I smiled, taking my time before I spoke. “Vladimir Oblomov, as I’m sure you noticed, is an oaf.”
“Oh, my. Really?”
“I promise you. An oaf with money. I do a lot of work with Russians. They’re all the same. Vladimir’s different only in his interest in Chinese art. He’s a complete ignoramus, but he’s decided it’s his ‘field.’ Probably because Americans and Europeans collect it, but none of the other Russians do, so he can be a big cutting-edge deal. If the Chaus were real, or he thought they were, he’d buy them in a flash. At whatever price I told him was a good one. Which, of course, you and I would agree upon in advance.”
“Lovely. And you’re planning on getting around the eight-hundred-pound forged-painting gorilla exactly how?”
I leaned forward, hoping my eyes were glittering. “I can get them authenticated.”
For a moment Haig didn’t move. Then he shifted his vastness again, crossing his legs at the ankles. Woo sat up straight. I held up a finger to shush him. Haig said, “You have something to hold over Bernard Yang better than what I have?”
I tick-tocked my finger back and forth. “Not Dr. Yang.”
Haig frowned. “The only other name in this area big enough to be believed is Clarence Snyder, in Chicago. These paintings are goddamn good, but I don’t think they’re good enough to fool him. Are you telling me you have him in your pocket? Or”—Haig’s small eyes caressed my legs—“you can put him there?”
“Mr. Haig, if you weren’t a potential source of a lot of money I’d slap your face and walk out of here.” I said that, but I didn’t pull my skirt down. “But you’re also a narrow-minded moron. Yang and Snyder aren’t the only two big experts. There’s Lin, in Hohhot. And him, yes, I can get to him.”
“Lin? Who the hell is Lin?”
“You see? That’s what I mean. You’ve never heard of him, and though that speaks much worse of you than of him, it makes you assume that he’s nobody. Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang. At the Central University in Hohhot. Of course Hohhot is a minor Chinese city, and the University isn’t Shanghai U., so you don’t know a thing about it. Beneath you, right? Lin’s a rising star. Young, but he’s built himself quite a reputation in late-twentieth-century Chinese art, which is a big study area at Hohhot. You can Google him. His work’s largely theoretical and historical, not involved with the gallery and commercial world. You’d know him if you went to conferences, if you studied in the area, if you were actually interested in the art in any way except as a money trough you can wallow in.”
“Oh, spare me.” The acid in Haig’s voice practically dissolved the words. “The opinion of a slutty art consultant whose clients are third-rate Russian pigs doesn’t interest me in the least. I’ll look at this Dr. Lin. If he’s as impressive as you say maybe there’s something there to talk about. But if he’s a true expert he’ll know the paintings are fake. Why would he do it?”
“Because, frankly, he cares as little for Hohhot as you do. Although his is an educated opinion. As things stand, though, he’s forced to stay there. There aren’t very many positions he could rise to in China. There are tenured professorships in his area in Shanghai and Beijing, but they’re full. Or he could open his own gallery, but in China that involves dealing with the government, which makes even Hohhot seem appealing. Go ahead, check him out. Have little Nicky or poor scared Caitlin take a look and give you a full report. But be quick. For one thing, you want these paintings ready for sale next week, don’t you? To take full advantage of all the sharks in the water. For another, he’s here now.”
“He’s here? Who’s here? This Dr. Lin?”
“In New York. He got in two days ago. For Asian Art Week. And he wants to stay.”
An unappetizing, upper-hand look of understanding settled on Doug Haig’s face. “He wants to stay?”
“There you go,” I said approvingly. “Now you’ve got it. He came here hoping for an offer from a university or college. He did get one from Oberlin—they have a major art collection, and ties to China—but it’s in Ohio. Really, he’d rather be in New York. If someone here were to offer him a job, in an area of expertise so esoteric he’d be able to get past the INS—for example, writing a catalogue raisonne on a few decades’ worth of contemporary Chinese art—if, even, they agreed to sponsor him for his green card—it’s entirely possible he might overcome his scruples and authenticate some paintings that are, anyway, as you so eloquently put it earlier, goddamn good.”
I gave it a few beats while I watched Doug Haig’s gears creak. “Of course, if he accepts Oberlin’s offer first —”
“Yes, all right, I get it. When can you have him here?”
“As it happens we’re meeting for coffee in the morning.”
“Does he know you’re here on his behalf right now?”
“His behalf? I’m not here on his behalf. Or yours. Or, god help me, Vladimir’s. I’m here for me. No, Dr. Lin has no clue. He has a serious poker up his compact little ass. He’s a lot like you—he thinks he’s all that. The difference is, he is. Still, if he gets any whiff that he’s being played, it’s all over. When he comes here you’ll have to handle him very carefully. I’ll be here to help, of course.”
“How kind of you. All right, I’ll check on him, as I said. You call early tomorrow and I’ll let you know whether I want you to bring him over.”
“I’m a busy woman.” I got up to leave. “Being a slutty art consultant is a fast-paced life. I may have another appointment, any number of other appointments, by the time you get around to calling. We’ll do it this way: Unless I hear from you I’m going to bring Dr. Lin here at ten a.m. If you decide you don’t want to see him, don’t. Do whatever you think best, but in my opinion, not seeing him would be a big, big mistake. Mr. Woo, I think you can see how this arrangement will benefit Mr. Lau, also?”
Woo shook his head. “Not so sure.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Lau will be happy. Gentlemen.” I nodded to them both and left them staring after me as I walked away.
21
I dropped the hip-swinging as soon as I got around the corner, and I called Bill.
“How’d it go?”
“Give me Oblomov.”
“Vat’s wrong?”
