The Chinese Alchemist

by Lyn Hamilton

  “I know what it looks like. I went over it with a fine tooth comb in New York. I have the photograph from the Molesworth and Cox catalog, and I also have very good photographs from all angles of the box already in Dory’s possession, or her estate’s, that is. I think I’ll be okay on that score. I’m worried about language, however.”

  “Both Ruby and I will be there with you to translate.”

  “You may have to translate fast,” I said. “These things can really move along if there’s a lot of bidding.”

  “We’ll manage,” she said. “We’ve translated for some pretty big deals here. We know what’s at stake. I’m fairly fluent, but I can’t read Chinese. Ruby, of course, can. So she’ll help with any text we need to deal with, and she’s faster than I am on the numbers. Now, once you get the box, in the happy event that you do, we will take it from there. We’ll see it is properly presented to the museum in Xi’an. You can’t take it out of the country, anyway, given that it’s much older than what’s allowable. You probably know that China is clamping down on exports of antiquities.”

  “I’m wondering why someone who already had an object legally out of China would bring it back to sell it,” I said.

  “Because of the prices they’re getting? There is a lot of money here now, in certain circles, and people want the best. I mentioned the Ming drawing. It fetched in the range of four million yuan. Right now you get about eight yuan to the U.S. dollar. I’m told that is more than it would have sold for outside of China.”

  “I suppose that might also explain why the person who owned the box withdrew it at the last minute in New York.”

  “I suppose it might. The preview is tomorrow afternoon. Are you up for it?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Good. Both Ruby and I will be there.”

  To reach Cherished Treasures House, you enter a rather sterile office tower just off Jianguomenwai Dajie, or what we would call Jianguomen Street. “Dajie” is a term for a street or avenue. The “wai” part of the name indicates that this street would have been outside the original city walls that enclosed the ancient city. Jianguomenwai Dajie is essentially a section of the major east-west axis of Beijing, often referred to as Chang’an Avenue, although it changes its name a few times, which runs right in front of the Forbidden City, between it and Tian’anmen Square. The north-south axis of ancient Beijing was, and still is, the Forbidden City itself, which is oriented north-south.

  Cherished Treasures House was on the second floor, reached by a long escalator to the left of the building entrance. The glass doors to the room were open. There was a desk just inside the door, at which sat a man in a blazer with the auction house logo on the pocket, who was peering at a computer and generally ignoring us. The room was empty of other visitors with the exception of two. I was disappointed, if not surprised, to see that Burton Haldimand was one of them. He was conversing in what sounded to my ears to be fluent Chinese to a rather attractive young man. I don’t know why I would be surprised that Burton spoke Chinese. After all, this was his field. Why wouldn’t he learn the language? But it made me feel at a disadvantage for the coming bidding war. “We meet again, Burton,” I said, by way of warning my fellow visitors that the enemy was very near. Mira nodded very slightly to indicate my message had been received, and gently nudged Ruby in the ribs.

  “Indeed, we do,” he said. “This is perhaps your client?” he said, indicating Mira.

  “No,” I said. “Mira, meet Burton Haldimand of the Cottingham Museum. Burton, this is Mira Tetford. She’s helping me with the purchase.” I decided that was all Burton needed to know. “And this is Ruby, Mira’s assistant.”

  “How do you do, ladies,” Burton said. “And may I introduce Liu Da Wei. He is assisting me while I’m in Beijing.”

  “Please call me David,” he said, shaking hands all ‘round.

  Da Wei, David, I thought. I suppose that’s how they choose their English names, something close to their Chinese one. David and Ruby obviously knew each other, and I thought that might be a subject for some discussion when Mira and I were alone, just to size up the opposition, as it were.

  The formalities dispensed with, I decided to have a look around. There were a number of contemporary paintings, rather attractive ones, up for sale, as well as much older pieces. There were several folios for sale. I didn’t have a clue what they were, but they were attractive. I didn’t stand a chance of understanding the catalog, so Ruby explained that one of the folios was by a renowned seventeenth century poet and scholar.

  It was all very informal. People just came and went. The man at the desk carried on peering at his computer. He didn’t even look up when I was a few feet away. That was because he was playing a game on his computer. It was as if we weren’t there. The silver box was there, however. It looked okay to me.

  Burton was taking a cursory look, as I was, at everything else in the room, and sidled up to me when I found myself alone for a minute. “Will you tell me who your client is this time?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “You’re getting tiresome on this subject.”

  “I wonder who was on the telephone that night,” Burton chattered on. “Now, it could have been one of the Matthews. Or it could have been Xie Jinghe.”

  “Who is Xie Jinghe?” I said. I knew perfectly well, but I can never resist the temptation to tweak Burton’s nose, metaphorically speaking. He’d be annoyed I didn’t appreciate the fact he knew Xie Jinghe. While I’d never met the man, I did know Xie was wealthy and a philanthropist, having donated a quite spectacular collection of Shang bronzes to the Cottingham. He had a fabulous home in Vancouver, featured in a design magazine I tend to favor, and an Asian art collection that was regularly referred to in magazines on that subject.

