consider. Then he said: “I'll come over.”

Michael Doyle had slipped a note under her door with the address of a teahouse on Dizhimen and the time, seven o'clock, and when she got there she found him waiting, talking to a Chinese man in his forties with a gray ponytail. They waved her to their table.

“Lia Frank,” Doyle said with a brief gesture, “meet An Xing.” The American man gleamed with delight. He sat upright, pulled in around his center, hands on the table.

“Fan Luo Na,” Lia said, indicating herself. “Pleased.” She and An exchanged cards.

“Ah, you are a real specialist,” An said, looking at her card.

She laughed, pushing this away as she glanced at his. “You work at Chongwen Hospital too?”

“You speak,” he said. “Very good. Yes. We work in the same research.”

“Right. The lead project.”

“Yes. You know, Tong Madou”—Michael's Chinese name—“has told me you are very good at spotting fakes.”

“Well,” she said, “I hope so. It's my job.”

An snapped open a black faux-lizard attaché case. “Take a look at these.”

She started. Inside were dozens of pairs of sunglasses in neat rows, all expensive designer models. “Whoa, some collection.”

“Thank you. Miss Fan, I hope it is some fun we can have. It's like this. These are the real lines, the current imported designer glasses. Look closely. Then we'll go out in the street, where they are selling them; we'll look for fakes.”

“Okay . . .” She looked again at the glasses, not connecting with the reason for this. Of course they'd find fakes. Fakes were everywhere in China. There was a huge demand for products, especially name brands. Everybody wanted to be a player, and if real props weren't available, fakes would do. So fakes abounded. “But why?” she said.

Doyle leaned his upper body forward a few inches. “There's a law in Beijing,” he said in English. “If you catch someone selling you a fake, they have to return you double your money. Double!”

“
That's
interesting.”

“Theoretically at least, the consumer does have a few rights. But making it happen”—he grinned across the table—“that takes a man like An.”

“Yes,” the Chinese man said. “And it's true that right now I specialize in sunglasses. But I do whatever interests me at the moment.” He held up a pair of Lauren frames. “These are nice.”

She picked up the soft cable of her hair and looped it back over her shoulder. She could feel the American's eyes on the expert turn of her hand. “They are nice,” she agreed.

“I will tell you,” An said. “There are more subtle distinctions than you think. This is high academic stuff. Seriously.”

The waitress brought their tea. Lia had ordered pine flavor, a tall frozen-slush mix of tea, milk, sugar, and sweet pine essence. They drank and talked, and all the while she studied the contents of the case. Prada and Fendi and Dior, frames gleaming in the open case.

“Okay,” she said when everyone had drained their glasses, “I'm ready.” They went out and walked down the boulevard, and after a while turned east into Han Leng Hutong. She could see it was a prime spot to look for fakes, a lane crowded with upscale stores. In front of the stores stretched a long bank of stalls selling sweaters and cookware and hairpieces and toys, lots of voices and bantering and people.

“Halfway down on the right,” An said. “See that store? You're a foreigner. It's perfect. Go in alone.”

“Okay.” She walked away from him and Michael. The light cloth of her skirt eddied at her knees. She could feel them watching her from behind.

Here was the shop; she turned and went in. The bell tinkled above the door. It was crisply air-conditioned. All the sunglasses were arrayed on Lucite shelves, plenty of space between them as befitted their price tags. Lia walked slowly around the store, taking the glasses in, snapshot-quick at first and then pausing, combing through the details. Armani had the gilt shadow drop behind the logo. Blass had the oval paper label on the earpiece, electric blue. Prada had a certain tag. And this was Western civilization.

Then she came on a sleek pair of black and silver Fendi wraparounds. One glance, nothing. Second glance, she felt the secret righteousness start to rise. Oh yes. This pair was not right.

The tag didn't have the quota import code. It had to, if it had come from Italy.

She looked at it a little more, then pretended to occupy herself with several more pairs. After a minute she left. She walked up the hutong to them. Michael stood with his hands in his pockets, loose button-down shirt tucked in. In contrast to his top half, she saw he had such narrow hips and legs that his khakis fell all but uninterrupted from his belt.

“Hey,” she said, a quick, smiling American syllable, and then turned to An in Chinese. “Are you ready? Fendis. Center, a little to the right when you walk in. Black and silver. The quota code is missing from the tag.”

“Fan Luo Na!” he said. “You're keen as a knife.” He handed the case to Michael and was gone.

“Impressive,” Doyle said with a smile.

“Come on.” She saw that his eyeteeth pushed out a little. She liked that. He had a round mouth and it might have been too sweet, on a man, but the teeth gave him an air of license, so she noticed anytime he smiled, she wanted to smile too. “How long have you lived here?” she said.

“Eight months. I'm on a two-year fellowship.”

“It's a choice.”

“It is.”

“Why China? Just the work?”

“No,” he said. His small brown eyes, deep-set under low brows, glanced away from her. “It's never just the work, is it?”

“Not usually.”

He gave a small rumbling laugh that said he was weak, only a man, but at least he forgave himself. “Here's what happened. I had cancer. It was bad. In the end I beat it, at least into remission. Although that's the thing about cancer, it's always there with you. Even if it seems to be gone.” He stopped and looked at her. He wanted her to hear him. There was a zing of connection between them, he could feel it, and as he'd learned over time, that meant she could feel it too. But he was a poor risk for any placement of affections. She was nice, he didn't want to hurt her. He thought of himself as honorable. He was the big-shouldered, well-meaning one who was always kind to women, took care not to use them, was not above taking pleasure just for pleasure but was careful where he took it. He pushed the fine, straight hair off his forehead. “And so you can never really be sure about things. Anyway, then, at least, I got better. And after that my wife and I split up. So.” He pushed his hands deep down in his pockets. “Good time to move.”

“I guess so. My God.”

“Life,” he said.

“Life. I'm glad you're okay, though. Really. I am.”

“Well.” He rolled his eyes, the who-knows roll.

She was looking at him carefully. “I understand something about your room now,” she said. “I saw it. It's very plain. It's not like the other rooms in the court, is it? It's more like someone's way station. At the time, I couldn't understand it. And now you tell me this, and I do.”

He was a few beats back. “You saw my room?”

“Yes. I was walking through the guesthouse. This was before we met. I just walked back there without thinking. You turned on the light. I stood there for a minute and watched you through the window.”