two rapturous infants, even me for that moment.
But not Ling Ling.
“Isn’t it a whopper!” I turned and caught her gazing up at me. Christ, I thought, what have I done wrong now?
She recovered instantly. “A maiden voyage. Yes, Lovejoy. All Chinese dreams die of size.”
That was all it was, a perfect woman fleetingly disconcerted. If I weren’t so boneheaded I’d have spotted the obvious. I recovered my seat and played a game of church and steeple with the baby girl until we made the wharf and I returned to my new role in life, wondering what scheme I could invent to nick a giant American antiques firm, transfer it to the Hong Kong Triad, and come out of it alive.
20
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TWENTY to five in Steerforth’s flat, me on the couch staring up at the big slow windmill fan, the sort I was beginning to associate with the older buildings in Hong Kong. Most modern fans in the electric shops were waspish whizzers that swung questing for wigs to blow off, not these graceful flappers. But I was learning. Newness was all in Hong Kong. More and more I recognized Western fashion, saw how the young craved pop manners, making trendy Western speech their own norm. Survival was on my mind, so I needed philosophy.
The problem: If you’ve an antique for sale, then, sad to relate, the world isn’t your oyster. It’s not that easy. Even if somebody gives you the National Gallery, your options are still very, very limited. Okay, you can sell the Old Masters, set up a trust, buy your favorite brewery. But that’s strictly it. You’re limited by honesty on the one hand and law—that hobble of sanity—on the other.
Now, here I was in thrall to the Triad (and I still wasn’t sure what one was; a gang anyhow so murderous they made Big John Sheehan’s seem Samaritans). They drained genuine Chinese antiques from the mainland plus their own output of fakes. They made a steady fortune, increased when international dealers hove in town. My worry was that I had to multiply their steady reality into a dream percentage, or I’d be for it.
Which meant forgery had to raise its beautiful head.
Antique forgers have dedication like fundamentalists have beliefs. There the similarity ends, because by forgers’ works thou shalt know them. And all forgery is tangible, not to say dead obvious. Its one aid is humanity—by which I mean greed, aspirations, lust, all the stuff I call “graspiration.” Everybody has it, and can’t control it. Proof? Well, everyone—meaning every single solitary one of us—just knows that old pot Grandad used to feed his pet tortoise from should never have been given to Cousin Velma, who said it was worthless, because who paid for her sudden holiday in the Bahamas, the cunning bitch? And every time you open the paper, there’s some thoroughly undeserving clown grinning beside a Ming vase or a Velazquez found in a coal hole.
Also, forgery has to be superb for its time. Why? Because forgeries go out of fashion.
Not forgery; note: forgeries. The Vermeer fakes by Van Meegeren won stunning fame, and Van Meegeren’s life in the 1940s. Look at them now in Amsterdam without falling down laughing and you deserve a medal. The Billie and Charley pewter Victorian fakes are ridiculous, but at the time they convinced hordes. The Chelsea porcelain fakes by Samson of Paris have worn well, but present us no real problems, whereas last century they baffled national experts. The fabled Thailand “Chinese” ceramics are already becoming discernible to most, even though On is still turning them out like Ford cars at a few thousand dollars a dragon/lion/whatever.
So into the equation went Time. And beside it went Number—of forgeries, that is. This was a special problem because Johny Chen’s tour had proved that Hong Kong, tiny as it is, surpasses everybody. It outbids China, out- replicates Japan, out-manufactures Taiwan, out-tourists Europe. I’d seen little enough, but knew I could grab a taxi and return in an hour having successfully placed an order for ten thousand anythings. To the Hong Kong Triad, therefore, a one-off would be derisory. In short, my scam had to be a well of plenty. So Number had to equal Infinity. Hong Kong does that to dreams, brings them nearer to reality. What was it Ling Ling had said, at that curious moment when I’d caught the little sampan toddler? “All Chinese dreams die of size.” Well, this dream had better not, because I was in it.
When your head’s zipping full of ideas, I find the thing to do’s go for a walk or lie down unthinkingly. But the thought of reeling from one minuscule patch of shade to another outside in almost audible scorching heat daunted me so much I stayed flopped down.
An hour and I’d found the one ingredient I lacked.
“Phyllis,” I said aloud. The apprehensive gray lady who lusted so wistfully outside the pales of her own erection, so to speak. Pleased, I rolled on my side and nodded off.
Even gods decay. Like, in 1890 somebody sold off thousands of mummified Ancient Egyptian sacred cats—for fertilizer. Get the point? Constancy isn’t.
As a rule antique dealers, knowing the full worth of intangibles, change their minds quicker than Lafayette. Like politicians, popes, all businessmen really, I suppose.
Criminals are the opposite. Unswerving creatures they, of indelible convictions. Justice, police, and law can be as arbitrary as they like, but crooks are reliable to the point of obsession. You know where you are with black-hat buddies. It’s the saints who do you.
The one good omen was that in Hong Kong I was friendless. No tender loving Janie to help me to within an inch of my life, for example, so the outlook wasn’t all despond.
By the time Steerforth breezed in, I was brewing up. I’d had a bath and was padding about in a towel loincloth. He was twenty years fresher from the Double Eight bathhouse.
“Got my new shirts, Lovejoy.” He flung a shoal of colored cellophanes on the couch. I eyed him, teapot in hand. Was he a possible ally? Testing time.
“How long’ll you keep going, Steerforth?”
“What d’you mean?” All actors challenged on looks zoom to the mirror, as he did. “I look twenty- five.”
“By morning you’ll look ninety.” I poured, neffie powdered milk of course. HK’s trade mark.
He stomped across to poke my chest. “I survive because I’m superb at my job.”