As the meeting broke up I tried to reach the Italian woman but was fingered by Ong and conducted to a separate room, in fact an auditorium. A group of Cantonese blokes huddled on the stage broke into smiles and fists— together gestures of jubilation when Ling Ling entered.
“Picture show, Lovejoy,” Ong said. I settled back as the first slide came on. Proving sessions—“proofies” to the trade—always make me nervous. Every good fake, even genuine antiques, undergoes this trial. Think of it as a screen test, where a knowledgeable jury tries to find defects in the pack of lies which the public will be told.
I ogled the projection.
It was beautiful, my Song Ping complete with frame. One of the men described the artistic features “as cataloged,” and was followed by a scientist who snapped us straight into high-pressure liquid chromatographic analyses of God knows what, seasick graphs, scanning electron micrographs of pollen grains found in the paint. An inorganic chemist showed us photometric and emission studies. An entomologist talked of spiders’ webs on the frame. Somebody had analyzed the glues, varnishes, the canvas, hey-noney-no.
It passed superbly, to my pride. Three others took over and dealt with exhibition of artifacts representing poor Song Ping’s hard times in old Canton. I especially enjoyed this bit, the old street photographs, maps of the city, grainy black-and-whites of Song Ping himself outside a shop, tickets, passes, fragments of a Chinese diary. It was lovely, a whole authenticated account of a life in old Canton. The printers had excelled themselves, producing faded catalogs of first twenty, then fifty-eight, then a hundred and sixty, paintings. Some goon read them all out in Cantonese, measurements and all, the maniac. My brain wasn’t up to Ling Ling’s, but producing one every two months would see me free in about forty years. Four decades.
“The Song Ping exhibition will begin tomorrow,” Dr. Chao announced, concluding the proceedings. “It will be a prodigious success. The painting will be on view one week from now.”
My vision misted, self-pity, as the know-alls babbled on. It wasn’t fair. Sentenced to forty years for naught, a caring compassionate bloke like me. I was so sorry for myself.
I’d now never see East Anglia, where even the future is filled with bygones.
But by the time Ling Ling rose with murmured thanks to the experts, I too was smiling and nodding with the best, a picture of elation. Sod imprisonment, and sod the Triad as well. I’d get on with my private holocaust.
Tempting the gods, I even smiled at my victims, Sim and Fatty. The gods thunderbolted me instantly. Ling Ling left to hostess the important visitors, and Dr. Chao summoned me aside.
From midnight on I was to go into exile. Well, even jail can improve living standards.
35
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THAT last time with Lorna and Mame was one long riot of spending, parties, dancing, romantic meals on beflagged junks, less a tryst than a tumult. Hong Kong’s famous sights blurred past in sunshine, loving, cheering at the Happy Valley races, flitting from shop to emporium while Lorna and Mame laughed and spent. Lorna even bought an apartment, for God’s sake, above Glenealy on the Peak Road. More hilarity, then a dash back to the liner to change for a candle-lit supper on a yacht moored by Junk Bay, where at last we were still, smiling at each other under tranquil twilight. About tranquil twilight.
It’s great stuff, even without an attractive American millionairess playfully feeding you jasmined lychees from a Queen Anne silver spoon. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I’d never been so thrilled to see a romantic all-concealing twilight fall. Because two ladies rich enough to have the Tiger Balm Gardens closed to the public for the purpose of serving chilled champagne to their lovers among all those crazy statues is bound to attract attention. As it had, paparazzi and all. And the Rolls ensured an admiring entourage wherever we went. Money being god, every extravagant purchase swelled our crowd more. And by teatime Lorna and Mame were gleefully trying to outspend each other. By then I’d given up trying to look inconspicuous.
If Janie spotted me, the whole game was up.
“So this Egyptian lady who’d mislaid her husband blamed me!” Steerforth was pealing laughter, one of his tales. I laughed along.
Dr. Chao had been unmoved when I told him that a lady I’d known back home was in Hong Kong. “And that nerk in the Macao races,” I added. “If either guesses I’m here, the game’s up.”
“Are you questioning my orders?” Dr. Chao asked gently.
“Me? No, no, Doc. But—”
“That word ‘but’ implies only a conditional acceptance of our orders, Lovejoy.” He went on over my fervent denials, “You will leave at midnight, and remain in exile until after the auction.”
“And the Brookers Gelman women?”
A pleased smile. “Your, ah, clients? It is vital that you… perform as normal, or suspicions will be aroused. Their husbands arrive from Manila tomorrow. Pretend you have to return to East Anglia—an ailing uncle, perhaps.”
“Penny for your thoughts, darling?” Lorna was pouring us more wine. The yacht rocked gently as amahs brought a fresh course. One thing, my prison lacked nothing. But it felt prison.
“No deal,” I said. “They’re worth twopence.”
Lies again. My thoughts were worth me.
Later, when the women made their way to the cabins, I maneuvered one last look at the sequined shore lights and so caught Steerforth. Cautiously I looked about but the amahs were noisily clearing up. “Steerforth. Look. You sober?”
“A little merry, Lovejoy.” He was reeling, sloshed.
“Listen. Do me a favor? You’re the only one I can trust, mate.”
“No, Lovejoy.” He sobered somewhat. “You’re trouble. A favor to you might mean zappo to me.”
“It’s a message, that’s all. To Fatty.”
“What is it?” He was guarded.
“Just this. Tell him it’s ready, same place, but he’s got to let Marilyn go. Got it?”
“It’s ready, same place,” he repeated. “No risk?”
“Honest,” I said. “I obeyed his orders to the letter.”
“It’s ready, same place, and he’s to let Marilyn go? Just that? No need to say where, Lovejoy?”
“Gawd, I’ve only been in one place for weeks. He’ll know where.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate. I owe you. And soon I’ll be able to pay.”
Lorna called me down then. Needless to add, I obeyed.
At midnight a small launch came for me, Leung and Ong in it with a liveried foki to lend legitimacy. I was roused from romantic slumber, and a tearful farewell was had by all—
Lorna, Mame, but especially me.
“Promise to fly back the instant he’s better, Lovejoy.”
“Eh?” Oh, my sick uncle. “Sure, love.”
She stood waving by the starboard light, called, “I’ve a wonderful surprise when you return, darling. Come soon!”
I called, “Good night, doowerlink. Night, Mame.” Then I added, “Good night and good luck, Steerforth, old chap.”
Aye, I thought, settling wearily in the launch. Great stuff, surprise.
36
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EXILE’S sometimes not, if you follow. Sometimes it’s sanity. I learned this at Tai O.
The village is straight out of a poem. This thought only came to me on the tenth day of exile, during my morning ritual. It was only a walk in my round coolie hat, to the high-stilted tin shacks, then as far as the ferry, turn round at the coffin maker’s, back past the chemist’s shop. I mean, a huddle of Chinese houses (one mine), a temple with ski-lift corners, a sandy strand, the shallowest cleanest river trickling all silvery into the blue sea, green scrubby hills rising high behind. Quiet. No cot-hopping for Lovejoy in Tai O.