by Don Winslow
A woman sat behind a desk writing in a ledger book.
“‘And what should I do in Illyria?’” Neal asked her.
“Buy something, I hope,” she answered. She was small and maybe in her early forties, with thick, shiny black hair pulled back severely from her face. Her blue eyes were also shiny; she had a small, aquiline nose and thin lips. She wore a black jersey dress and black ballet shoes.
Neal couldn’t tell whether she was impressed with his erudition, but she sure did notice the “I Left My ¦ in San Francisco” bag.
“Can I show you something?” she asked.
Like the door, maybe?
“Are you the owner?”
“I am. Olivia Kendall.”
“Olivia… hence the gallery’s name.”
“Not many people who walk in here make the connection.”
“Twelfth Night might be my favorite Shakespeare. Let me see… ‘When my eyes did see Olivia first-Methought she purged the air of pestilence…’ How’s that?”
She stepped out from behind the desk.
“That’s pretty good. What can I do for you?”
“I came to see the Li Lans.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“No, I just have a strong interest in Chinese painting.”
Since about an hour ago.
“Good for you. We’ve sold several. Tomorrow is the last day of the show.”
“I’m not sure I’m buying.”
“You’ll wish you had. Two of the purchases were museum buys.”
“May I look at them?”
“Please.”
Neal didn’t know a lot about art. He had been to the Met twice, one on a school trip and once on a date with Diane. He didn’t hate art, he just didn’t care about it.
Until he saw Li Lan’s paintings.
They were all mirror images. Steep, dramatic cliffs reflected in water. Swirling pools in rushing rivers that showed distorted images of the mountains above. Their colors were bright and dramatic-almost fierce, Neal thought, as if the paints were passions fighting to escape… something.
“Shan Shui,” he said. “‘Mountains and Water,’ a reference to the Sung Dynasty form of landscape painting?”
Like the nice lady at the museum told me?
Olivia Kendall’s face lit up with surprise. “Who are you?” she asked.
I don’t know, Mrs. Kendall.
“And she certainly shows a southern Sung-Mi Fei-influence,” Neal continued. He felt like he was back in a seminar, discussing a book he hadn’t read. “Very impressionistic, but still within the broader frame of the northern Sung polychromatic tradition.”
“Yes, yes!” Olivia nodded enthusiastically. “But the wonderful thing about Li Lan’s work is that she has pushed the ancient technique almost to its breaking point by using modern paints and Western colors. The duality of the mirror images reflects-literally-both the conflict and harmony between the ancient and the modern. That’s her metaphor, really.”
“China’s metaphor, as well, I think,” Neal said, grateful that Joe Graham wasn’t there to hear him.
Neal and Olivia slowly examined the paintings, Olivia translating the titles from Chinese: Black and White Streams Meet; Pool With Ice Melting; On Silkworm’s Eyebrow-this last showing a narrow trail up a steep slope beneath the reflection of a rainbow.
Then they came to the painting. A gigantic precipice was shown reflected in what seemed to be the fog and mist of the bottomless chasm below. On the edge of the cliff sat a painter, a young woman with a blue ribbon in her hair, looking down into the chasm, and her mirror image-the saddest face Neal had ever seen-stared back up from the mists. It was Li Lan’s metaphor: a woman sitting serenely with her art and at the same time also lost in an abyss.
The face in the mists was the focal point, and it drew Neal’s eye down and in, down and in, falling off the precipice until he felt as if he were trapped in the abyss, looking back up at the face of the painter, up the impossibly steep cliff. In the cool of the northern California dusk his hands began to sweat.
“What’s this one called?” he asked.
“The Buddha’s Mirror.”
“It’s incredible.”
“Li Lan is incredible.”
“How well do you know her?”
Yeah, lady, how well? Well enough to tell me where she is? Who she’s with?
“She stays with us when she’s in the States.”
Careful, Neal, he told himself. Let’s be nice and careful.
