Suddenly all the rest of the lies crowded in on Lindsay, making the room seem too small, too hot, too tight. The bidding would begin soon, and then Wu would watch while his protegee tossed away a lifetime of scruples for a man who was at best simply a temporary lover and at worst a con artist using her for his own ends. But Lindsay couldn't do anything to change the act or its ramifications. She could only watch Wu's face and silently cry out that she hadn't changed, that she was still worthy of respect, that her fall from grace was just a deception to conceal a deeper, more worthy truth.
But Wu wouldn't hear her inner cry. He wouldn't know. He would see the lie and call it truth. And then he would turn away from her.
"Don't think about it," Catlin said, taking Lindsay's hand.
"About what?" she whispered, looking at her slender fingers enveloped within his harder, darker flesh.
He put his other hand under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes.
"About tonight," Catlin said very quietly, his words going no farther than her ears. "About the bidding. About what people will think when you buy that food canister for your lover instead of your employer. About the sideways looks and hidden smiles. About disappointment and regret. About Hsiang Wu."
A tiny shudder rippled through Lindsay. "How did you know?" she whispered.
"I'm the tour guide, remember? I've been to all these places before. And then I went on to other places, carefully selected areas of hell I hope you never have to see. Think about that, Lindsay. No matter what happens, I've been there, too. I'll help you if I can, if you'll let me."
"Why?" she asked, searching the golden brown eyes that were so close to hers. "Because it's your job?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"It shouldn't," he said bluntly. His voice was low, urgent, "My motivations aren't part of the act. Only the act matters. Only the act will get you what you wanted badly enough that you sold your soul for it a chance to see Emperor Qin's bronzes."
"That wasn't the only reason," whispered Lindsay.
"It should have been," Catlin said in a low, gritty voice. His fingers tightened almost painfully on her chin. "Leaving the world a better place than you found it is a dream for fools."
"You can't believe that," she breathed.
"Can't I?"
"No!"
"Yes. Welcome to hell, Lindsay Danner."
She stared into Catlin's savage eyes for a long moment, then looked away.
Silently Catlin watched Lindsay's profile. When she controlled the tears that had given a silver sheen to her dark blue eyes, he allowed himself to relax slightly for the first time since he had realized that Hsiang Wu would be present for Lindsay's debut as an unscrupulous curator of Chinese bronzes.
"It will be easier the next time," murmured Catlin, running the back of his finger lightly down Lindsay's cheekbone. "The lies won't seem as unbearable."
"I'm not sure that comforts me," she said in a strained whisper.
Catlin's mouth thinned as he wished urgently, futilely, that Lindsay were a different kind of woman. Less intelligent. Less perceptive. Less sensitive. Less honest. The last most of all. She saw the ramifications of what she was doing, what she had yet to do; and she was too honest with herself to lie and say it would all turn out just fine. She saw too many ways it could go wrong, too many people who would never trust her again. And she didn't even see the half of it. Silently, bitterly, Catlin consigned Chen Yi to the inmost circle of the complex hell he had drawn Lindsay into. With a firm hand at her back, Catlin guided her to the adjoining room where delicacies from all over Asia had been set out to refresh guests who had already assessed the bronzes. Lindsay wanted to refuse the morsels Catlin offered her. One of his cool, subtly goading looks changed her mind. She ate succulent tidbits of seafood and sipped the elegant French and California wines that Sam Wang had put out.
At first Lindsay thought that her stomach would rebel. She closed her eyes and tried to summon up some of the mental discipline of tai chi chuan. The ancient Chinese combination of meditation, exercise, philosophy and self-defense had helped her even as a child, when days of tension and nights of churning, violent dreams had left her frayed and nervous. She had learned to look forward to the early morning tai chi chuan sessions when everyone in the compound would follow the stately, subtly powerful movements of the compound's oldest male. As she had grown older herself, her interest in tai chi chuan had deepened. Even today, half a world removed, she continued to spend an hour a day pursuing the ancient discipline. Though she had never spoken the thought aloud, she often felt that the requirements and rewards of tai chi chuan were more suited to her than the stringent form of Christianity her parents had gone to China to spread.
