The photographer started to set up his tripod and lights, and the decorator gave Qwilleran notes on the interior design.
"When you write up this place," he said, "call the Biedermeier wardrobe an armoire, and call the open-arm chairs fauteuils." "Wait till the guys at the Fluxion read this," said Qwilleran. "I'll never hear the end of it." Meanwhile, Bunsen was working with unusual concentration, taking both color and black-and-white shots. He shifted lights and camera angles, moved furniture an inch one way or another, and spent long periods under the focusing cloth. The houseboy was a willing assistant. Paolo was almost too eager. He got in the way.
Finally Bunsen sank into a white silk chair. "I've got to park for a minute and have a smoke." He drew a long cigar from his breast pocket.
David Lyke grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. "Do you want us all to get shot? Mrs. Tait hates tobacco smoke, and she can smell it a mile away." "Well, that squelches that little idea!" Bunsen said irritably, and he went back to work.
Qwilleran said to him, "We need some close-ups of the jades." "I can't shoot through the glass." "The glass can be removed," said Lyke. "Paolo, will you tell Mr. Tait we need the key to the cases?" The jade collector, a man of about fifty, came at once, and his face was radiant. "Do you want to see my jades?" he said. "Which cases do you want me to open? These pictures will be in color, won't they?" His face had a scrubbed pink gleam, and he kept crimping the corners of his mouth in an abortive smile. He looked, Qwilleran thought, like a powerful man who had gone soft. His silk sports shirt exposed a heavy growth of hair on his arms, and yet there was a complete absence of hair on his head.
The plate-glass panels in the vitrines were ingeniously installed without visible hardware. Tait himself opened them, wearing gloves to prevent smudging.
Meanwhile Lyke recited a speech with affected formality: "Mr. Tait has generously agreed to share his collection with your readers, gentlemen. Mr. Tait feels that the private collector — in accumulating works of art that would otherwise appear in museums — has an obligation to the public. He is permitting these pieces to be photographed for the education and esthetic enjoyment of the community." Qwilleran said, "May I quote you to that effect, Mr. Tait?" The collector did not answer. He was too absorbed in his collection. Reverently he lifted a jade teapot from its place on a glass shelf. The teapot was pure white and paper-thin.
"This is my finest piece," he said, and his voice almost trembled. "The pure white is the rarest. I shouldn't show it first, should I? I should hold it back for a grand finale, but I get so excited about this teapot! It's the purest white I've ever seen, and as thin as a rose petal. You can say that in the article: thin as a rose petal." He replaced the teapot and began to lift other items from the shelves. "Here's a Chinese bell, almost three thousand years old…. And here's a Mexican idol that's supposed to cure certain ailments. Not backache, unfortunately." He crimped the corners of his mouth as if enjoying a private joke that was not very funny.
"There's a lot of detail on those things," Qwilleran observed.
"Artists used to spend a whole lifetime carving a single object," Tait said. "But not all my jades are works of art." He went to the writing table and opened a drawer. "These are primitive tools made of jade. Axheads, chisels, harpoons." He laid them out on the desk top one by one.
"You don't need to take everything out," said Qwilleran. "We'll just photograph the carved pieces," but the collector continued to empty the drawer, handling each item with awe.
"Did you ever see jade in the rough?" he said. "This is a piece of nephrite." "Well, let's get to work," said Bunsen. "Let's start shooting this crazy loot." Tait handed a carved medallion to Qwilleran. "Feel it." "It's cold," said the newsman.
"It's sensuous — like flesh. When I handle jade, I feel a prickle in my blood. Do you feel a prickle?" "Are there many books on jade?" Qwilleran asked. "I'd like to read up on it." "Come into my library," said the collector. "I have everything that has ever been written on the subject." He pulled volume after volume from the shelves: technical books, memoirs, adventure, fiction — all centered upon the cool, sensuous stone.
"Would you care to borrow a few of these?" he said. "You can return them at your leisure." Then he reached into a desk drawer and slipped a button-shaped object into Qwilleran's hand. "Here! Take this with you for luck." "Oh, no! I couldn't accept anything so valuable. " Qwilleran fingered the smooth rounded surface of the stone. It was green, the way he thought jade should be.
Tait insisted. "Yes, I want you to have it. Its intrinsic value is not great. Probably just a counter used in some Japanese game. Keep it as a pocket piece. It will help you write a good article about my collection." He puckered the corners of his mouth again. "And who knows? It may give you ideas. You may become a collector of jade… and that is the best thing that could happen to a man!" Tait spoke the words with religious fervor, and Qwilleran, rubbing the cool green button, felt a prickle in his blood.
Bunsen photographed several groups of jade, while the collector hovered over him with nervous excitement. Then the photographer started to fold up his equipment.
"Wait!" said Lyke. "There's one more room you should see — if it's permissible. Mrs. Tait's boudoir is magnificent." He turned to his client. "What do you think?" Qwilleran caught a significant exchange of glances between the two men.
"Mrs. Tait is unwell," the husband explained to the newsmen. "However, let me see…" He left the room and was gone several minutes. When he returned, his bald head as well as his face was unduly flushed. "Mrs. Tait is agreeable," he said, "but please take the picture as quickly as possible." With the photographer carrying his camera on a tripod and Paolo carrying the lights, the party followed Tait down a carpeted corridor to a secluded wing of the house.
The boudoir was a combined sitting room and bedroom, lavishly decorated. Everything looked soft and downy. The bed stood under a tentlike canopy of blue silk. The chaise longue, heaped with pillows, was blue velvet. There was only one jarring note, and that was the wheelchair standing in the bay window.
Its occupant was a thin, sharp-featured woman. Her face was pinched with either pain or petulance, and her coloring was an unhealthy blond. She acknowledged the introductions curtly, all the while trying to calm a dainty Siamese cat that sat on a cushion on her lap. The cat had large lavender-blue eyes, slightly crossed.
Bunsen, with an attempt at heartiness, said, "Well, look what we've got here! A pussycat. A cross-eyed pussycat.
Woof, woof!" "Stop that!" Mrs. Tait said sharply. "You're frightening her." In a hushed sickroom voice her husband said: "The cat's name is Yu. That's the ancient Chinese word for jade." "Her name is not Yu," said the invalid, giving her husband a venomous look. "Her name is Freya." She stroked the animal, and the small furry body shrank into the cushion.
Bunsen turned his back to the wheelchair and started to whistle softly while adjusting the lens of his camera.