“She’s not a local, then?”
“To Hong Kong, she is. I’d say she comes over here every couple of years or so.”
“Is she here now?” he heard himself ask, wondering as he said it if he was moving too quickly.
He felt more than saw Olivia Kendall’s curious stare and kept his eyes focused on the painting.
“Yes, she is,” Olivia said carefully.
What the hell, he decided, let’s roll the big dice.
“I have a great idea,” Neal said. “Let me take all of us out to dinner. Mr. Kendall, as well. Is there a Mr. Kendall?”
Olivia looked at him real hard for a second and then started to laugh.
“Yes, there is definitely a Mr. Kendall. There is also a Mr. Li, so to speak.”
“I’m afraid I don’t catch your drift.”
Okay, okay. Just tell me that she’s otherwise engaged, all right?
“Are you interested in her paintings or in her? Not that I blame you-she’s drop-dead gorgeous.” She reached out and patted his arm. “Sorry. You’re a little young, and she’s very involved.”
Bingo.
Okay, Neal, he told himself-think. How about The Book of Joe Graham, Chapter Three, Verse Fifteen: “Tell people what they want to hear, and they’ll believe it. Most people aren’t naturally suspicious like you and me. They only see one layer deep. You make that top layer look real, you’re home free.”
He looked Olivia Kendall right in the eyes, always a useful thing to do when you’re lying.
“Ms. Kendall,” he said, “these are the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen. Meeting their creator would make me very happy.”
She was an art lover, and he was counting on that. She wanted to believe that a young man could find art so moving that he had to meet the artist. He knew it had far less to do with her perception of him than with her perception of herself.
“You’re very sweet,” she said, “but I’m afraid we have plans. In fact, Lan is making dinner tonight. Some Chinese home cooking.”
“I’ll bring my own chopsticks…”
“Seriously, who are you?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Shall we begin with an easy one? What’s your name?”
That’s not as easy as you might think, Olivia. My mother gave me the “Neal,” and we just sort of settled on the “Carey.”
“Neal Carey.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard. And what do you do, Neal Carey, when you aren’t inviting yourself to dinner?”
“I’m a graduate student at Columbia University.”
“In…”
“New York.”
“I meant what’s your major?”
“Art history,” he said, and regretted it as soon as the syllables were out of his mouth. That was a really stupid mistake, he thought, seeing as everything you know about art history is scribbled on a spiral pad in your pocket. Joe Graham would be ashamed of you. Oh, well, too late now. “I’m writing my thesis on the anti-Manchu messages encoded in Qing Dynasty paintings.”
Oh, God, was it Qing or Ming? Or neither, or all of the above?
“You’re kidding.”
Oh, please, don’t let that be “You’re kidding” as in, “You’re kidding, that’s what I did my thesis on.”
“No.”
“That’s hopelessly remote.”
“People often say the same thing about me.”
“How did you come to be interested in something so
obscure?”
“I revel in the obscure.”
Which is true, he thought. My real thesis is on the themes of social alienation in Smollett’s novels. So feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner.
“Listen,” Olivia said, “tonight really is a private sort of evening. But I’m sure Lan will come in tomorrow to help close the show down. Could you come back then? Maybe we could have lunch.”
Yeah, and maybe you’ll tell Li Lan and Dr. Bob about the interesting visitor you had in the shop and they’ll take off. Maybe you’ve already seen through my act.
“I’m going home tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry,” she said. Then, as if offering a consolation prize, she warbled, “Did I give you a brochure? It has photos of the paintings.”
She reached over to one of the pedestals and handed him one of the slick, four-color catalogs.
“Thank you. Do you think you could ask Li Lan to sign this for me?”
“You can ask her yourself. Here she is.”
I didn’t even hear the door, I’m so out of shape, Neal thought.
Then he stopped thinking altogether and fell in love and it was just like falling off the edge of a cliff into the clouds. Falling toward Li Lan in the mists.
