Shadow is a Colour
as Light is
Michael Langan
© Michael Langan 2019
Michael Langan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Walter, Hong Kong — 2013
Nick, Liverpool — 2008
Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
J-P, Liverpool — 2008
Walter, Hong Kong — 2013
Nick, Liverpool — 2008
Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
Joel, New York — 2006
J-P, Liverpool — 2008
Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
Marius, Liverpool — 2008
Sophie, New York — 2006
Paul, Paris — 1868
Maria, Liverpool — 2008
Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
Maria & Nick, Liverpool — 2008
Joel, New York — 2010
Walter & Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
Sophie, New York — 2010
Nick, Liverpool — 2008
Sophie & Joel, New York — 2010
J-P, Liverpool — 2008
Paul, Aix-en-Provençe — 1890
Jeffrey, Hong Kong — 2013
Acknowledgements
Dedication
For my mum and dad,
Irene Eleanor Langan
(18/12/1939 — 23/12/2000)
&
Thomas Langan
(19/07/1940 — 23/07/2012)
Walter, Hong Kong — 2013
Walter Yeung, founder and Chief Executive of CantoCorp, stands in the burnished copper cubicle that conveys him from his private basement suite to the spectacular penthouse at the top of his headquarters. Walter uses the thirty-two seconds this elevator ride takes to tighten and adjust his raw silk, oyster-coloured necktie, unbutton and re-button his navy blue suit jacket and run a comb through the thick whorl of gunmetal grey hair that, given his age — sixty-five today — he is inordinately proud of.
CantoCorp’s headquarters, as designed and built to Walter’s specifications, is the apogee of late twentieth century architecture. Its main fabric is glass and the steel frame — manufactured and built by CantoCorp’s own engineering geniuses — is of such delicacy, utilises the most advanced structural technology, that, when combined with the complex intersections of the facade’s surfaces, renders the building virtually invisible. Many of those who come to the waterfront especially to see it will look around and above them in bewilderment before a slight shift in the angle of the sky becomes apparent, the architects’ special effect is revealed, and their eyes adjust to the aerial mirage that coalesces before them. There are some who doubt the building’s existence and say its proposition is so impossible — ‘a crystal skyscraper!’ — it must be an outlandish hoax, that those who claim to have seen it are merely the suggestible victims of a collective hysteria. It’s the kind of playful manipulation Walter Yeung relishes.
The famous penthouse suite provides its occupants with an uninterrupted, three hundred and sixty degree panorama of the city. On one side are the dark green hills above Victoria harbour that contribute to making Hong Kong’s backdrop so astonishing. Individual buildings, the homes of the superrich, emerge from the trees like organic growths, as natural as the system that generates the money to construct them. The structures coalesce then into apartment blocks and high-rise offices, which, in turn, reach a critical mass as landscape becomes cityscape and tumbles to the waterfront.
In the past, some Hong Kong pressure (so squeezed is the city into its tiny geographical area, so compressed by the limits of space that it could burst at any moment) has been released by encroaching development into the water itself — areas filled in and then built on — but this has come to an end now, mainly due to Walter’s influence. It was in danger of spoiling his view.
This evening, the Board of CantoCorp directors and their illustrious guests are gathering to celebrate Walter Yeung’s birthday. Walter occasionally reads that he himself also doesn’t really exist but is, like his building, a mirage, one created by darkly unspecified global forces — Bilderburg, Illuminati, International NeoLiberalism, a Consortium of Triads, you name it — as a figurehead for CantoCorp, which is really an agency for world domination by any combination of said forces. Walter used to find this amusing, but not these days.
The directors — all men, all around Walter’s age, some of whom have worked with him since the beginning — chat excitedly with monarchs, ambassadors, industrialists, politicians, movie stars, pop singers, sporting legends, celebrities and socialites. The scent of money, privilege, and power clogs the air with its perfumed smog.
