The T’ang box was to be auctioned relatively late in the evening, but both Burton and I were there right from the opening bid on the first object, a beautiful, and highly collectible, bronze jia, a three-legged vessel for heating wine, dating to the Shang period, or, as Dory had made me memorize, the eighteenth to the twelfth century BCE.
I called Dory, at home in her armchair, to tell her the auction was about to begin, being very careful not to call her by name in case Burton was eavesdropping. “Have you ascertained who might be bidding for the silver box?” she asked.
“The Cottingham Museum in Toronto,” I said carefully. Burton was no doubt straining to hear, and I didn’t want him to think it would be anyone familiar with his name. “There was also a young man at the preview who was interested. He’s here but he doesn’t look as if he can afford it.”
“Young?”
“I don’t know. Maybe thirty? And there’s a telephone bidder. I was told that when I arrived. I have no idea who that is.”
“Telephone,” she repeated. “Are there any Asian people there who might be bidding?”
“Only one, the young man I’ve already mentioned, who does not look as if he is in the right league,” I said.
“I see,” she said. She then started to cough, almost as if she were choking. “Excuse me, will you? I’m going to have to get myself a glass of water,” she gasped. “Call me when the bidding is about to start.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” I said.
It was after a break in the proceedings, about midway through the auction, that the situation changed significantly. The announcement came from the auctioneer, Gerald Cox, the Cox of Molesworth Cox, who told us that an object had been withdrawn. Next to me, Burton was shuffling papers nervously, unwrapping something, most likely a cough drop, as he had been making little throat-clearing sounds all evening in a most irritating manner. Perhaps he had forgotten to say yes to good health that day. The rustling stopped, however, as Cox spoke.
“I’m afraid the timing of this is highly unusual,” Cox said. “Item eighty-three, a silver coffret dating to the reign of T’ang Emperor Xuanzong has just been withdrawn by its owner.” In the booth next to me, Burton dropped his pen, which rolled in front of me. Mr. Knockoff, who had been leaning against the wall on one side of the room, slammed his paddle against the wall in frustration.
I took a deep breath and phoned the news to Dory, hearing her sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. I could feel her disappointment across the phone line.
“It’s not for you to apologize,” she said quietly. “There’ll be another time.”
There wasn’t another time for Dory, though, because ten days later she was dead.
Two
Life does not always unfold as we hope, of course, particularly when we make our plans without understanding the course of action others intend for us. I was not to become a soldier like my brother, nor a civil servant scurrying about the corridors of the August Enceinte where, Number One Brother informed me, the important business of managing the empire took place. Both my brothers were successful at their careers, none more so than Number Two Brother who, posted to the northern frontier, spent his idle hours trading with the caravans on the Silk Route, or perhaps, given his ne’er-do-well attitude, robbing them, thereby amassing a considerable fortune. The money he sent for the family was well regarded by all, irrespective of the manner in which it was acquired. My father was addicted to the gaming tiles, and regularly gambled much of the family income away. We lived, I suppose, in a state of decaying gentility.
No, my destiny had been decided long before I was born. My family, it seems, had a long tradition of service to the Imperial Court. I was to be adopted by Wu Peng, a very important personage in the court. Wu was a eunuch in the imperial household. I was to be a eunuch, too.
I did not understand when I was sent to Wu Peng on my tenth birthday what a eunuch was. I was soon to find out. Number One Brother, who by now had a wife and two concubines, told me to take it like a man, which was, I suppose, his idea of humor. My mother and father told me to be brave, that it was a tremendous honor. Brave about what? An honor for what? I was told that the Son of Heaven’s closest advisor and confidant was a eunuch, someone so powerful that he walked the chambers of the Son of Heaven. I was told that the workings of the Imperial Palace depended upon the skill of eunuchs as much as on the ministrations of the most senior mandarins, a position to which Number One Brother aspired. I did not understand any of this. I did know that my mother cried herself to sleep for several nights before I left.
Perhaps that is what they told Number One Sister, too, that it was an honor to serve the emperor. And it was.
Dory suffered a massive heart attack and died on the spot, seated in her favorite armchair. She’d had a heart condition for a few years, something she’d neglected to mention to me. Her maid found her when she returned to the house with the groceries. Her husband was at his club at the time. Dory died alone. In fact, it didn’t matter that neither George nor the maid was on hand. The doctors said there was nothing that could have been done. It was a shock. Dory had looked younger than her years, but even so, she was taken way too soon. More than anything else I blamed the Cottingham, convinced Dory would still be alive if they’d let her work as long as she wanted to, or at least for a few more years until she turned sixty-five. Rob, Clive, Alex Stewart, and I all went to the funeral. I saw no one that I knew from the Cottingham, and certainly not Burton Haldimand.
I also blamed whoever it was who had changed his or her mind about selling the T’ang box. The auction house wasn’t revealing any names, which would be standard procedure, so this person was both nameless and faceless. That didn’t stop me from being mad at them. Dory had been so excited about that box, the idea that she would have two of the three boxes her stepfather had, in her mind, stolen from China. Maybe if I’d been able to get it for her…
It was at the funeral that I saw Dory’s husband, George Norfolk Matthews, for the first time. He looked to be older than Dory by maybe ten years, and he seemed to be a very sad man, not just because of Dory but because of life. I have no idea why I thought that. He had plenty of money, and Dory had always spoken of him with affection. She had many photos of the two of them in her former office at the Cottingham, and of course at her home. Their daughter Amy, a doctor, came from Florida. It was the first time I’d seen her in person, too. She looked like her father, not Dory, and I knew that she was divorced. With her was a young man whom I recognized from photos I’d seen at Dory’s as her much-loved grandson, George, named for his grandfather, but better known as Geordie. Geordie looked like Dory’s side of the family, which is to say more Asian. He was an extremely attractive young man, the sort who would have the girls swooning. There was also a half brother of Dory’s by the name of Martin Jones. I didn’t get a chance to talk to any of them.
Several weeks later, long after Dory was buried, I was still playing at being Charlyn Krahn, to my displeasure. Taking care of these bad people, to use Rob’s expression, was taking rather longer than either of us wanted. Rob and I had been moved to a small apartment, which was a good thing, given that we’d have killed each other after that long in a hotel room. The only positive news, at least from my standpoint, was that my lovely little cottage was still standing. One of Rob’s brothers and sisters on the force went in and got my mail and checked the place from time to time. No new cement floor in the basement. No smoke in the front room. Maybe the Heritage Act was more powerful than Rob thought.