Olivia said, “Li Lan, Neal Carey. Neal Carey, Li Lan. Neal is a big fan of your work.”
It took her a moment to work out the slang, then she flushed slightly, struggling to set down the two grocery bags she was holding. She put them down on the floor and then bowed her head ever so slightly to Neal. “Thank you.”
Neal was surprised to feel himself also blushing, and more surprised to notice that he bowed back. “Your paintings are beautiful.”
She was small, and a little thinner than he would have thought from her pictures. She was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and black jeans, and still looked elegant. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Those gentle brown eyes sparkled like sunshine on autumn leaves.
“I went to the city,” she told Olivia, “to do some special shopping for dinner tonight.”
“You should have had Tom or Bob bring you. I’ll call Tom to come pick you up.”
“I can walk,” she said. “It is a beautiful day. And they are busy speaking about garden.”
“I’m calling them.”
Li Lan nodded her head. “According to your thought.”
“Neal is a student of Chinese art history,” Olivia said.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit.
“Truly?” asked Li Lan.
Well, no.
“He is doing research on Qing Dynasty painting. Something political.”
Had he been alert, had he been in true working shape, he might have noticed Li’s slight wince on the word political. She turned those eyes to him as she said, “Ah, yes… Chinese paintings can mean many different things at same time. Picture of single flower is picture of single flower but also picture about loneliness. Qing picture of-what is word?-goldfish… shows just fish, not fish in water. Perhaps is about Chinese people with no country. Perhaps is about just goldfish.”
“Do your paintings mean many different things?” Neal asked. His voice sounded funny to him, thin and hollow.
She laughed. “No, they are merely pictures.”
“Of real places?”
“To me.” She smiled shyly and then turned stone-serious and looked down at the floor.
No wonder he loves her, Neal thought. Run away, Doctor Bob, run away. Take her with you or follow her where she goes, but don’t let her go.
Suddenly he was desperate to keep the conversation going. “Are you speaking about the reality of the mind?”
She looked up at him and said, “It is the only reality, truly.”
“You two have so much to discuss,” Olivia said. It was one of those unspoken questions women are so good at asking each other. Do you want to invite this guy to the dinner? Would Bob mind? It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.
“I think then he must join us for dinner,” Li Lan said. “Is that all right?”
“What a good idea!” Olivia said, as if the thought had never occurred to her or to Neal, even though all three of them knew exactly what had transpired.
“I must warn you, I do the cooking. Is it still all right?”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“It is not, but I would be delighted.”
“Eight o’clock?” Olivia asked them both.
“Great,” Neal said.
“Very good,” said Li Lan. “Now I better be going, get busy.”
“I’ll call Tom.”
“No, please. I can walk.” “The bags look heavy,” Neal said. “Not very heavy.”
Olivia shook her head and said to Neal, “She’s a tough lady.” Li Lan flexed her biceps and made a ferocious face. “Oh, yes. Very tough.” Then she dissolved into seemingly helpless laughter. Neal knew all about helpless right then.
So he did something he knew how to do. He went to the library. Maybe it would settle him down, and God only knew he needed to bone up on Chinese art. Jesus, he thought, why did I have to come up with that stupid lie? I know better than to overreach like that.
Settle down, he told himself. So Li Lan is beautiful, so what? You knew that coming in. So she’s an artist instead of a hooker? So what? You know some nasty artists and some pretty nice hookers, so don’t jump to conclusions. So she did a painting that sucked your soul into a vortex, so what? It’s not much of a soul to begin with.
So why are you so obsessed with Li Lan? Pendleton is the subject. So shake it off. Cool out. This is just another job, another gig, and the endgame is to send Pendleton home, stop his California dreaming, and get him back to the lab. Then you can go back to your own desk. So do it.