Beautiful young men and women in silk jackets and slim-fitting trousers the colour of port wine, proffer trays of Dom Pérignon and precious sterlet caviar (served on individual mother-of-pearl spoons so as not to taint its flavour), gifts from the Presidents of France and Iran respectively.
In the centre of the plush, clotted cream and ecru suite, planted some five metres apart, stand two large easels. Each is draped with a large swathe of theatrical velvet, one midnight blue, the other a deep crimson, covering over (you can discern the shape quite clearly) a rectangular frame. The guests and Board members glance obliquely at the easels and whisper to each other, but none dares take a peek. There’s the sense of a moment, a happening, that will be discussed and dissected on TV and online, written up and analysed in newspapers, magazines, and journals, a scene in which everyone present has been cast as spectator-participant-witness-to-history. It is super exciting to be here.
Walter Yeung founded CantoCorp in 1986 and for the next ten years was a moderately successful, widely-respected businessman; medium-scale manufacturing of domestic appliances, some import/export of textiles and clothing, and a number of property and land buy-outs that he sat on for a while before selling at a huge profit. In 1997, on the evening of the handover of Hong Kong to China, he went for drinks after the rain-sodden ceremony with a business associate.
“Walter, why so glum?!” his friend had exclaimed. “You look as miserable as our toad-faced former Governor.” He poured him some more whiskey. “Look, men like you and me have got it made! All these motherfuckers bleating about their human rights don’t know shit. We’re the ones who really know how the world works. The industries that have always been the property of mainlanders can be ours. We’re Chinese now. Citizens of the People’s Republic! Invest! Invest!”
Walter took this advice to heart. He was aware that China’s future was set on a course of massive growth in manufacturing, so he did indeed invest, and heavily, in construction. He would be needed to build their factories, he reasoned, as well as the sprawling, high-rise developments drawn up to replace the old neighbourhoods and cities they were committed to tearing down. He saw that much clearly enough, but no one, not even Walter, could have predicted the extent of the Chinese boom. He reasoned that, if he was going to build factories he might as well do it for himself rather than for others, so he diversified into large scale manufacturing of consumer goods. He’d made his first billion by the start of the new millennium and now, well, he lets others count his money for him.
The elevator doors glide open and Walter enters the space. He is accompanied by his personal assistant, Yo Yo, a young Shanghainese who walks two paces in front of him, smoothing his passage through the world. She has been with Walter for almost four years, which is, everyone acknowledges, pretty good going. They are followed by a briefcase-carrying, well-built, handsome man, in dark glasses and a sharply aust
ere black suit. His name is not known.
Yo Yo scans the penthouse with discreet precision. Everything is to her satisfaction. With the flick of a wrist she summons a waitress who, whipping her silver tray round, offers Walter the very same glass of champagne that Sophie, Hereditary Princess of Lichtenstein, just now had her eye on. Walter takes it, leaving Her Serene Highness grasping at empty air, sips the champagne — it is superb — and contemplates a spoonful of caviar before thinking better of it. He nods in satisfaction and, only then, insinuates himself into the gathering like a drop of ink in water.
As if triggered by his movement, the spotlights shift and warm. A string ensemble and accompanying harpist are revealed on the terrace, the volume of chatter dips momentarily around their delicate music, then resumes. All of Walter’s fellow Board members ignore him. They know full well he prizes loyalty but despises sycophants; they are not to approach him, nor to engage him in conversation unless he addresses them first. They know not to mention business or politics outside of the Boardroom unless prompted. They must never ask about family.
None of them, not even those who have been with him since the early days of CantoCorp, feels they genuinely know him. He is less living legend, more a walking myth, as elusive and enigmatic as any deity.
They know that Walter Yeung, as befits his background and status, has thrown a party for every birthday of his life. They do not know that this one will be his last.