"Lindsay?" Catlin's voice was low, concerned.
She breathed deeply in a way that was supposed to fill her mind with serenity and her body with energy. It didn't work completely, but it did allow her to control her exterior responses. That was all she asked an. improvement on the impossible. She had meant it when she told Catlin that she wasn't interested in perfection.
"I'll be all right," she said quietly, opening her eyes. "Not perfect. Just all right."
He searched the shadowed indigo of her eyes and saw that, as always, she was telling him the truth. He nodded slowly and turned the conversation to the bronzes they had just seen.
By the time the auction began, Lindsay had herself under control once more. She managed to smile at Catlin, neither flinching from nor responding too greatly to his touch, and brushed against him with the casual assurance of a woman who was intimate with a certain man. She thought about nothing but the act, focusing her attention on it with the same intensity and intelligence that she had always brought to the study of tai chi chuan and Chinese bronzes.
If Lindsay's smile was too quick, too brittle, and her eyes were too shadowed, too evasive, Catlin didn't complain. He sensed the cost of her act with an acuity that disturbed him. It was necessary for him to be attuned to her, because then he could step in and take over if the demands of the act confused or overwhelmed her. It was not necessary for him to sense her distress to the point that he, too, felt like a wolf with its paw in a trap, forced to choose between self-mutilation and death.
Yet he couldn't help feeling that way. His insight into people had always been unusually good. It had saved his life more than once. But this was different, an awareness of Lindsay that was both unexpected and uncanny, shafts of understanding illuminating her and himself, instants both painful and compelling. It was distracting. Even worse, it was dangerous. He could afford to feel no emotions at all while he lived in hell. Not a single emotion. Nothing. That was the only truth in hell; and it was that truth which had finally driven him out of hell into a wider, more gentle world.
Then Chen Yi had come, holding in his hand half a coin from a dead man's eyes.
Grimly Catlin forced himself to concentrate on the progress of the auction rather than on old mistakes. Eyes narrowed, he watched the bidders shift and change with each moment. The bidding was aggressive and generous. Despite the careful informality of the auction the object under bid was simply pointed to by an assistant during the bidding, as no catalog had been presented or expected the auctioneer was a professional of the highest skill. He joked in English and Mandarin, repeated bids in each language as increments of ten thousand American dollars were passed, and kept the bids coming with deceptive ease. His assistant was a stunning Eurasian woman with black hair to her hips, a scarlet silk wraparound that wasn't much longer, and a linguistic repertoire consisting of Japanese, Cantonese and British-accented English.
The first purchase Lindsay made was quite simple. The assistant's elegantly sculptured nails touched the spearheads; Lindsay listened to the bids for a moment or two, then quietly entered with a bid that was high enough to discourage any but truly avid collectors.
"Twelve thousand dollars."
; "Thirteen thousand," said a man on the other side of the room.
"Eighteen." Lindsay said calmly.
There was no counteroffer.
"Sold," said the auctioneer.
"Well done," Catlin said, smiling at Lindsay as the assistant took down his name as the new owner of the spear points.
"Hardly a bargain," she muttered, "but I did what I could to keep the price reasonable."
"One good, sobering jump rather than a bunch of little bids that sneak up. Keeps auction fever to a minimum," summarized Catlin.
She threw him a speculative glance. "Sounds like you've done it before."
"Once or twice," he agreed dryly.
They listened while Hsiang Wu went head-to-head with a Korean collector over a gold-and-silver-inlaid bowl. Lindsay was happy that the Museum of the Asias didn't want that particular item, because both Wu and the Korean were intent on owning it. In the end Wu was forced to bow out at sixteen thousand dollars. He was a seller, not a collector. If he bid any higher there would be no profit for him in a resale.
Lindsay ignored the tension rising in her each time the auction moved to another bronze. None of the pieces had been numbered, so she had no indication when the food canister that Catlin wanted would come up for bid. It was probably just as well. She had no desire to know the exact moment she would open her mouth and ruin her own reputation.