So do what? What now? You can’t hand her two K and tell her to dump him. That plan is out the old window. Maybe she’d like to go to North Carolina with him. Yeah, right. Maybe he’d like to go to Hong Kong with her. Maybe… maybe you should actually talk to them before forming any opinions. Just lay it out to Pendleton and see what happens. Keep your head and do your goddamn job.
He found the Asian arts section in the subject card catalog, then went to the stacks and tried to concentrate on Qing Dynasty landscape painting. That’s what he started with, anyway. He ended up staring at the photo of Li Lan in the brochure.
He grabbed a cab at Terminal Square and gave the driver Kendall’s address.
Olivia answered the door. She had changed into a white silk brocade jacket over black silk trousers. “In honor of the occasion,” she said, brushing the backs of her fingers across the jacket.
“Stunning,” Neal said.
“A gift from Li Lan. Please come in.”
The house seemed built for magic evenings. The large, open living room was dominated by windows that stretched from the floor to the cathedral ceilings. The floors were made of wide hardwood planks brought to a high polyurethane shine. Broad cedar crossbeams spanned the width of the room. The eggshell-white walls highlighted black-and-white photographs as well as prints and paintings.
Outside the window a pine deck wrapped itself around a steep slope. Steps led from the deck onto a flagstone patio surrounded by a cedar fence that provided privacy from the scattered houses on the facing hills. Potted shrubs, flowers, and bonsai trees sat on the deck around a sunken hot tub.
A large jute sofa sat in front of a glass coffee table and faced the picture window. Two cushioned chairs were set off at angles to the sofa to create a sitting area. To the left of that was a dining-room table, and farther to the left, behind a breakfast bar, was a spacious kitchen centered by a large butcher’s block.
The table was set with black dishes, glasses, and a black tea set. A large white lily in a black vase was the centerpiece.
Li Lan was standing in the kitchen, carefully stirring something in a sizzling electric wok. Dr. Robert Pendleton stood beside her, holding a platter full of diced tofu.
�
�Okay… now,” Li Lan told him, and he dumped the tofu into the wok.
“Two more minutes,” she said.
“That will give you time to meet our guest,” Olivia said. “Neal, this is Bob Pendleton.”
“Nice to meet you,” Neal said. Yeah, right.
Pendleton wiped his hands on a towel, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then reached across the breakfast counter and shook Neal’s hand.
“Pleasure,” he said.
Not so fast, Doc.
“Now, where did Tom get to?” Olivia asked no one in particular.
“He went to fire up the hot tub,” Pendleton said. “Can I offer you a drink, Neal?”
“A beer?”
“Dos Equis or Bud?”
“Bud, please.”
“Bud it is.”
Neal watched him as he went to the refrigerator and looked for the beer. He was even thinner than he looked in his photograph, with a body that looked like it had never met a quart of chocolate ice cream. He was wearing a bright green chamois shirt and baggy khaki trousers, with a pair of brown moccasins that someone must have bought for him; they were much too laid back for a biochemist. His hair was a trace longer than it had been in the photo, and he looked older. Neal was surprised at his voice-it was low and gravelly-but didn’t know why he should be. Preconceptions again, he guessed.
Pendleton set a bottle of beer on the counter.
“Do you want a mug?” he asked.
“The bottle is great, thanks.”
“Get ready with sauce,” Li said. “Hello, Neal.”
She was preoccupied with preparing the meal, which was okay with Neal because it gave him a chance to stare at her. Her hair hung long and straight-the blue cloisonne comb had only a decorative function. She had put on light eyeshadow and red lipstick. Her black western shirt had red piping and red roses on the shoulders, and her black, pointed-toe cowboy boots were etched with blue designs. It was one of those outfits that could look either ridiculous or wonderful. It looked wonderful.
Neal was in the midst of this observation when Tom Kendall came in. He was short and plump, with prematurely white hair and a white beard. He was sporting a green chamois shirt that looked identical to Pendleton’s, and jeans with sandals. He had light blue eyes and a ruddy complexion.
