“Dr. Lin,” Dr. Yang answered after a pause. “I’ve heard of you, of course.”
“This old friend, Lydia Chin,” Jack said, indicating me.
“Dr. Yang and I have met, Q. X.,” I told Jack. “An unexpected pleasure to see you here, Professor.”
“Unexpected, yes.” Dr. Yang glanced from me to Jack again. “What exactly is—”
“Dr. Lin and I were just looking over some paintings,” Haig said. “Perhaps you’d like to see them, also?”
Jack cooperatively stepped away, which put him out of Dr. Yang’s line of sight. I wanted to catch Jack’s eyes behind Dr. Yang’s back but I was afraid to. Then I realized that at that moment we could have had a shouting match about anything we wanted right out in the open. When Jack moved, Dr. Yang had caught sight of what was on the table, and he’d lost all interest in us.
The professor leaned over the paintings, moving from one to another, his face draining of color as he examined them. Of course, I thought; this is the first time he’s seen them, seen the quality of his daughter’s work. Doug Haig’s face, on the other hand, was suffused with a gloating joy so powerful I wanted to break a chair over his head. “These are the paintings I was telling you about,” he said casually to Dr. Yang. “The Chaus.”
Dr. Yang slowly straightened up and took a step closer to the triumphant mound of flesh that was Doug Haig. In a dark and quiet voice he said, “These are not Chaus.”
“Really? I’m surprised to hear you say that. Considering what Nick told me about your willingness to … reopen yesterday’s discussion. Also, considering what Dr. Lin said about these paintings.”
Not that Dr. Lin had actually said it yet, but Haig turned confidently to Jack.
“Don’t like to contradict eminent scholar,” Jack said, looking away from Dr. Yang as though embarrassed by his own effrontery. “But my belief, paintings are Chaus.”
“They are not.”
“Your belief, Dr. Lin?” prompted Haig.
“My opinion.” Jack spoke more strongly. “Professional, academic opinion.”
“Which Dr. Lin, as my consultant, will be putting in writing,” Haig assured Dr. Yang. “So while you’re welcome in the gallery anytime, of course, Professor, it turns out you needn’t have troubled yourself to come here today. In fact, unless you’re interested in the art once we have it on exhibit”—he pointed at Anna’s paintings— “you don’t need to bother to come back. Ever.” Haig gave the professor a smile he must have stolen from the Cheshire cat’s evil twin.
The vein I’d seen pulsing in Dr. Yang’s forehead yesterday was pounding away now. “I’d like to speak to you privately, Mr. Haig.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “can see you have many private thing to discuss. I must be getting to next meeting now, also. Mr. Haig, tomorrow maybe will call you—”
“No,” said Haig. “Dr. Lin, you’ve only just met your distinguished colleague. You two must have so much to talk about, I won’t hear of your leaving. Dr. Yang, whatever you have to say, I’m sure Dr. Lin will be utterly fascinated. Please, speak freely.”
It was like being at a train wreck; I couldn’t turn away. I had the sense that Dr. Yang, if he’d known a martial art, would be practicing it on Doug Haig as the rest of us watched.
“All right,” he said icily, eyes still on Haig. “Dr. Lin, I believe what I’ve brought will interest you, too.” He gestured to the table and waited. Jack, quicker to catch on than the rest of us, started to replace Anna’s paintings in their portfolio to clear a space. Haig gave a strangled gurgle and almost slapped Jack’s hand. With great ceremony, handling them delicately by their edges, he placed the paintings on the far side of the table where they were out of the way but still visible. Dr. Yang didn’t spare Haig a glance, just waited until he was done. Then he laid down the portfolio he’d brought, unzipped it, and from its inner cardboard folder pulled another ink painting.
The paper, with a fine toothed surface, was the same as Anna’s. The pure black ink, powerfully thick or delicately thin, or soft gray wash where the artist wanted it to be, looked identical. The meticulously controlled brushstrokes created exactly the same tension with the wild composition. The painting’s subject, three large carp peering up through the water under a bridge, and the accompanying poem about flashes of silver and gold as fish jump and return to the same spot in the everchanging stream, put it in the same nature-metaphor category. But it wasn’t the same.
Anna’s paintings were undeniably beautiful. Next to this, though, they seemed childish, naïve. Her lines and forms had an arbitrary quality I wouldn’t have understood if I hadn’t seen this painting, where every stroke of ink was the right one, nothing was missing, and nothing was extra.
“This,” said Dr. Yang, in his hard, quiet voice, “is a Chau.”
Haig stared. Jack and I stared. Even Woo was out of his chair, tilting his head to see this wonder. No one moved or spoke until finally, with a grunt, Woo sat back down again. He resumed slurping, proving that in the face of the miraculous the world does go on.
Haig, as though unable to believe what was happening, said, “Dr. Lin?”
Jack looked up at him, nodded, looked back down. “Would have to examine, of course. But can be almost no question. Amazing. So skillful, so accomplished. Chau, but even better than any known. As though … Dr. Yang, where this comes from?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Dr. Yang dismissed the question, and Jack. His eyes riveted to Haig’s, he said, “It’s a Chau and I’ll authenticate it.”
“I also!” Jack said, the man from Hohhot suddenly seeing his year in America slipping away. “After examine, of course.”
“Well.” Haig folded his arms over his balloon belly. “Well. Dr. Yang, how do I know this is truly a Chau?”
“Dr. Lin just said it was. Isn’t that enough for you? Although I suppose it’s reasonable to mistrust his judgment, since a moment ago he was prepared to authenticate my daughter’s paintings as Chaus.” He spoke with disgust, including in it both Jack and Haig, and probably me, too. Not Woo; he was beneath the professor’s contempt.
Dr. Yang’s scorn rolled right off Haig, whose supercilious air didn’t change. Jack, the offended academic, widened his eyes and began to protest. “My daughter’s,” Dr. Yang repeated firmly. “They’re very good. But they’re not Chaus.” I almost smiled. Even under the circumstances, the father can’t resist praising the daughter. “There are differences. A real expert could tell you.” Quick, angry glance at Jack. “The control of the quantity of ink on the brush, to keep a line solid or break it up, as the artist chooses. The change of brushstroke angle around the sweep of a curve. If all that’s too subtle for you, Mr. Haig, you can look to the poem. This, here, is Chau’s calligraphy. That’s Liu Mai-ke’s, my daughter’s husband’s, as is the poem, though it was put there by my daughter in imitation of Liu’s hand. Chau uses poems by classical masters, as he always did. This poem is by Wang Wei. But I’m sure you can see that.”
I was sure Haig couldn’t, and I was sure the professor knew that, too. I was tempted to give Haig a pass, though. I could read the Chinese, but my classical education was so poor I couldn’t have told Wang Wei from Liu Mai-ke. Or, for that matter, from A. A. Milne.
“Yes, all right,” Haig said, not even pretending to study the painting. “And you’ll say all that? When you authenticate it?”
“I’ve brought a letter.”
Haig seemed to try to put the brakes on, to think about this miracle the way he would any transaction. “What’s the painting’s provenance?”
“It’s from my personal collection. It was painted the year Chau died. I brought it with me from China. That, too, is in the letter.”