Thoughts of my survival scheme came to haunt me in every post-loving doze, every dance at the Digga Dig. The clients acted as stimuli. Resting, after a matronly Singaporean lady, prompted thoughts of a possible scam in relics.
About relics.
There are churches dedicated to Christ’s foreskin—believers argue that, given his corporeal ascension, it logically constitutes the only earthly remains. Ancient monasteries fought, sued, stole, purloined, and invested fortunes (plus even, I daresay, a little prayer) in saintly relics. Without being blasphemous, an antique dealer could be forgiven for thinking of holiness. Behind all that medieval mayhem of course lay money and power. Reason? Why, it collared pilgrimage, the ancient world’s tourist trade.
Destitute peasants grubbing a feudal living couldn’t afford to travel, but barons, their ladies, and entourages could and did. Wealth meant mobility back in those days, as now. Attract enough pilgrims and you convert shabby little hamlets like old Lourdes into, well, new Lourdes in all its ghastly glitterdom. Or any patch of modern wasteland into a money-spinning airport. In the Middle Ages churches hired squads and did secret deals to nick relics and attract endowments. Sounds familiar? It ought to—it’s exactly our nowadays game of museum funding, endowing colleges, pulling crowds by the fame of an institute’s art paintings, academic publications, whatever. So instead of kneeling at a tomb praying pious prayers for a chapel’s benefactor, one pays to see an art collection in the Joe Soap Wing of this or that gallery. It’s called progress. If I seem cynical, hang on, because relics get grimmer.
I drove my somber thoughts on, into ancient China and the sacred bones of the Compassionate Buddha.
Remember 1974? Reports came of that staggering terra-cotta army of thousands of warriors excavated near Xian City. It was at a time when mainland tourism was nil, on account of bothersome political ideologies. But little stands in the way of true lust.
China and the world realized the attraction of a vast life-size array of chariots, sculptured horses, ranks upon ranks of soldiers, all utterly authentic and dating from two centuries b.c. And presto! —overnight China became an archaeological Valhalla.
Some twenty thousand prime archaeological sites are known and unexcavated. Tourists troop in. Archaeological digs multiply like the legends that breed them. Do those solid-gold ducks still bob on that river of mercury in the tomb of Emperor Gao Zong somewhere near Xian?—Well, old records say so. No wonder antique dealers drool and collectors’ agents bribe ministries of culture everywhere for licenses to dig…
My chances of dreaming up a scheme to outdo the reality of China’s fantastic finds were nil, of course. And getting even one of those immense terra-cottas would be hopeless—
okay for big organizations like the Triads, but not a one-man band. Relics are different.
They’re small. They’re smuggleable. They’re priceless. They’re divisible.
In 1981, word goes, a researcher happened across a big box of squarish white jade in the Leiyin Cave, a famous site on Shijing Mountain, near the Yunju temple. It’s within fifty miles of Peking. Two shariras, fragments of the Buddha’s bones, were found inside.
Word is they’re pretty well documented, owing to some jiggery pokey by the Emperor Wan Li’s naughty old mother, which I won’t go into. The point is that over fifty shariras were known to have been sent to China when the Buddha passed over. Now fifty’s a lot. And bone’s cheap, no? A posh antique jade box and you’re up and away on a scam.
Good advertising would virtually ensure success. It’s exactly the same nasty con trick pulled between Harold II of Hastings and William of Normandy— Battle of Hastings and all that—before William legitimately took the English crown. There’s nothing new under the sun.
Promising, but an hour later I’d decided against faking sacred relics. It could easily be done with meager resources, but there were too many intangibles. One was holiness.
Not mine, I hasten to add, but other people’s. I’ve never trusted it. It’s risky stuff. I sighed, smiled at my Singaporean lady as she stirred. The scheme wasn’t there yet, but coming, coming…
Well, the great Rodin never carved a single one of his fabled marble sculptures. He had teams of poor sloggers for that.
Back to square one again.
22
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I’VE already said how opposites abound in my world, mainly because preconceptions are always wrong.
The Norwegian lady was an opposite. To me all Norwegians, heaven knows why, should be tall decisive blondes called Olga. Elli was therefore petite, a worrier who afterwards asked if she’d been all right. I was puzzled. Ecstasy’s ecstasy, so where’s the problem?
Bliss by any other name and all that.
“Wonderful, er, Elli.” I remembered her name from its incongruity. She wore a blood-scarlet Chinese amber pendant mounted in gold. I’d persuaded her to leave it on because it was nineteenth century, and I needed distraction from embarrassment. I still couldn’t get over dithering when undressing.
“You don’t have to lie, Lovejoy,” she said dispiritedly. The Wondrous Capital Hotel was that particular night’s pad, chosen by J.S. for cheapness because Scandinavian women were known krone watchers. “I know I’m not up to much ”
This always amazes me. I mean, every woman has her own special beauty. Add her gift of ecstasy and there you have a cert winner. Why they insist on downtalking themselves beats me, but they do. “You were the best I’ve ever, er, met,” I said, truthfully since the best is the most recent by definition. Just as the most desirable is the next.
She spun her head, puzzlement along the pillow. “You say it like it’s true!”
“It is. You were.”
Her eyes filled. “Do you mean it?” She laid her hand on my face as if to keep me there.
“You do, don’t you? I could tell… I meant something… special…”