“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.”