The Wild Beasts of Wuhan

by Ian Hamilton

  Helga read the document and said, “You can go.”

  Ava booked the flights and then looked for a hotel. The Hughes Gallery was on Church Street in Kensington. Two months earlier, while on the job for Tommy Ordonez, the Filipino billionaire, she had been in that exact area, at the Fletcher Hotel, and had enjoyed its proximity to Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. It was right on the High Street, directly across from the gardens, and a short walk from Church Street. The room rate was 235 pounds a night — Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel rates. She clicked onto their website and reserved a room.

  Glen Hughes had written to the Sørensens on gallery stationery. The letterhead listed a phone number and a general email address. Ava punched the number into her cellphone. A woman’s voice answered, “Hughes Gallery.”

  Well, it’s still open for business, Ava thought. “Could I speak to Mr. Hughes, please?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t arrive until ten.”

  “Do you expect him today?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what is your closing hour?”

  “We’re open from nine to six every day but Sunday.”

  Ava hung up and returned to the computer. She drafted an email saying that she was the representative for a Hong Kong–based art collector and was in London on a scouting expedition. She asked to drop by the gallery at eleven o’clock the next morning to meet with Mr. Hughes. She sent the email without much optimism. If there was no response, she’d phone again when she got to London, or if necessary make a cold-call visit.

  Helga had finished making the copies and bundled the letters together. She handed Ava her set. “I want to say that I’m very thankful for the money. I just need you to understand that I am still concerned that Jan’s name doesn’t get dragged through the mud because of this. He is a good man and a good painter, and we are forever hopeful that he will find an audience for his own work.”

  “I will do everything I can to protect his reputation,” Ava said.

  She walked Helga to the hotel door and stood outside in the drizzle, watching the stout woman make her ascent up the hill. After ten steps or so, Helga turned, smiled, and waved. Ava felt a touch of guilt as she waved back. The truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to keep Jan Sørensen’s name secure.

  When she returned to the hotel, the front desk had been abandoned. She saw that the man who had been there was now in the office, using the computer. She stared at his back, willing him to see her and voluntarily give it up. He ignored her. “Will you be long?” she finally asked.

  “A few hours,” he said.

  “Could you book me a taxi for the airport?”

  “What time?”

  “My flight is at two forty-five.”

  “I’ll have a taxi here for one,” he said.

  In her room, she went through the letters from Hughes to Sørensen. The last one was a completely self-serving, cover-your-tracks kind of letter. The others were more straightforward, each one asking Sørensen if he could do a work “in the style of” a specific artist. The first four comprised a list of most of the Fauvists — Dufy, Vlaminck, Derain, Braque — while the last two wanted repeats of Vlaminck. There was never a hint that Hughes was engaged in anything shady, although in the letter requesting another Vlaminck he did mention that the customer had been absolutely thrilled with the latest work.

  Ava pulled out her notebook and recapped the morning’s meeting. She then slid the letters inside the Moleskine notebook and placed it in her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag. She lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled of Nina’s perfume. The scent was a bit raw, like Nina herself. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. She had nothing new to add, just a name. And until she met with Glen Hughes, that’s all it was — a name.

  ( 18 )

  Ava fought her way out of Gatwick Airport to catch the express train to Victoria Station, and then she fought her way through the station to catch the tube to Kensington High Street. It was close to ten o’clock when she finally walked into fresh air, air that was as cold and damp as in Skagen or Tjorn. Curaçao seemed a long way away. She was happy she had worn one of her Jóhanna av Steinum sweaters, sweaters that she liked so much she had bought one each for Mimi and Maria at the Vagar shop before leaving.

  From the station she had a short walk, past a Marks & Spencer and a Whole Foods, along the High Street to the hotel.

  Ava was relieved to check in and get to her room. It was a spectacular modern blend of black, red, and white — sparse, functional, yet still somehow luxurious. A bottle of chilled mineral water and a bowl of fresh fruit were on the coffee table, accompanied by a welcoming note from the hotel administration.

  She was hungry, and called the front desk. The concierge informed her that the main restaurant was still open. She quickly unpacked and then got two laundry bags from the closet. She put the black Brooks Brothers shirt and cotton slacks in the first bag, and in the other the laundry bag from Aalborg with her running gear. She carried the bags downstairs and deposited them at the front desk. “Is there any way I could get these back early tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Is nine a.m. soon enough?” the desk clerk said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ava said, pleased with the five-star service.

  She walked into the Fletcher’s dining room and was immediately led to a seat. She ordered sautéed langoustines with crab tortellini in a shellfish bisque as a starter, and pan-fried black bream with truffle mashed potatoes as her main. Everything came in rapid succession; she barely had time to drink half her bottle of white burgundy. She took the balance back to her room in an ice bucket.

  She turned on her laptop; there were more than twenty new emails in her inbox. She quickly deleted the spam, skipped reading any she didn’t think were urgent, and then opened the three she had received from Mimi, her father, and Maria.

  Mimi’s was, as usual, filled with the trivia of her life, but when Ava neared the end, her interest spiked.

