by A. H. Wang
“No.” Mark frowns, placing the pen down with his unsteady hand. “Just keep an eye on her movements.”
He hangs up the phone, displeased with the news. Bringing his hands together, he rubs his fingers, trying to massage away the pain radiating up his arms.
What are you up to, Georgia?
The urge to know is almost choking him, but he knows better than to interfere with her investigations. Georgia requires a large degree of freedom and independence in her methods—he understood that the moment he met her. He also knows that once the project captures her curiosity, the obsession that takes over will be all-consuming. Mark has worked with plenty others who are the same: geniuses in their own right who also possess eccentric characters and peculiar work processes. Processes that must, above all else, not be interrupted.
Patience, he tells himself. He will not micro-manage her in her work.
Glancing at his watch, he reaches for the glass of water on his desk and swallows the three round pills Joseph left for him in a small bowl.
And yet—time is something he is now running short of.
16
Georgia lets out a frustrated sigh, slumping before the computer screen. Her cheek in one hand and the mouse in the other, she scrolls down the screen with growing agitation.
Nothing.
She has spent the past week in the National Archives of Taiwan, rummaging through its wealth of information. The mysterious donor of the collection of Qin manuscripts, Meng Jie, had a strong resemblance to the Hsu Fu depicted in the silk painting at the Gugong Museum. Excited with the discovery, her first thought was to come to the archives to find out more about the man. But aside from his generous donation to the museum upon its opening, there has been no other mention of him before or after the event.
This she finds rather odd. Collectors and donors usually hold high profiles in the community, and it was unlikely Meng Jie would have appeared so suddenly on the scene, only to disappear again without a trace.
Ling Ling called only a few moments before, with even less helpful news. As is to be expected, the museum holds a strict privacy policy in favour of its benefactors, and will not reveal their identities to the general public. Furthermore, no one at the museum has been in contact with Mr. Meng since almost fifty years ago, so the chances of reaching him at his last known address are slim.
“And besides,” Ling Ling reasoned over the phone, “the photograph was taken half a century ago. It’s hard to know if he’s still alive. I will pass on your letter to the address we have on file, but whatever questions you have regarding the collection may have to go unanswered, I’m afraid.”
Leaning back in her chair now, Georgia considers calling it quits, when she suddenly feels a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. Straightening in her chair, she turns to survey the room around her. It’s a busy time at the large research room, with most of the desks occupied by people working on computers or flicking through the archive files. All of them have their heads down, silently concentrating on their own tasks and oblivious to her presence.
She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the inexplicable feeling that she’s being watched. She must be getting paranoid. Just a week ago, she had the same strange sensation at the Gugong museum, when she was searching for the painting of Emperor Qin and Hsu Fu.
Reaching for her phone, Georgia brings up the picture of Meng Jie again. She took a photograph of the one at the exhibition, and she’s not been able to stop obsessing over it since. Zooming in on his face, she finds herself strangely drawn to his features. As a Chinese person, his long pale face and light-coloured eyes certainly make him stand out.
An idea flashes across her mind, and she puts down the phone to return to the computer before her.
Meng Jie had obviously collected historical artefacts before, and knew plenty about conservation: this much is clear from seeing the excellent condition of the Qin Manuscripts collection. Given his passion and knowledge, it is unlikely that a true connoisseur would have made only one museum donation. Typing quickly on the keyboard, she makes several searches, looking for similar donations to museums and galleries over the years.
It takes her hours to sift through the search results. She is almost about to give up when she finally stumbles across the website on the Asian Art Collection at the Denver Art Museum in the United States:
Our Asian Art Collection originated in 1915 with a donation from a single passionate collector who dedicated his life to acquiring Chinese and Japanese art objects which span from the first millennium BCE to the present…
Georgia feels her pulse quickening as she scrolls down the screen, searching for a picture. She finds it at the bottom of the page: a dated, black and white photograph of a thin man in a dark suit, looking rather regal in the vest, high-collared shirt, and tie. The chain of his pocket watch is visible in the open gap of his dinner jacket. He is sitting side-on with his face tilted towards the camera, his hair cropped short and parted down the middle.
The caption under the picture reads: Mr. Q. Sun.
Georgia zooms in on the small photograph, and finds the exact same eerie, light-coloured eyes peering back at her.
17
“Jesus, Georgia, I don’t know what to say! This is just—” Sarah’s voice rings in Georgia’s ear, her volume much too loud. Georgia dials down her phone. Only minutes earlier, she emailed Sarah the photos of the two donors, and now her assistant is bellowing at her with excitement.
“I just can’t believe this is happening. This can’t just be a coincidence. I mean, they have different hair and dress styles, obviously, but their faces are practically the same. And those eyes—I don’t think you’d mistake those eyes anywhere. What did you say this Denver guy’s name was?”
“Q. Sun. I couldn’t find any references to what the Q stands for.” As with her discovery of Meng Jie, Mr. Q. Sun is another complete mystery: a man who has no other historical records besides his generous donation to the Denver Art Museum.
