Ghost Hero

by S. J. Rozan

  “Yes,” Haig said, “and for a scholar of your eminence, I imagine the U.S. holds a great deal of opportunity. It would be a shame if you couldn’t take advantage of it.”

  “Speaking of taking advantage,” I said, “I mentioned to Dr. Lin the paintings you were telling me about, the ones you thought would interest him. The unattributed works that might be by Chau Gwai Ying Shung, the Ghost Hero? I suggested we might take advantage of the fact that we were in your neighborhood to come look at them.”

  “She tell me,” said Jack, “you not sure, authenticity. She say, if someone, large knowledge, all parts of field, appraises, authenticates, paintings extremely valuable. If true Chaus, of course, I don’t need her tell me that.”

  “No question about it,” Haig said, wetting his rubbery lips and giving me a look that said no one really needed me to tell them much of anything. “This is my area, of course, but I’m not an authority, not in the academic sense.” He managed, in keeping with the ongoing war of intonation, to make “academic” an insult. “From the moment I saw these pieces I was convinced of their authenticity, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting them on the market on the basis of only my own instinct. If, on the other hand, they were to be examined by an academic authority who came to the same conclusion I did, I’d feel on firm ground going forward. And,” he added, with a cold smile, “I’d be quite grateful.”

  “I see.” Jack nodded.

  “In fact,” Haig said, as though the idea had only just occurred to him, “an expert like that could be a great asset to this gallery. Over the years I’ve acquired a great deal of work—artists I handle and also work I’ve bought for my own collection—but my passion seems to have outpaced my paperwork. I’m afraid there’s a tremendous amount of scholarship to be done within these walls. I’d do it myself but I just don’t have the time.”

  “I see,” Jack said again, more slowly. “How much time, Mr. Haig? How long you estimate this scholarship takes?”

  “At least a year,” Haig said without hesitation. “Perhaps two.”

  “Long time. If paintings she tell me about turn out be real, I suppose you very busy to sell them, have even less time for scholarship?”

  “Absolutely true. If they’re real, I’ll definitely need expert help in the gallery into the forseeable future.”

  “So fascinating,” Jack reflected, as though all of this were of purely abstract interest. “All this conversation, make me very curious, see paintings. Is possible you have time, can show me?”

  “Dr. Lin, when I heard you were in New York I demanded that Ms. Chin bring you here. I refused to take no for an answer.” History Rewrites R Us. “I’ve canceled all my other appointments for this morning. A gentleman of your erudition, your cultivation—it would be my pleasure to show you the Chaus.” Not the alleged Chaus, the putative Chaus, the I-know-damn-well-they’re-not Chaus. For a moment I longed to forget the whole plan and have Jack take one look at the paintings and say they were garbage, just to see Haig’s face.

  Haig didn’t get up right away; first he looked from me to Woo. I could see in his eyes the hope that somehow, magically, we might leave, that he might not have to share his treasure with us, to have our peasant eyes raking over his resplendent paper and ink. You posturing prig, I wanted to yell, they’re fake, remember? And you stole them, remember that, too? I didn’t say anything, though, just stared back at him, tired of smiling. Woo slurped his Coke and acted as though he hadn’t heard a word of the entire conversation. Haig sighed, threw a long-suffering glance to Dr. Q. X. Lin, and rose. He moved with a surprisingly bouncy gait, as though his bulk were partially helium. At a set of flat files along the wall he unlocked a drawer, extracted a large leather portfolio, and brought it back to the table. He laid it carefully down, unzipped it, and took out a cardboard folder. The folder was tied with a cloth ribbon and I almost busted a gasket waiting for his ceremonial undoing of the bow. Finally he lifted the top board and slowly slid out an ink painting.

  The left third of the paper was covered with grasses and rocks, some in shadow, some seeming to glow backlit in sun. Cicadas dotted them. You could almost hear their rhythmic singing on the hot, peaceful afternoon. They didn’t react in any way to the fierce tiger clawing the center of the page while his ferocious face half-entered the painting from the right. Three rows of Chinese characters, written vertically in the old style, occupied the space above the tiger’s head. I saw Jack’s eyes widen and wasn’t sure whether that response was from Q. X. Lin or Jack Lee.

  “Well,” Doug Haig spoke with satisfaction, “Ms. Chin, I see you’re impressed, anyway. Dr. Lin, do you like it?”

  “Quite amazing,” Jack said, sounding as though he meant it. “Control of line, sharpness where brush lifts from page—see here?—black of ink, fierceness of eyes of tiger. Extraordinary.” He leaned close, then stood up again. “Is possible I may see others?”

  Of course it was possible. Doug Haig slid them out one by one. A stream rushing down a mountainside in great clouds of mist; plum blossoms on a tree limb echoed by a few fallen to the ground; and the willow branch and wren that had started it all. The paintings each had lines of Chinese verse on them, sometimes tucked in the corner, other times blazoned across the top. I cocked my head to read them—nature poems, all, with themes of courage, loneliness, resolve—while Jack moved back and forth along the table, scrutinizing one painting, then another, leaning down, then stepping back for a longer view. Done with the poems, I examined the images also, knowing little about what I was looking at, except for two things: the tightly controlled brushstrokes in the wild, idiosyncratic compositions gave the paintings a tension and an exhilarating energy; and though I’d only seen real Chaus briefly online during my research, these paintings looked just like those.

  “Mr. Haig,” Jack said, after a long silence. “These paintings, astonishing. May I ask, where do you get them?”

