there, dismissed the whole thing. He tried to persuade Jin not to worry about it. He said no one could possibly take these paintings seriously, everyone knew Chau was dead. I guess he changed his mind, though, or at least, he couldn’t convince Jin, because I think Xi’s who came to you as Samuel Wing.”
“Older, skinny, receding gray hair?”
“Yes.”
“I’m still not clear. If they decided to look for the paintings after all and asked you for help, why did Xi come to me to get me to lay off?”
“They didn’t ask for help. First off, it wouldn’t have been me, it would’ve been one of our visual arts people. But they didn’t. Jin just scowled and Xi tried to jolly him up and they both drank scotch. No, what happened was, I was watching Xi fawning on his boss—a guy at least ten years younger than Xi, and nowhere near as educated or as smart—and my boss came over to join us and I had a lightbulb moment. It hit me that if I didn’t watch out I’d be Xi before I knew it. You know the difference between staff jobs and line jobs?” I shook my head. Bill and Jack, I noticed, both nodded. “Well, it’s what it sounds like.” Seemingly instinctively, Jerrold offered his explanation to all three of us, so I wouldn’t feel like the only dummy in the room. Very diplomatic. “Line does. Staff supports. At State you almost always start as staff but, like anywhere, line’s where the action is. Eight years, I suddenly realized, was borderline too long to still be staff. There’s a point beyond which you don’t get promoted because you haven’t been promoted, and I’m getting near it. I needed to make a move.”
“And Chau was your move?”
“Xi kept telling Jin he should ignore the rumors, that the paintings were obviously fakes and any notice they paid would do nothing but stir up interest in them. Jin was unhappy but he agreed that he didn’t want to draw attention. Someone poured another round and the talk moved on to other things.
“And I thought, well, okay. The PRC government looking for these paintings did have the potential to raise the paintings’ profile. Xi was right about that. But if collectors were already looking, one more collector wouldn’t matter.”
“So it wasn’t about their value? And it wasn’t about making a name for yourself?”
He smiled. “It absolutely was, both things. But their value’s not in money, it’s in the PRC’s diplomatic face, and the name I’m looking to make isn’t in the art world.”
“If you had the paintings, what would you do with them? Take them to Xi, at the Consulate?”
“No, to Jin. If I went to Xi he’d go to Jin, and that would get him some of the credit, diluting things for me.”
I nodded, considering that. “Speaking of Xi, Mr. Jerrold, how did Xi find out about me and why did he want me to stop?”
“I don’t know about the first. The second, I suppose it’s because, as he said, he thinks making waves is the wrong approach.”
“It was a lot of money to stop some waves that might turn out not to matter. His, I wonder, or the PRC’s?”
“Well, probably his. Like what I gave you was mine. The PRC isn’t that free with its purse strings.”
I sat back. “All right, Mr. Jerrold. Here’s what I think we can do. The paintings are fakes but they’re about to be authenticated. Then they’ll be shown.”
“I thought you said you might be able to stop that.”
“We’ll be able to keep them off the market. Maybe not to stop their being shown. But they’ll be discredited and the whole thing will look like a high school prank. But you can still be a hero.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“The paintings have poems on them. Chinese classical paintings often do,” I added loftily. “Since the Yuan Dynasty.”
“I do know that much, Ms. Chin.”
“These particular poems are by Liu Mai-ke. Mike Liu.”
“Ah.” Jerrold rubbed at his chin. “Ah, damn.”
“It’s true, then? That might be a problem?”
“Chau and Liu, together? A dissident double-team. Jin’ll hate it.”
“If it turns out the paintings will be shown, I’ll warn you and you can warn Mr. Jin. Or tell your boss to warn him. At least it won’t be a surprise. The PRC can prepare a response. That should win you points.”
“Interesting thought. Not as many points as I’d hoped for from this, but it can’t hurt. Although if you told me where the paintings are—”
“Not going to happen.” I pointed to the money-stuffed envelope on my desk. “You can take that back if you want to, but right now that’s all you’re getting. If things change, I’ll call you.”
He eyed me. “They might?”
“You never know.”
* * *
Chinatown’s so near NYU that we walked up. As we neared Dr. Yang’s building I called his office. First hurdle jumped: he answered. I asked in a breathy voice for an appointment because I was an undecided student looking for guidance about my major. He blew me off, suggesting—really, ordering—that I talk to Dr. Somebody Else. Didn’t matter, though. By then we were in the building and we knew he was, too.
We caught him eating lunch behind his desk: pork dumplings from the Rickshaw truck accompanied by green tea in a rough pottery cup. The room smelled terrific, salt and onions, very homelike, but the comforting nature of his lunch mellowed Dr. Yang out not one bit.
