“He says you can go on back,” Nick resentfully admitted.
“I’m delighted,” I chirped. “Is that charming Mr. Woo still with him?”
Nick curled his lip, which was answer enough.
I marched toward the rear, calling across the room, “Q. X., come on now, we have a meeting. We can look at the art later.” Jack joined me with an air of fusty impatience, as though I’d been the one holding up the proceedings. Jumpy Caitlin came out to meet us and escort us into the presence of the potentate.
Doug Haig, as usual, was examining art on his worktable, from which, as usual, he didn’t look up immediately. Mighty Casey Woo, in what might by now have become usual, clogged up the corner chair, drinking a Coke. When sufficient eons had passed for all to understand who was boss, Doug Haig raised his head to take in the vision of Jack and myself. The waiting time, I was not pleased to note, was about half of what it had been for me alone, now that I was accompanied by Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang.
“Mr. Haig,” I said when he’d finally laid a sheet of tissue paper over his drawing and languidly fixed his attention on us. “This is Dr. Lin, from the Central University at Hohhot, in Inner Mongolia, China. Dr. Lin, I’d like you to meet Mr. Haig.” Did I put emphasis on the “Dr.” and the “Mr.”? Perhaps a tiny bit.
Haig extended a pudgy paw, but Jack, as though he hadn’t seen it, snapped Haig a bow. Speaking that nasal, accented English, he said formally, “It is great honor for small scholar as myself to meet such eminent American art dealer.” He managed to make “small scholar” sound like “King Tut” and “art dealer” like “ditch digger.” He held the bow a few moments; by the time he stood straight again Haig’s right hand had folded itself over his left as though it had been on its way there all along.
“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Lin, to meet such an eminent authority. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.” Haig gave a bland smile. “Just yesterday, in fact, I was talking with Clarence Snyder. He speaks very highly of you.”
“Dr. Snyder, generous man. Must call him later, thank him for helpfulness. Never lets friend down.”
Jack sat, his jacket gaping over his chest-padding. He surveyed Haig’s office with a fusion of burning envy and icy disdain. “Very interesting work, this gallery,” he said, speaking like a man who’d been in and out of every important art venue in New York before coming down to this one. “Pang Ping-Pong, of course, does no new work now, five years, just recycles. Still, I suppose he still sells well in West? Here, though,” he gestured at the drawings on the table, “this work new, maybe good. Find in China? You travel good deal to China, Mr. Haig, so I understand. More than most dealer.”
“I have to,” Haig answered. “To find the artists before other dealers do. I can’t say I enjoy your country all that much”—a thin smile—“but those trips are my edge. How about you, Dr. Lin? Is it possible for you to travel outside China often?” He added innocently, “Does your schedule allow it?”
Schedule, my eye: that crack was about power, reminding Dr. Q. X. Lin who wanted what from whom. As Jack’s about Pang Ping-Pong and the work on the table had been, reminding Haig who had what to give.
“Inside China, travel often,” Jack said stiffly. “Outside, as you say, no time. Two years ago, go to conference in Berlin. This second trip to U.S.”
“And how do you like it?”
“Like very well. Trip too short, only two week. Would be better, much longer. So much to see in U.S. In New York.” Through the yellow lenses he stared straight at Haig.
“Yes,” Haig said, “and for a scholar of your eminence, I imagine the U.S. holds a great deal of opportunity. It would be a shame if you couldn’t take advantage of it.”
“Speaking of taking advantage,” I said, “I mentioned to Dr. Lin the paintings you were telling me about, the ones you thought would interest him. The unattributed works that might be by Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero? I suggested we might take advantage of the fact that we were in your neighborhood to come look at them.”
“She tell me,” said Jack, “you not sure, authenticity. She say, if someone, large knowledge, all parts of field, appraises, authenticates, paintings extremely valuable. If true Chaus, of course, I don’t need her tell me that.”
“No question about it,” Haig said, wetting his rubbery lips and giving me a look that said no one really needed me to tell them much of anything. “This is my area, of course, but I’m not an authority, not in the academic sense.” He managed, in keeping with the ongoing war of intonation, to make “academic” an insult. “From the moment I saw these pieces I was convinced of their authenticity, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting them on the market on the basis of only my own instinct. If, on the other hand, they were to be examined by an academic authority who came to the same conclusion I did, I’d feel on firm ground going forward. And,” he added, with a cold smile, “I’d be quite grateful.”
“I see.” Jack nodded.
“In fact,” Haig said, as though the idea had only just occurred to him, “an expert like that could be a great asset to this gallery. Over the years I’ve acquired a great deal of work—artists I handle and also work I’ve bought for my own collection—but my passion seems to have outpaced my paperwork. I’m afraid there’s a tremendous amount of scholarship to be done within these walls. I’d do it myself but I just don’t have the time.”
“I see,” Jack said again, more slowly. “How much time, Mr. Haig? How long you estimate this scholarship takes?”
“At least a year,” Haig said without hesitation. “Perhaps two.”
“Long time. If paintings she tell me about turn out be real, I suppose you very busy to sell them, have even less time for scholarship?”
“Absolutely true. If they’re real, I’ll definitely need expert help in the gallery into the forseeable future.”
“So fascinating,” Jack reflected, as though all of this were of purely abstract interest. “All this conversation, make me very curious, see paintings. Is possible you have time, can show me?”
“Dr. Lin, when I heard you were in New York I demanded that Ms. Chin bring you here. I refused to take no for an answer.” History Rewrites R Us. “I’ve canceled all my other appointments for this morning. A gentleman of your erudition, your cultivation—it would be my pleasure to show you the Chaus.” Not the alleged Chaus, the putative Chaus, the I-know-damn-well-they’re-not Chaus. For a moment I longed to forget the whole plan and have Jack take one look at the paintings and say they were garbage, just to see Haig’s face.
Haig didn’t get up right away; first he looked from me to Woo. I could see in his eyes the hope that somehow, magically, we might leave, that he might not have to share his treasure with us, to have our peasant eyes raking over his resplendent paper and ink. You posturing prig, I wanted to yell, they’re fake, remember? And you stole them, remember that, too? I didn’t say anything, though, just stared back at him, tired of smiling. Woo slurped his Coke and acted as though he hadn’t heard a word of the entire conversation. Haig sighed, threw a long-suffering glance to Dr. Q. X. Lin, and rose. He moved with a surprisingly bouncy gait, as though his bulk were partially helium. At a set of flat files along the wall he unlocked a drawer, extracted a large leather portfolio, and brought it back to the table. He laid it carefully down, unzipped it, and took out a cardboard folder. The folder was tied with a cloth ribbon and I almost busted a gasket waiting for his ceremonial undoing of the bow. Finally he lifted the top board and slowly slid out an ink painting.