Georgia sighs, leaning back on the chair as she feels a headache looming between her temples. She’s been staring at the computer screen all day, and she feels exhausted. Glancing at her watch, she looks at the research room around her. It is almost five, nearing closing time, and there are only a couple of others left in the room, working on last bits of research before they are asked to exit the building.
“They look like they’re the same age too, did you notice that?” Sarah points out. “Have you shown these photos to Mark Lambert?”
“No, I don’t want to call him unless I have something more concrete. I’m not quite sure what to make of it yet,” Georgia says. “I mean, there must be some kind of logical explanation for this.”
“Like what?” Sarah sounds sceptical.
“I don’t know, maybe they are just historical doppelgangers, or maybe the two men are from the same family…” she trails off, unable to think of anything else. “I couldn’t find any other information on either of them, though.”
“Did you find any other donations that are similar?” Sarah asks.
“None that came with a picture,” she rubs her forehead. “I did a search concentrating on donations of Asian relics.”
“And?” Sarah’s volume is now deafening, and Georgia winces, holding the phone a few inches away from her ear.
“There was one other that stood out. All the way back in 1865. A small selection of Song Dynasty statues and ceramics given to the British Museum. Again by a single collector. This one was named Yi Lee. And again, there is no trace of him before or after the donation,” she whispers into the phone, trying not to disturb the other researchers. “That’s all I could come up with for now with what I’ve got on hand here. I was hoping you could dig deeper with the resources back at the university.”
“Okay, sure. Send me the details of everything you’ve got,” Sarah says. “I just can’t get over it, Georgia. I can’t believe the legends might actually be true.”
Georgia nod
s, feeling the same way. As she hangs up the phone, she leans her head on the back of the chair, closing her eyes as exhaustion overcomes her. The three names circle in her head, an enigma that plagues her mind. She knows she is not going to get any sleep tonight.
Meng Jie.
Q. Sun.
Yi Lee.
There is something about these names…
She suddenly bolts upright. Hastily grabbing her belongings and shoving them into her bag, she runs for the door.
18
Georgia steps through the doors of the National Taiwan Library, relieved it is still open until nine o’clock tonight. Quickly scanning the floor plans, she heads towards the section she’s looking for: Classical Chinese Literature.
The library is almost empty as she walks with a singular purpose, the click-clacking of her shoes echoing in the near-vacant space. At a search station, she quickly types in the title she is after, memorising its location on the floor.
She finds the area she is looking for and walks down the aisle between tall shelves, scanning the titles as she goes. The book she seeks is one she hasn’t read in a long time, but still owns a copy of at home.
As she nears the end of the aisle, she stops, looking up at the top shelf. Standing on the tips of her toes, she reaches for a large volume and brings it down. She holds the hardcover novel in her hands, feeling the weight of its some thousand odd pages, her fingers tracing the blue embossed Chinese title on the cloth-bound spine: Romance of the Three Kingdoms by Luo Guanzhong.
First published in fourteenth-century China, and hailed as one of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese Literature, its literary influence in East Asia has been compared to that of the works of Shakespeare on English Literature. An epic work of over eight hundred thousand words with almost a thousand dramatic characters, it is a historical novel set during the tumultuous years between the end of the Han Dynasty and the Three Kingdoms period. This work is probably the most well-known historical novel in the late imperial and modern China, influencing the creation of many plays, movies, games and other cultural mediums throughout other East Asian countries including Vietnam, Japan, and Korea.
The story is part historical, part mythical, and part legend, and many of its characters are based on actual historical figures. It depicts the conflicts, trials, and tribulations of feudal lords as they scrambled for power during the imminent collapse of the Han Dynasty. When Georgia was little, Amah told her different parts of the epic tale, and although she loved the stories of heroic warriors and dramatic sword fights as a child, she later baulked at the chauvinistic treatment of women in the book. She remembers one story in the novel that particularly nauseated her when she was old enough to read the entire text herself: it told of a hunter who couldn’t find game to slaughter for his lord’s meal, so he killed his wife to serve up her flesh instead. He was later handsomely rewarded for his ‘sacrifice.’
Georgia walks to a nearby desk with the book and sits down, leafing through the pages. Tales of great battles and treacherous murders come flooding back to her, and she becomes more and more certain of her hypothesis as she scans through the book.
She stops when she comes to the title of Chapter 29:
Chapter 29
The Formidable Sun Ce Kills Yu Ji in Fury
His Green-eyed Son Succeeds Control of Yangtze’s East
She scans through the chapter, and it’s not long before she finds the name of the green-eyed boy: Sun Quan. This is the chapter where the warlord Sun Ce dies after being wounded in an assassination attempt against him. His brother and successor, Sun Quan, later becomes a successful and charismatic ruler. Sun Quan is described as having green eyes and a purple beard.
As with all Chinese names, the surname is always placed before the first name.
