“Lydia always uses one,” said Bill. “She’s a New Yorker.”
“Oh, I have to put up with that from a guy who sounds like Barney Fife?” That wasn’t really accurate; Bill’s speech still carries a trace of Louisville, but only a trace. But civic pride was at stake here.
“Vell, don’t vorry. I tink I better make like Vladimir Vladimirivich Oblomov. In case da pretty girl compares notes vit Leetle Neek.”
Jack snorted. “Oblomov? Russian Lit. 101?” The elevator opened and both men stood aside for me to step out first. At a door labeled GRUBER ARTS I waited with great dignity for these white knights to fight over who got to open it. Luckily for them it was a double door.
The atmosphere inside the gallery was infused with the same serenity as Jack’s office, and for a similar reason: There wasn’t much there. Plexiglas cases on white pedestals held here a porcelain vase painted in delicate peonies, there a pottery camel piled with Silk Road trade goods. Three scroll paintings hung on the walls, all of misty mountains and rushing streams. Acres of polished wood floor attested to the value of the art on offer: In Manhattan, nothing says wealth like empty space.
The young woman at the reception desk wasn’t as immediately imperious as Nick Greenbank had been, but we didn’t inspire in her a strong need to be of service, either. She glanced at us through golden hair curtaining the sides of her face. “Yes?” Her copy of
“I’m Jack Lee. Is Jen here?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Can I ask what this is about?” Her glance slid over me as though I’d been oiled, lingered a few moments on Bill, then returned to Jack.
“Jen knows me,” Jack said in affable nonanswer.
The young woman raked her fingers through her glistening hair. She gave Jack, and Jack alone, another microsecond look, then pressed a button on the phone. She murmured into it, and a few seconds later a white wall at the far end of the gallery swung open, revealing a room of bookshelves and files. Another golden-haired woman, also dressed in black, walked across the floor with the ease and dignity I’d been trying to muster at the elevator. On her it was natural, and she was twice my age, and in heels. She wore her hair pulled smoothly back. Her skin was silkily smooth, too, though I suspected both the gold and the silk had help. Smiling as she reached us, she took Jack’s hand in both of hers. “Jack! To what do I owe this pleasure?” She and Jack shared a double-cheek kiss.
“Hello, Jen. These are friends of mine. Lydia and Vladimir.” Bill and I shook her hand in turn. “I told them about the Han tomb figures.” Jack nodded toward a glass case in the corner, occupied by clay figures about six inches high. “And I wanted another look at those Luo Pings anyway. So here we are.”
“It must be kismet, how lovely. I was going to call you. I have a Jin Nong I’ve just gotten, a lotus pond, from the same year as the one at the Met. Shayna, will you take charge of Lydia and Vladimir? If you need me”—she included me and Bill in her smile—“we’ll be in my office. Come.” She took Jack’s arm and drifted off to the back.
A cloud crossed Shayna Dylan’s face as Jen Beril made off with first prize. But she dutifully stood, though I thought leaving the magazine open was a little pointed. Hair cascading over her shoulders, she led us across the floor to the glass case.
“It’s a complete set,” she said, sounding a little weary, as though she wished she didn’t have to tell people things this obvious. “From a duke’s tomb. Five musicians and three dancers. All women. In the Eastern Han, as you probably know, the musicians were often women.” She was examining Bill with a newly appraising gaze. “And the dancers, always. The Han understood that beauty and grace could go hand-in-hand with talent and power.”
I made a note to ask Jack if that was true. About the Han, I mean.
“The musicians would have had their instruments when they were placed in the tomb. But the instruments were wood and wood rarely survives burial.” She was speaking exclusively to Bill, so I decided I might as well actually look at the figures. Traces of colored paint still clung to them; they must have been riotous when they were new. Even now, their odd, flat faces, squared-off edges, and empty hands didn’t detract from their exuberance. Shayna took a step closer to Bill. “But I’m sure you know that. Are you a collector?”
“Not of antiquities,” I said, partly to hear my own voice to make sure I was still here.
Shayna turned slowly to me. “Oh?” She couldn’t have been less interested and still conscious.
“I wish we were. I love these old pieces. So much history, such subtlety.”
“Yes.” Shayna gave me a cold, customer-is-always-right smile.
I sighed. “But Vlad is the real collector.” Bill grinned like the Cheshire cat, to underline my meaning: He was the one with the money. “He gets bored easily. He’s only interested in what’s flashy and new.” I looked Shayna up and down, then gave Bill a smile sweet enough to cause a toothache. “Our focus is contemporary Chinese art. Because that’s what Vlad loves.”
“Oh?” Shayna said in a totally different tone, swiveling back to Bill.
“Dat’s right.” Bill winked. “Lydia doesn’t like it, but I can’t get enuff.”
“Is that so?” Shayna eyed me with pity. “Well, many people are skittish. Unhappy with anything outside their comfort zone.”
“Absolutely,” Bill agreed. “But dey don’t know vat dey’re missing. Me, personally, I don’t care about comfort.”
“No?”
“Not exciting, comfort.”
“I can hear the passion in your voice.” Shayna swept her glossy hair. “I feel the same way.”
“Dah. I tink I could tell dat as soon as ve came in.”
“The edgy, the transgressive. The very newest. That’s what I love.”
“Iss dat so?”