Walter notes the presence of the covered easels but makes no reference to them as he works the room, shaking or kissing the hand of monarch, ambassador, industrialist, politician, movie star, pop singer, sporting legend, celebrity and socialite. Spotting a delicate, chalk-white flower — an orchid, the thinks — tucked behind the ear of one of his guests (a lovely Belgian actress) he whispers to Yo Yo who zips over to her and, with a friendly but firm grip on her elbow, leads her out of the room. They re-emerge seconds later, the flower having vanished, the Belgian actress’s smile wide but uncertain.
Walter sees the American Vice-President, whom he has met many times at G8 brunches, around the breakfast table at Davos, at state banquets and secret weekend gatherings at the country retreats of oligarchs and other billionaire industrialists. He allows a brief smile to dawn on his face as he greets him.
“Hello, Veep,” he says.
“Good to see you, Wally.”
Walter’s smile broadens. No one else calls him that. The two men share moments of great loss in their lives and their occasional, intimate conversations regarding the particular effects of personal tragedy have granted them special license in how they address and speak to each other.
But before they can begin any kind of talk at all Walter feels himself suddenly flushed with heat, brings a hand to his face and wobbles on his heels. The well-built man in the sharp suit takes a stride forward and moves to intervene, but Walter halts him with a raised finger and the man steps back, as if nothing has occurred. Indeed nothing has, except that Walter thought he spotted his own son, Jeffrey, carrying a tray of empty glasses towards the kitchen. He immediately recognises his absurd error — the young waiter’s neat, slicked-back hair and rimless spectacles make him appear as Jeffrey did ten years ago, the last time Walter and he were in the same room.
After a couple of deep breaths, Walter is able to focus on the Chief Executive of the Hong Kong Assembly who is standing next to him, and speaking; “…offers his sincere apologies, Mister Yeung, given the timing of the State Visit to Brazil. Most unfortunately he — ”
Walter interrupts with a practised chuckle. “I admire President Xi’s sense of priority,” he says.
As the Chief Executive titters into his palm, Walter leans in to Yo Yo. He needs this evening’s planned distraction forthwith. “Time to begin,” he murmurs. Then, raising his voice slightly, he addresses those in the immediate vicinity. “Shall we?”
Yo Yo sweeps the room rapidly, her insistent, “Shhhhhhhhhh,” quietening everyone.
The lights on the terrace dim, the music fades and dissolves.
The guests, realising the happening is about to start, shift and gather together in a wide circle around Walter. They regard his showmanship with wary excitement, as you would a snake charmer.
“Your Majesties,” he begins, “Highnesses, Excellency’s, Holinesses, honoured guests, friends old and new, welcome and thank you for being with me here tonight,” — he waits for the gentle bubble of applause to pass — “I’m very pleased to tell you my doctor is also attending should I over indulge.” He raises his glass towards the sharp-suited, briefcase-carrying, well-built man. The guests turn as one but this doctor remains impassive, unreadable behind his Ray-Bans.
“Now,” Walter says, bouncing on his toes, “it is time for our evening’s entertainment.” He surveys the sets of eyes upon him, the polished faces and bespoke lounge suits the bare, bejewelled, necks and arms. The air is crackling already.
“As you may know, for the last few years I have indulged in a certain passion — some might call it folly — of my own: the accumulation of one of the world’s greatest art collections. If I may say so myself.” He sidles towards the easel covered with the midnight blue cloth and the guests part to form a glittering corridor.
Unbidden, as if rehearsed, Yo Yo takes hold of the darkly shimmering velvet and pulls it. It falls away in ripples to reveal a bright landscape with hills and houses rising towards a distant mountain under a vivid, cloud-flecked sky, all rendered in lozenges of vibrant blue, pale orange, green and white. The painting’s effect is dazzling, subtly complex, like the moment the sun appears after a storm. There are mumbles of appreciation, a buzz of delight, followed by a crescendo of enthusiastic applause.
