Ghost Hero

takes?”

“At least a year,” Haig said without hesitation. “Perhaps two.”

“Long time. If paintings she tell me about turn out be real, I suppose you very busy to sell them, have even less time for scholarship?”

“Absolutely true. If they’re real, I’ll definitely need expert help in the gallery into the forseeable future.”

“So fascinating,” Jack reflected, as though all of this were of purely abstract interest. “All this conversation, make me very curious, see paintings. Is possible you have time, can show me?”

“Dr. Lin, when I heard you were in New York I demanded that Ms. Chin bring you here. I refused to take no for an answer.” History Rewrites R Us. “I’ve canceled all my other appointments for this morning. A gentleman of your erudition, your cultivation—it would be my pleasure to show you the Chaus.” Not the alleged Chaus, the putative Chaus, the I-know-damn-well-they’re-not Chaus. For a moment I longed to forget the whole plan and have Jack take one look at the paintings and say they were garbage, just to see Haig’s face.

Haig didn’t get up right away; first he looked from me to Woo. I could see in his eyes the hope that somehow, magically, we might leave, that he might not have to share his treasure with us, to have our peasant eyes raking over his resplendent paper and ink. You posturing prig, I wanted to yell, they’re fake, remember? And you stole them, remember that, too? I didn’t say anything, though, just stared back at him, tired of smiling. Woo slurped his Coke and acted as though he hadn’t heard a word of the entire conversation. Haig sighed, threw a long-suffering glance to Dr. Q. X. Lin, and rose. He moved with a surprisingly bouncy gait, as though his bulk were partially helium. At a set of flat files along the wall he unlocked a drawer, extracted a large leather portfolio, and brought it back to the table. He laid it carefully down, unzipped it, and took out a cardboard folder. The folder was tied with a cloth ribbon and I almost busted a gasket waiting for his ceremonial undoing of the bow. Finally he lifted the top board and slowly slid out an ink painting.

The left third of the paper was covered with grasses and rocks, some in shadow, some seeming to glow backlit in sun. Cicadas dotted them. You could almost hear their rhythmic singing on the hot, peaceful afternoon. They didn’t react in any way to the fierce tiger clawing the center of the page while his ferocious face half-entered the painting from the right. Three rows of Chinese characters, written vertically in the old style, occupied the space above the tiger’s head. I saw Jack’s eyes widen and wasn’t sure whether that response was from Q. X. Lin or Jack Lee.

“Well,” Doug Haig spoke with satisfaction, “Ms. Chin, I see you’re impressed, anyway. Dr. Lin, do you like it?”

“Quite amazing,” Jack said, sounding as though he meant it. “Control of line, sharpness where brush lifts from page—see here?—black of ink, fierceness of eyes of tiger. Extraordinary.” He leaned close, then stood up again. “Is possible I may see others?”

Of course it was possible. Doug Haig slid them out one by one. A stream rushing down a mountainside in great clouds of mist; plum blossoms on a tree limb echoed by a few fallen to the ground; and the willow branch and wren that had started it all. The paintings each had lines of Chinese verse on them, sometimes tucked in the corner, other times blazoned across the top. I cocked my head to read them—nature poems, all, with themes of courage, loneliness, resolve—while Jack moved back and forth along the table, scrutinizing one painting, then another, leaning down, then stepping back for a longer view. Done with the poems, I examined the images also, knowing little about what I was looking at, except for two things: the tightly controlled brushstrokes in the wild, idiosyncratic compositions gave the paintings a tension and an exhilarating energy; and though I’d only seen real Chaus briefly online during my research, these paintings looked just like those.

“Mr. Haig,” Jack said, after a long silence. “These paintings, astonishing. May I ask, where do you get them?”

“They came to me from a client,” Haig blithely lied. “He’s not a collector. The paintings were left to him at the death of a relative. He’d like to sell them if they’re worth anything.”

“Worth anything?” Jack peered at the willow-and-wren painting once more. “If real Chaus, among most accomplished, impressive work of Chau. Mature period, probably painted close to time Chau died. But Mr. Haig. Verses here, by Liu Mai-ke. Who puts?”

“Liu Mai-ke?” Haig mangled the Chinese so badly he was temporarily unable to understand himself. “Who—that poet? Anna Yang’s husband? The one who’s in prison?”

“Yes, dissident, in prison. Married to American artist, daughter of Professor Bernard Yang Ji-tong. Anna Yang her name?” He looked at me and I nodded. Back to Haig: “You don’t know, these his poems? Oh, my apology. I thought you can read Chinese.” A smarmily superior smile. “Mr. Haig, who puts Liu poems on Chaus?”

“I—I don’t know. But does it matter?” Haig had gone from ashen to an angry flush, but Jack’s “Chaus”—not alleged Chaus, not putative Chaus—hadn’t escaped him and he recovered fast. “But it’s an old Chinese tradition, adding poems to paintings.”

“Yes, goes back to Yuan Dynasty. Starts as protest against barbarian invaders.” Again, Jack stared straight at Haig.

Haig chose to ignore the “barbarian” reference. “Perhaps the original owner was an admirer of Liu’s.” Damn right she was. “I can’t see that the poems will affect the value of the paintings, though. If they’re real, I mean.”

“On contrary. In China, you, me, her, even him”—jabbing a thumb at Woo—“all detained, security officers find this. But here in West,” Jack went on before Woo could protest his inclusion in the mass arrest, “Liu poems add to value. Dissident poet, dissident painter—if Chaus real, Western collector eats up. Right expression?” He looked over his glasses at me. “‘Eats up’? ”

“Yes, Q. X., that’s right. He’s practicing his slang,” I explained to Haig, “for when he gets a chance at a long stay in the U.S. He has a job offer from Oberlin College, you know.”

“Yes, long stay. Maybe professor, Oberlin College. In Ohio,” Jack muttered, gazing at the arching willow branches and the singing wren. He looked up. “Mr. Haig, you understand, this exact period, my field? Of course, don’t want put myself forward, just small scholar of Inner Mongolia.” Which he managed to make sound less remote than “Ohio.” “But possible, I can be of service, help you and client. If you allow me?”

“Allow you? Dr. Lin, let me understand—are you offering to appraise these paintings?” Haig’s innocent surprise would have done credit to Shirley Temple.

“If would be useful to you,” Jack said gravely.