  Derek and I have decided that both our condos must go. He wanted to keep his because his father bought it for him as an investment, but I don’t want him to have a place to bolt to if things don’t work out. He’s agreed. Happy me! So we start out on a level footing. I have two real estate agents scouring the midtown area for a house. I really like the area between Bayview Avenue and Mount Pleasant Road, south of Eglinton. Lots of young professionals with kids and dogs and nannies.

  Ava couldn’t imagine either Mimi or Derek in that environment. But then, she hadn’t ever contemplated that they could be a couple. Ava also noted that Mimi wasn’t asking for her opinion.

  In the last paragraph of the email, Mimi mentioned Maria. Ava paled as she read, Maria and I had lunch yesterday. She told me that her mother is flying in from Bogota for a Toronto holiday. She says she wants to introduce you to her mother but she’s not really sure how you would react to that idea. She also said she wasn’t sure how her mother would react, but that it was time to find out.

  Introduce me as what? Ava thought. The last thing she wanted was to get caught between Maria and her mother. Ava had never discussed her own sexuality with Jennie Lee, and she kept her personal life and her friends private. Jennie knew, of course, about Ava’s sexual orientation and from time to time made vague references, but it was a subject they’d never directly broached and never would, just as Ava never pried into Jennie’s relationship with Marcus. Neither woman needed explanations, and the respect and love they had for each other were absolute.

  I don’t think meeting her mother is a great idea, Ava wrote to Mimi. Then she turned to Maria’s email. It mentioned the lunch and the possibility of Derek and Mimi selling their condos, and then simply said, And by the way, my mother is thinking about coming to Toronto for a short holiday. Ava didn’t know how to reply, and decided not to for the time being.

  Her
father’s email was, if anything, even more vague. Cruise goes better. Mummy and Bruce have made some kind of peace. I’m staying in Toronto for an additional week when we get back. I’m pleased that you and Michael connected, though I do find it a bit strange. At some point we need to talk about him.

  She read the message three times, questions popping into her head about Bruce, the extra week, and Michael. She started to ask those questions and then stopped. She was on a job and didn’t need more distractions. She simply wrote, Glad to get your news. See you in Toronto.

  Ava signed out of her email account and accessed Google. She typed in “Hughes Art Gallery.” There were more than sixty references, though none of them were less than two years old. If she hadn’t actually phoned the gallery she might have assumed it had gone out of business, which would have been sad, given that it had apparently been around for almost a hundred years.

  Glen Hughes’ grandfather had established the gallery, which his father had taken over and expanded in size and reputation. The business had been passed on to Glen and his brother, Edwin. Many of the Google references were from art journals, which spoke highly of the brothers. Their firm was as knowledgable about the art scene of the past 150 years as the big art auction houses such as Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Bonhams, and Harrington’s. The brothers — Glen most often — were described as specialists in the Impressionists, the Post-Impressionists, and the Fauvists. Kwong must have known them by reputation, Ava thought. That’s why he was so willing to take their word at face value.

  She read entry after entry citing Glen Hughes as authenticating this painting and casting doubt on that painting. She began to worry. This was an acknowledged expert she was dealing with, not a fool. The letters he had sent to the Sørensens were open to interpretation. Jan Sørensen’s position could be described as not much more than one man’s opinion. No, she told herself, it will work. She turned off her computer and headed for bed.

  She fell asleep without much more thought about Glen Hughes. But the emails from Maria and her father crowded into her mind, and it was her father who came to her as she slept.

  In recent months Ava had been having a recurring dream about Marcus. She and her father were trying to catch a plane or a ship in some unknown city on their way to some other unknown city. More often than not she lost him in the attempt. This night, for the first time, her half-brother Michael entered the nocturnal drama. Michael and her father were inseparable; it was always she who was getting lost, who was searching. She woke just as the three of them had reached an airport terminal, only to be shuffled into different check-in lines that meandered through different buildings, towards different planes.

  It was seven o’clock; she had slept long, if not well. Her father and Michael dissolved from her mind and Glen Hughes re-entered it. She rolled out of bed, boiled water in the hotel kettle, and made her first Starbucks VIA instant coffee of the morning.

  She quickly downed two cups, scanning the morning newspapers, and then thought about taking a calming run before she remembered that her tracksuit was at the cleaner’s. She pulled a Steinum sweater over her T-shirt and Brooks Brothers black linen pants and headed downstairs and out onto the High Street. It was another dreary day, without a patch of blue in the sky. She crossed the High Street and began to walk briskly up Church.

  The Hughes Gallery was half a kilometre from the hotel. It was larger than Ava had envisioned, taking up the equivalent of two storefronts. A large double door made of a dark wood separated two windows. On the left door the word hughes was affixed in brass letters; on the right door was gallery. Both windows had the name painted discreetly in the lower left corner. There was a solitary painting in each window, artists Ava had never heard of, their style distinctly abstract. She looked inside. The gallery ran so far back that she couldn’t see the end of it, only a jumble of statues and paintings.