“My latest acquisition!” Walter shouts. “Cézanne’s Landscape, Mont Saint-Victoire!” He skips across to the other easel, weaving between the guests, his heart fluttering with champagne and trepidation.
Walter nods, sharply. An intense silence falls.
Yo Yo takes hold of the crimson velvet and whisks it away to uncover a second canvas, the sight of which generates a collective gasp. The world’s number one ranked women’s tennis player, a long-legged Belarussian, exclaims: “But — they’re identical!”
The gawking guests swivel from one canvas to the other and back again, as if they are, indeed, watching a tennis match. She is right.
Walter fizzes with barely contained glee. Oh, he is enjoying himself now! He feels like his old self once more.
“My dear friends! At the same time as acquiring my Van Goghs, my Warhols, my de Koonings and Koonses, my, Basquiats, my Rodins, my — my — Cézanne,” he exclaims, pointing at the two canvases simultaneously, “I have poured more money than I care to remember into a little vanity project of my own,” — he lets out a boyish giggle — “the development of a painting machine that can faithfully and faultlessly reproduce the work of the world’s greatest artists.”
An anxious muttering spreads throughout the suite. He may have lost them for the moment. The splendidly attired Cardinal of Hong Kong crosses his arms. The wife of the Ambassador from Belize covers her mouth with a satin-gloved hand. Someone, somewhere, splutters, “…downright bloody forgery.” Is this going as Walter planned? No, not quite. A stiff nerve is required, the resolve he is renowned for.
He extends a steady arm towards the ceiling, becomes a lightning rod for their disquiet. “And! As a special entertainment for you all, on this my birthday, I have devised a little test. A game, if you will. Earlier this week, I brought together six renowned art experts from the most prestigious museums, academies, and auction houses across the globe. These — let us call them Masters of Attribution — have spent three whole days examining these paintings — these two glorious paintings — and have been charged with deducing which is genuine and which the reproduction.”
Smiles break out. His Eminence the Cardinal stands at ease. The Ambassador’s wife guffaws loosely. The Belarussian tennis player’s exquisite shoulder muscles release their
tension. So it’s a game, that’s what’s happening. Yes, they will remember this night.
Walter nods at the elevator then, directing all eyes towards it. The doors immediately glide open as if by remote control, and its occupants, the half-dozen art experts, spill out, red-faced and sweaty, as if they have been squashed together in the brushed copper cubicle all this time.
There is an amused hum at the sight of this bunch of civilians whose dishevelment contrasts starkly with the slick corporate veneer of their surroundings and the people within it.
One of them, the director of a world-famous auction house, manages to collect himself, straightening his cuffs and flattening a strawberry blond tuft sticking up at his crown. He tries a smile but his lips are so dry from fear, they stick to his gums and he has to prod them back into place. “Mister Ye — ung,” he says, bowing halfway through the name and thereby addressing the floor.
Walter bites his tongue and refrains from laughing out loud, but those close enough to observe his amusement do it for him. They are all on his side now.
“Dis — honoured — no! — stinguished guests,” the man continues. “I have been selected, um, chosen, by my esteemed colleagues and fellow experts to speak on their behalf as, if you like, foreman of the jury.” He has broken out into a persistent sweat, despite the room’s carefully controlled environment, and mops his face with a large, paisley-print handkerchief.
“We have spent many hours examining and deliberating over these two extraordinary canvases and I’m delighted to say we have come to a unanimous conclusion!”
There’s a collective ‘Ooooh’ and Walter raises an eyebrow.
The auction house director, visibly emboldened by this, steels himself and strides across to one of the easels. He regards the painting resting upon it cautiously for a mere second, then turns to face his enrapt audience. “Our unanimous verdict,” he says, his voice rising in pitch and volume, “is that this” — he caresses the picture’s gilded frame — “is not the work of Paul Cézanne!” In a flash he swings his arm back and punches a hole through the very centre of the canvas.
Shadow Is a Colour as Light Is Page 1