The bowl disappeared from the auction table, only to be replaced by the rectangular wine vessel and lid that Lindsay wanted for the museum. The presence of a lid was very rare, making the vessel enormously attractive. She listened to the bidding for a moment and knew there would be no hope of preempting. The bids were rising in thousand-dollar increments. When two of the bidders dropped out, she entered her first bid.
"Twenty thousand," said Lindsay.
"Twenty-one," countered the Korean who had outbid Wu.
"Twenty-two," Lindsay said.
Another bidder entered. The bidding resumed. By the time the price reached thirty-one thousand, only the Korean and Lindsay remained.
The Korean hesitated, then shrugged, signaling his withdrawal. The Museum of the Asias was thirty-five thousand dollars poorer, but its bronze collection had been enriched by a much-needed example of Huai inlay artistry.
"Congratulations," Catlin said softly. "It's a bowl I wouldn't mind owning. Not a bad price, either. Especially for this crowd."
Lindsay's eyes widened. When she spoke, she kept her voice low in what was becoming an automatic reflex against being overheard. "I thought you said you already had a bowl like that one."
"Did I?" he murmured. "Wonder what I was thinking of."
Suddenly Lindsay realized that Catlin had let her buy the richly inlaid bowl for her museum while keeping the somewhat less spectacular food canister for himself. Buying either bronze for him would serve to ruin her reputation; yet this way she could at least have the private satisfaction of knowing that the museum had gained the more valuable of the two bronzes. It was small comfort, but then, hell wasn't known for its comforts.
And Catlin knew it.
"Thank you," Lindsay whispered, touching his hand.
His fingers closed around hers in a grip that was just short of pain. She didn't object. She, too, had seen the vessel Sam Wang was carrying up to the auction table. It was the food canister she must buy for Catlin the downfall of her reputation cast in bronze, with fragments of inlay clinging to it like tattered, worn truths.
Chapter 13
"Do I hear ten thousand?" asked the auctioneer, opening the bidding. "Ten. Do I hear ten?"
"Thirty thousand dollars," Lindsay said tightly.
The preemptive bid brought a few startled murmurs from the crowd. Lindsay ignored them. She wanted to get the whole sordid thing over with as quickly as possible.
"Thirty-one."
The bid came from a place just a few feet to Lindsay's right. When she recognized Wu's high, calm voice, she felt a sense of relief. He wouldn't bid for the canister as long or as fervently as a collector, because Wu had to have a margin for profit on resale.
"Thirty-three," said Lindsay.
Sideways glances registered surprise as the crowd heard the bid. With the same calm voice, Wu topped Lindsay's bid again and then again. She countered each time, sending the price higher and higher, knowing that Wu would have to stop soon. He should have stopped at thirty-three. He was a businessman, not a collector in the full flush of obsession. For him, the canister simply wasn't worth the money that was being bid on it now.
"Forty thousand dollars," Wu said.
Lindsay turned and stared at him, unable to believe her ears. What should have been a brief auction was turning into the kind of bidding match that would send waves of electric curiosity through the elite community of bronze fanciers.
Wu watched Lindsay in return, his face impassive, his eyes black and clear.
In that instant she knew what Wu was doing. He was going to drive the price of the canister up so high that Catlin would walk away from the bronze, and in doing so, save Lindsay's reputation as a woman of scrupulous honesty. Wu was trying to prevent her from reaping the bitter harvest of regret that would come if she betrayed her own principles.
Almost desperately Lindsay looked toward Catlin, not caring that she was the center of avid interest among the gathering.
"It isn't worth " she began.
"Buy it."
The flat command went through Lindsay like a shock wave. People murmured and shifted, straining forward to better see the curator of bronzes who was taking orders from a lover rather than an employer. Lindsay barely noticed the increased interest on the part of the crowd. All she wanted to do was get the bidding over with, no longer to be the center of speculative glances and gossiping tongues, to have this first step in the destruction of her reputation concluded so that she could walk out into the night and be free of the act for just a few minutes.