Q. Sun.
She flips further through the book, patiently continuing her search. She finds what she is looking for in Chapter 81, where the emperor asks a mysterious old man to predict the future of his state:
…Upon seeing the man, Liu Bei knew at once that he was in the presence of a venerable sage. The elderly man’s soft white hair contrasted with his youthful complexion; his emerald eyes glistened with an arresting gaze…
The old man’s name is Li Yi. Li is a spelling variation of Lee, but they mean exactly the same family name in Chinese.
Y. Lee.
Georgia’s pulse quickens as she searches for the last name on her list, locating it a few chapters later in Chapter 89:
Kongming was about to announce himself, when a green-eyed and yellow-haired man emerged at the doorway, dressed in a girded white robe, with grass sandals on his feet and a bamboo hat on his head.
This green-eyed man, a recluse, is Meng Jie.
19
“Sir?”
Mark Lambert raises his eyes from the newspaper, seeing Joseph standing by the drawing room door.
“I have your breakfast ready, sir,” he says, balancing the tray in his arms. “Would you like to have it in here, or in the dining room?”
“Here’s fine, Joseph.”
“Very well, sir.”
The butler walks over to the coffee table next to Mark, laying out the various items of food and drinks for him: a bowl of berries, a couple of hard boiled eggs, coffee, water, and a small plate with three round pills.
“Thank you.”
“A pleasure, sir.” Joseph exits the room quietly.
Mark rises from the arm chair, taking the coffee with him as he walks to the French windows. He gazes out to the frosty grass plains outside, watching the pink sky slowly turn white then pale blue as the sun rises in the horizon. The grazing kangaroos retreat one by one as the morning light brightens.
His hand trembles. Fearing he’ll spill his drink again, he places the cup down on the table next to the window. His eyes move over the picture frames on the table top, settling on the photo of his late sister. Nola is dressed in one of her ballet costumes—from Swan Lake, if he remembers correctly. She gazes at him with the same grey eyes that he possesses, her warm smile lighting up her beautiful face.
They were always close, siblings bonded by the struggles of their early childhood. Mark felt a strong sense of protectiveness over his sister ever since they were kids, and to others it always appeared he was the one who took care of his family after his father had finally left. What they didn’t know was that Mark depended on Nola just as much as she relied on him. His sister was the calming influence in his life, the most kind and gentle person he has ever known. Without her, he is sure he would have derailed long ago, the energy and drive of his youthful years misguided towards criminal ventures.
Nola was an exquisite dancer. He remembers one of the times he watched her dance on stage: her debut performance as the hottest new talent in London. It was the ballet version of Romeo and Juliet, and anyone who was someone in the arts business was there. There was a lot of anticipation and gossip around this young ballerina nobody had ever heard of, yet who had somehow managed to score the lead role in the show. All of the critics were there, sharpening their pencils to write a damning review on the latest mistake the chief choreographer had made.
But when Nola finally took the stage, a hush descended on the entire audience. She emanated such a radiant beauty that over the next few hours of the show, she did not just prove the critics wrong, she bewitched them with her enchanting performance. Nola danced with such transcendental grace that it brought tears to Mark’s eyes.
The performance was a resounding success, and when it was over the crowd rose to a standing ovation and clapped until their palms were raw. The next day, the newspapers were covered with stories of this spellbinding dancer who had astonished London. Contracts, tours, and acclaim quickly followed, taking Nola’s ever-rising career all over the globe.
But it did not last long. Three and a half years later, when Nola was performing The Nutcracker in New York City, the audience noticed a strange jerkiness in her movements. She stumbled through a s
eries of Fouetté turns, a ballet move she was most renowned for. And when the time came for her to descend the grand stairs on the stage set, she somehow missed a step and fell face first on the stage.
Even though she didn’t fall far, Nola still came away from the accident with a broken nose and a sprained wrist. However, these injuries were insignificant compared to the tremendous shame she suffered. Mark insisted that the doctors run a full set of tests on her, given this was an unusual occurrence. When they finally announced the diagnosis, he knew his sister’s dance career was over.
Over the course of the five years that followed, Nola Lambert, the most mesmerising ballerina the Royal Ballet Company had ever seen, was reduced to a writhing, twisted creature who couldn’t control her own movements, her speech, or even her mind. Her usual demure and pleasant manner was replaced with aggressive outbursts and mood swings.
Mark couldn’t even recognise his own sister anymore. In her more lucid moments, she would sometimes plead with him to end her life. She begged him, in her broken speech, to save her from the humiliating illness that would not kill her fast enough.
“Can’t you see that I’m already dead?” she said, her eyes pleading.
Mark shakes his head, letting out a long sigh at the memory of Nola’s distorted face, the strange and slow movements of her eyes, and the drool that never ceased to dribble from the corner of her mouth. How was it possible for such an angelic being to descend so far from grace?
His mind trails to Georgia. If the professor is as good as he thinks she is, she’s the key to putting an end to all of this. Mark made a promise to his sister before she died, and he believes Georgia is the only one who can help him deliver that promise.