  She turned and walked back to the hotel. The gallery was impressive and looked prosperous. That only reinforced the doubts she had about her ability to leverage Glen Hughes.

  The weather was starting to turn nasty; the wind picked up and the sky began to spit rain. Despite the sweater she felt a chill. By the time she reached the High Street the rain had intensified and she knew a run was now out of the question.

  As she walked into the lobby she saw her dry cleaning hanging near the concierge’s desk. It was ten to nine. Pretty damn good timing, she thought, as she carried it to her room.

  She hung up her clothes in the closet and went to the window. The rain was now lashing sideways.

  Ava made herself another coffee and then sat at the computer. She logged in to her emails with little expectation, but near the top of her inbox was one from the Hughes Gallery, saying Mr. Hughes couldn’t see her at eleven but was available at ten. She replied, saying she’d be there.

  She showered quickly, not bothering to wash her hair. Standing naked in the bathroom, she applied a touch of lipstick and a hint of mascara and dabbed her Annick Goutal perfume on her wrists and at the base of her throat. She brushed her hair and then pulled it back and fixed it with her ivory pin. She went to the bedroom and put on a bra and panties, her black Brooks Brothers shirt with modified Italian collar, and black linen slacks. The Shanghai Tang cufflinks looked perfect against the black. She fastened the gold crucifix around her neck and then added the Cartier watch. Then she slipped on the new alligator heels and stood back to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Professional and ready for battle, she thought.

  She heard thunder and walked back to the window. The rain was still pelting down. She packed the Sørensen letters in her Shanghai Tang bag and headed downstairs to the business centre to make an extra copy of the documents for Hughes in case the need arose.

  On her way out, the concierge offered her a choice of umbrellas. She took the largest one, which had wilson golf printed on it. Even with the umbrella she felt the effects of the rain as it splattered off the sidewalk and wet her shoes and slacks. The walk felt twice as long as it had earlier, but when she got to the gallery door it still was only ten to ten. She tried the door but it was locked. She huddled in the doorway, the umbrella pointing towards the street.

  “Come in, come in,” a woman’s voice said suddenly as the door opened behind her.

  Ava slid in and was greeted by a tall, slim young woman with a mop of blonde hair styled into an über-chic Afro. She wore a short, tight red designer dress that showed off her long legs.

  “You must be Ms. Lee. My name is Lisa. Mr. Hughes is in the back. Let me take you there.”

  Lisa guided Ava through the space, which was filled with numerous paintings, statues, and ceramics. When they reached the other end of the gallery, Lisa opened a door and led Ava into the office area. All the doors were closed but one, which opened into an office where a tall man in a brown suit sat at a desk. He had thick dark blond hair and a long, thin face and pointed chin. When he looked up at Ava, she saw that his clear blue eyes were not close-set the way Helga Sørensen had described. Ava felt her stomach sink.

  “Mr. Hughes, Ms. Lee is here,” Lisa said.

  Ava stood in the doorway to the office.

  Hughes stood and extended his hand. “I’m Edwin Hughes,” he said.

  “Ava Lee.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair across from his desk. “Would you like anything? Coffee or tea?”

  “No thanks,” Ava said, noticing the painting on the wall behind him. It was the Tower Bridge. “A Derain?”

  “Yes, that’s very observant of you.”

  She continued to stare at the painting as she struggled to find a way to initiate the conversation.

  “So, Ms. Lee, you represent a Hong Kong firm?”

  “I do.”

  “We haven’t done much business in Hong Kong. Japan has been kinder to us as a market.”

  He has a lo
vely voice, she thought. And he paces his words quite carefully. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I was actually expecting to see Mr. Glen Hughes,” Ava said.

  “My brother is no longer associated with this part of the business,” he said calmly.

  “I see.”

  “I assure you, whatever gallery business you were planning to discuss with him, you can discuss with me.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

  He looked quizzical. “Ms. Lee, you are sounding mysterious.”

  “I’m sorry, this is awkward.”

  “Awkward? That’s rather a strange word. It’s paintings you’re here to discuss, I presume.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then there’s no reason to feel awkward. That is my business, after all.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, and Ava responded in kind. “I was going to talk to your brother about the Fauvist art he’s been commissioning over the past ten years or so, the art he sold through the Great Wall Antiques and Fine Art Gallery in Hong Kong.”

  “The most recent piece of Fauvist art was painted in about 1910, Ms. Lee.”

  “I am aware of that. This gallery commissioned the works. They were fakes, of course, designed to mislead my client.”

  “This gallery did no such thing,” Hughes said, his voice calm but his eyes hardening as he looked across the desk at her.

  “I have a signed statement from one of the artists who was paid to paint them, and I have copies of correspondence between your brother and the painter discussing the project. The correspondence from your end is on gallery stationery.”

  She sat back, waiting for a reaction. Instead he said, in the same even tone, “What foul weather has brought you and word of my brother to my door?”

  “Your standard London rain.”

  He smiled. “Would it bother you if I asked to see the correspondence?”

  “No, I brought it with me,” she said, opening her bag. She passed him a set of copies.