  Burton looked pained and began to explain, just as, in true speak-of-the-devil fashion, a tall, thin man entered the room. Burton looked startled for a moment, but regained his composure, and went over to talk to this new visitor. He even shook his hand. A minute or two later, Burton beckoned me over as well, although he looked reluctant to do so.

  “Lara, Xie Jinghe would like to meet you,” he said. “Dr. Xie is head of Xie Homeopathic, as I’m sure you know. I use his company’s products on a regular basis. He is a great scholar and arts patron as well. You will find him a delight to talk to. Lara McClintoch is an antique dealer from Toronto, Dr. Xie.”

  While I knew of Dr. Xie, I didn’t know much about Xie Homeopathic, but then I didn’t spend as much time on my health as Burton did. What I did know was that Burton’s fawning introduction of Xie was making me nauseous. Perhaps it was making my qi disharmonious again. I wondered how Dr. Xie himself felt about it. I was soon to find out. “Burton had no luck convincing George Matthews and his firm to sponsor his soon-to-be restored Asian galleries,” Xie said. “He has therefore turned his attention to me, as you have no doubt already surmised, Ms. McClintoch.” I tried not to smile. “I believe you knew my late friend, Dory Matthews.”

  “I did,” I said. “I miss her.”

  “As do I,” he said. Burton looked really uncomfortable. He couldn’t possibly have been surprised that George Matthews wouldn’t donate to the Cottingham, given their treatment of his wife. Perhaps, though, Burton was unaware of Xie’s friendship with Dory. That comment should have told him in an instant that all this sycophantic posturing of his had been for naught.

  I had a pleasant chat with Dr. Xie, who, it turned out, supplied various brands of homeopathic remedies throughout the world, including North America. Dr. Xie had homes in both Beijing and Vancouver. He also had an office in Toronto. “You are surprised, perhaps, that I and George and Dory Matthews are friends. George and I are competitors of a sort, I suppose, but not really. His company and mine both manufacture products to make people well, but we take completely different approaches. He holds patents on drugs I suppose you would consider traditional, while I supply products that stem from a long tradition of Chinese medicine, treatments that 7 would
call traditional. We often have heated discussions on the relative merits of our approaches, but we remain friends nonetheless.”

  “I don’t know George well at all, but I adored Dory,” I said. “She taught me everything I know about Chinese history and art.”

  “She was indeed very knowledgeable—George as well in the field in which he collects. Now, what do we have here?” he said, stopping in front of the silver box. It was open, and placed on a pedestal so that you could view it from all sides, which Dr. Xie did. “This contains a formula for the elixir of immortality,” he said after some study. “The author of the writing in this box was almost certainly an alchemist. That is most interesting.”

  “Alchemist? You mean someone who tries to turn base metals into gold?”

  “That was part of Chinese alchemy,” he said. “Yes, people did want to produce gold, just as alchemists in Europe did. But, like alchemists everywhere, there was a more spiritual dimension to their pursuit as well. Chinese alchemists wanted to become an Immortal, and to dwell in the otherworld with other Immortals. Alchemists here would have almost certainly espoused Taoism as their religion, and Taoists believe that both the po and the hun, the body and the spirit, remain after death. Just as a matter of interest, people went to extraordinary lengths to preserve their bodies. Some alchemists, and some Taoists, managed to more or less mummify themselves while they were still alive by eating only mica and pine gum.”

  I managed not to gag. Despite this rather strange interest in achieving immortality, Dr. Xie was an interesting and scholarly individual. “The pill or elixir of immortality was part of that process,” he continued. “You partook of it, and you became immortal. It could happen suddenly. One minute you’d be there, and the next you’d vanish, leaving your clothes behind you.”

  “Given the ingredients, things like arsenic and mercury, this elixir of immortality sounds a bit dangerous.”

  “And it was. You do know, though, that poisonous substances are used in the treatment of disease all the time,” he said. “Arsenic was, for a long time, just about the only successful treatment for syphilis, and after all, digitalis, or foxglove, is a poison that is used in the treatment of heart disorders. I could name many more. We treat allergies using tiny amounts of the substances the patient is allergic to, as well. Large amounts might result in anaphylactic shock and possibly death, but tiny amounts help you build up immunity. As for the elixir of immortality, many Chinese people, including emperors, knew the ingredients were toxic, but they took it in small doses anyway. Several Chinese emperors, possibly including the first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huangdi, the man we know from the terra-cotta warriors in Xi’an, died trying to become immortal. It is possible that five of the twenty-one Tang emperors died of poisoning in their quest for immortality.”

  “Was this Illustrious August mentioned here one of them?”

  “No. Illustrious August was deposed in a coup, abdicating in favor of his son, and dying some time later. Not nearly so glamorous.”

  “You’ve made a study of alchemy, have you?” I asked.

  “In a way, yes. I am a Taoist. Technically, in the People’s Republic of China there is no religion. But now, people are not usually persecuted for their beliefs, with some notable exceptions. I am happy to say I was able to contribute funds toward the restoration of a Taoist temple close to my home that was damaged during the Cultural Revolution, and I occasionally go there for spiritual renewal, and sometimes solace, I’m interested in alchemy, I suppose, because of my business. But really, striving for immortality is not so different from believing in heaven, is it?”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. Are you thinking of bidding on the T’ang box, Dr. Xie?”