  “They came to me from a client,” Haig blithely lied. “He’s not a collector. The paintings were left to him at the death of a relative. He’d like to sell them if they’re worth anything.”

  “Worth anything?” Jack peered at the willow-and-wren painting once more. “If real Chaus, among most accomplished, impressive work of Chau. Mature period, probably painted close to time Chau died. But Mr. Haig. Verses here, by Liu Mai-ke. Who puts?”

  “Liu Mai-ke?” Haig mangled the Chinese so badly he was temporarily unable to understand himself. “Who—that poet? Anna Yang’s husband? The one who’s in prison?”

  “Yes, dissident, in prison. Married to American artist, daughter of Professor Bernard Yang Ji-tong. Anna Yang her name?” He looked at me and I nodded. Back to Haig: “You don’t know, these his poems? Oh, my apology. I thought you can read Chinese.” A smarmily superior smile. “Mr. Haig, who puts Liu poems on Chaus?”

  “I—I don’t know. But does it matter?” Haig had gone from ashen to an angry flush, but Jack’s “Chaus”—not alleged Chaus, not putative Chaus—hadn’t escaped him and he recovered fast. “But it’s an old Chinese tradition, adding poems to paintings.”

  “Yes, goes back to Yuan Dynasty. Starts as protest against barbarian invaders.” Again, Jack stared straight at Haig.

  Haig chose to ignore the “barbarian” reference. “Perhaps the original owner was an admirer of Liu’s.” Damn right she was. “I can’t see that the poems will affect the value of the paintings, though. If they’re real, I mean.”

  “On contrary. In China, you, me, her, even him”—jabbing a thumb at Woo—“all detained, security officers find this. But here in West,” Jack went on before Woo could protest his inclusion in the mass arrest, “Liu poems add to value. Dissident poet, dissident painter—if Chaus real, Western collector eats up. Right expression?” He looked over his glasses at me. “‘Eats up’? ”

  “Yes, Q. X., that’s right. He’s practicing his slang,” I explained to Haig, “for when he gets a chance at a long stay in the U.S. He has a job offer from Oberlin College, you kn
ow.”

  “Yes, long stay. Maybe professor, Oberlin College. In Ohio,” Jack muttered, gazing at the arching willow branches and the singing wren. He looked up. “Mr. Haig, you understand, this exact period, my field? Of course, don’t want put myself forward, just small scholar of Inner Mongolia.” Which he managed to make sound less remote than “Ohio.” “But possible, I can be of service, help you and client. If you allow me?”

  “Allow you? Dr. Lin, let me understand—are you offering to appraise these paintings?” Haig’s innocent surprise would have done credit to Shirley Temple.

  “If would be useful to you,” Jack said gravely.

  “It would be exceedingly useful. My client and I would be very, very grateful.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “Of course,” Haig hurried on, “you’d have to permit me to compensate you for your trouble. And also, the minute I find out these paintings are real—if they are—the burden on me will increase tenfold, as we said earlier. I’ll need that expert we were talking about, need him right away.”

  “Ah,” Jack said. “Of course. Well, just let me look little while longer. Just need few more minutes, be sure.”

  “Sure?” Haig’s voice had risen a whole register. I almost laughed.

  “Impossible, of course, be totally sure, anything in this world,” Jack retreated. “Looking now, things to say, definitely not Chau. Don’t find, well…”

  “Yes, of course. Please, take your time,” Haig said, so obviously meaning the opposite that even Woo snickered.

  Jack leaned down once more, this time over the waterfall painting. Haig’s eyes stayed riveted on him as though he were afraid Jack was a mirage and might evaporate. Woo and I sat silent, on the edge of our respective chairs.

  We all jumped when the phone rang.

  Jack raised an offended eyebrow at this infringement on his concentration. Haig, scowling, spun to the desk and grabbed the receiver. “What, Nick? I said not—what? Who is?” He listened briefly, then smiled. “No, Nick, you don’t know what deal he’s talking about, because I didn’t tell you. Well, how delicious. By all means, send him back.” He hung up, gave me a special, slimy wink, and announced, “We have a visitor. I’m sure you won’t mind, Dr. Lin. This will be very interesting.” A moment later we heard Caitlin’s timid knock, and after Haig’s barked “Come!” the door opened to admit Dr. Bernard Yang.

  23

  His clenched jaw broadcasting equal parts determination and fury, Dr. Yang took one step in and stopped short, apparently unprepared for the population explosion in Doug Haig’s office. Haig waved Caitlin away and, all relaxed geniality, held out welcoming arms to the professor. “Dr. Yang! It’s an honor, sir. Please, please, come in.”

  “Mr. Haig. I’ve come about our … business. But perhaps this is not a good time.” Dr. Yang seemed to take a tighter grip on the portfolio he held.

  “No, it’s an excellent time. To receive a scholar as prominent as yourself? A perfect time. Dr. Yang, you probably already know Dr. Lin, from China?” Haig didn’t even attempt “Qiao-xiang.”

  Without missing a beat, Jack bowed low, and Dr. Yang, in reflex, bowed also. Bent over, Jack said, “Have not yet had pleasure, meet reknowned Dr. Bernard Yang.” Slowly, he straightened. Dr. Yang straightened also, looked at Jack, and frowned. I realized I was holding my breath. “Lin Qiao-xiang,” said Jack, his voice about as nasal and accented as he could make it without sounding like Mr. Moto. “From Central University in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia.”

  “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 beautif
ul. 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.”