"Forty-one thousand," Lindsay said in a stranger's voice.
"Forty-five," said Wu.
She didn't need to look to Catlin for advice. He couldn't have made himself more clear. Money wasn't the object, nor was the canister.
"Fifty thousand," she said.
"Fifty-fi-"
"Sixty," Lindsay interrupted flatly, not waiting for Wu to finish his bid.
It was much more than the canister was worth.
There was a long silence during which Lindsay looked at nothing but the canister.
"Sixty thousand dollars American," said the auctioneer. "Going once. Going twice. Sold to Miss Danner." He smiled at her, a gesture that failed to entirely conceal his curiosity. "May I be the first to congratulate the Museum of the Asias on an unusually fine acquisition?"
"It's mine," Catlin said clearly, "not the museum's."
There was a slight pause before the auctioneer recovered. "You have excellent taste, sir. I've heard of only two other inlaid canisters like this, and one of them is in the Beijing Museum. Have you been collecting long?"
"Thank you," said Catlin carelessly, ignoring the question with a bland, amber stare that made the auctioneer shift his attention quickly back to his work.
The remaining auction was a blur to Lindsay. She began to focus only when they were on the point of leaving. Catlin was saying all the polite, necessary, meaningless things to Sam Wang as they stood in front of the open door.
"I'll forward the papers to the museum," Wang concluded, smiling first at Catlin and then at Lindsay. Any anger Wang might have had over the bronze dragon had been offset by the outrageously high price the canister had brought.
"Don't bother," said Catlin. "Papers mean nothing to me. What I buy I keep, no matter who owned it before me. Besides, most of the papers you get in this business literally aren't worth the ink that went into them."
Wang's smile was a cynical curve that had little to do with humor. He turned to Lindsay. "How about you?"
"Send the papers on
the wine vessel,'' she said tightly. "The museum can't afford to ignore the question of provenance."
"It can, however, afford to be charitable about interpreting that provenance," Wang said smoothly. "Can't it?"
Lindsay felt the silent demand radiating from Catlin. She knew what Wang was suggesting for a very fine piece like the wine vessel she had purchased, the museum could afford to just take the papers at face value and not ask potentially embarrassing questions.
"My museum's policy toward gift horses is the same as any other legitimate museum's," Lindsay said tightly.
Wang laughed. "Hell, I know that, Lindsay. I just didn't think you did. Ciao, you two. I'll give you a call the next time I have something good."
His words echoed in Lindsay's brain, hinting at aspects of the Museum of the Asias that she really didn't want to know about. Reflexively she opened her mouth to object that the museum she worked for was honest. Catlin's arm closed across her shoulder, turning her around with a concealed strength that was as shocking in its way as the implications of Wang's words.
Before she could speak, she was being swept down the long, beautifully lit walkway that descended gracefully to street level where Catlin's car was parked. The hillside was flawlessly landscaped, a multilevel garden that was lighted as carefully as a museum exhibition. Dark, graceful pines burned like black, windblown flames against the lighter shade of ebony that was the night sky. A cool breeze flowed along the hill, playing hide-and-seek among the fragrant evergreen needles.
Relief swept through Lindsay, a feeling of wild freedom. There was no one to watch, to listen, to judge. The act was over for now.
But as the afterimage of the brilliant rectangle of light thrown by Wang's open door faded, Lindsay saw a slight figure standing fifteen feet down the walkway. Spotlights at ground level silhouetted the man without revealing his features. Lindsay didn't need to see the man's face to identify him. The silver-headed cane Wu used when outdoors gleamed like a fallen star.
Wang's casual insinuations about provenance and the Museum of the Asias echoed again in Lindsay's mind. Words carried very clearly in the crisp, damp air. Wu must have overheard. Now he would believe that Lindsay had put her lover's interests ahead of her employer's; and worse, that she had also tacitly agreed to accept bronzes of dubious provenance for her museum. The former act might be forgivable, a hormonal foolishness that a woman might succumb to once in her life. The latter was not. It was a compromising of principles that had no excuse.
Tell Me No Lies Page 21