  “I don’t believe so. It would be interesting to own, of course, but unlike George Matthews, I don’t collect in my area of business. I am very interested, however, in the folio of the seventeenth-century poet over there. It is that I have come to see. And you?”

  “I’m interested in the T’ang box,” I said.

  “For yourself?”

  “For a client.” It was tempting to tell the very pleasant Dr. Xie, who claimed to be friend to both George and Dory Matthews, who that client might be, but I’d made a promise and I was going to keep it.

  “I expect you will find Burton a formidable opponent.”

  “I expect I will. I plan to emerge victorious.”

  “I wish you the best of luck,” he said. “I will enjoy the encounter, especially if you are the top bidder. Dr. Haldimand may be a good customer of Xie Homeopathic, as he is wont to tell me at great length and often, but I will be in your corner in this endeavor.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Now if you will excuse me, I am going to take a look at that folio. Perhaps you and I will have a celebratory glass of champagne after the auction.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “Excellent. I will look forward to seeing you then.”

  Ruby, who was looking very smart in her fake Prada shoes and handbag, headed my way when she saw that I was alone. “I am wondering if you have done something to offend Dr. Haldimand? He looks at you with some annoyance.”

  “That is because I have been having a lovely chat with someone he was hoping to impress,” I replied.

  “Xie Jinghe is a very important man,” Ruby agreed.

  “Yes, and I hope to annoy Dr. Haldimand even more on Thursday when I purchase the silver box that he wants.” Ruby giggled. I left her to take another look at the art on offer.

  I would have cause to think long and often about what transpired next. Burton was looking at a lovely watercolor on the far side of the room. Dr. Xie was chatting with Mira near the folio he wanted to purchase. They seemed to be conferring on some subject of importance, as opposed to just small talk. Ruby and David were sharing a joke of some kind. I was just standing there, trying to get a feel for the place and what I thought the prices might be like, how the room might be set for the auction—anything, really, that would make me feel more comfortable about what I had to do. I suppose I sensed rather than saw someone enter the room, and turned to see that another person had joined us.

  He was dressed very fashionably in a black turtleneck and slacks and Gucci loafers. Real Gucci loafers. He looked as if he could afford to be there. He surveyed the room from the door, glanced briefly at the young man at his computer game, and then came and stood in front of a painting, studying it from a distance. Then another man, equally well dressed, came in. I couldn’t see his face, but he had spiky hair, and there was something in his stance that made me recognize him as the third bidder in New York, the man in fake Hugo Boss, the person I called Mr. Knockoff. This time the man was wearing ersatz Armani.

  As I watched in dismay, Mr. Knockoff took several swift steps farther into the room, grabbed the silver box, and headed for the door. I yelped, and all of us turned, including the man at the desk who finally stood up. Dr. Xie, who was closest, made an attempt to stop the man by tripping him with his cane, but to no avail. David, who was a lot faster than the rest of us, sprinted toward the doors, with the man in black right behind him. Mr. Knockoff ran down the escalator, David in hot pursuit.

  Near the front door of the building, Mr. Knockoff stumbled slightly, and David, who had been steadily gaining on the thief, reached out to grab him. The man in black shouted something. The doorman rushed over and grabbed, not the thief, but David. The man in black shouted again, the doorman released David, but it was too late. Mr. Knock-off and the silver box had both disappeared.

  Three

  Wu Peng, the eunuch to whom I was sent, held a position of some importance in the Service for Palace Attendants. It was quickly apparent to me that this position was not due to his abilities—the man could neither read nor write, nor did he demonstrate any particular affinity for leadership. No, his position was due almost entirely to the fact that he was a distant cousin of the powerful Wu family in the palace, a clan that had produced numerous royal con
sorts, and most extraordinarily, an empress, Wu Zetian, ruler in her own right rather than just by virtue of marriage to an emperor. Wu Peng may not have been able to read and write, but he had amassed a fortune in a manner he would later explain to me. He had a rather lavish home outside the palace, a wife, in name only obviously, and two adopted sons. I too was adopted by Wu Peng and his wife, and took his surname, becoming known as Wu Yuan. I did not reside with Wu and his family, however. My place was in the Imperial Palace, serving the Son of Heaven.

  Once the pain and trauma of the procedure that determined my life’s course as a eunuch had abated, I was brought to the Imperial Palace. That I, the son of a low-level mandarin, although certainly a mandarin with aspirations, should find himself in such a place never failed to amaze me. The beauty of the palace was simply astonishing. One could wander the passageways and courtyards, gardens and residences forever, it was so large, and every detail was exquisite. There were arches of jade and pearl, carpets of the finest silk, and furnishings of a noble craftsmanship of which I had seen no equal. There were parks of unparalleled beauty, gardens bursting with glorious scent both night and day, forests filled with animals, glorious pavilions, polo fields, archery ranges, many lakes stocked with fish, still other ponds where people of the court could drift in elegant boats, orchards of pears and plums and peaches. It was heady indeed for the boy that I was.