Born in 1873 into a good family, he did Oxford University as a member of one of those queer charmed circles. After some scrapes—bankruptcy, vanishing tricks with jewels, astute borrowing—in 1898 he landed in China and stayed there more or less continuously, living the life of a scholar. All through the Boxers’ siege of the legations, the riotous close of the nineteenth century, the ending of the Manchu Dynasty of the Ch’ing, the stormy republic of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, world wars, good old Sir Edmund Backhouse stuck it out in Peking. On the surface he was everybody’s favorite, the ascetic, bearded recluse, and deeply into the Chinese life-style, robes and all. Beneath, he was a superb forger whose creations set university dons scrapping.
Oxford’s famous Bodleian Library’s roll of honor lauds his name, in Latin, for a gift of some thirty thousand chuans, volumes of Chinese texts. So learned was this remote scholar—fluent in Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Greek, Latin—that even without a degree (he did a bunk before graduation) he was offered a London professorship in Chinese.
His greatest knack was ferreting out old diaries that revealed the secrets of the Manchu Dynasty’s court. The diary of Ching Shan was his main winner. Using its contents, he co-authored famed histories of the Imperial Chinese Court. The trouble was that Backhouse’s “authentic sources” were also fakes. He’d done them himself, with a little help from his friends. Whenever times grew hard or people began to suspect the truth, Sir Edmund managed to “find” yet another diary —still further proof to substantiate his fake originals. Even cruelly frank exposures by modern Oxford dons can’t dim his luster, because Sir Edmund is my con hero of all time. On he went, trying to sell nonexistent battleships, doing snow jobs over false bank-note contracts, quite crazy scams involving the Empress of China’s fabulous pearls. Looking back on him even now, a world away, the old rogue has terrific and hilarious impact. Ask after Sir Edmund Backhouse at the British Museum. They say, with a weary sigh: “Oh, him.”
Like I say, the champ. Why? Because he boxed clever. And survived. He’s the one that got away. Get the point? The old scamp invented perpetual motion in fakery. And not only that: each new “proof” for his existing fakes was itself worth a fortune.
Remembering the Backhouse legend, I felt tears start at its beauty. I nearly almost practically loved that Norwegian lady for all eternity for nudging my memory.
Inexpressibly moved, I turned to show her loving gratitude. She saw my overwhelming emotion and said brokenly, “Oh, darling.”
A forgery scam like that is sheer perfection.
I’d do the same, but a little bit different.
23
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WISELY I also told Marilyn, my first call of the morning, that I was looking up a few things about some scheme I was preparing for Ling Ling. I even asked did she want to come. She said, “Forgive me if I demur. Where are your researches directed, Lovejoy?”
“The city hall. And the university.”
“Very well. You may find the registry in Pok Fu Lam Road of use, Lovejoy. Do not disremember your call.” I swear she was smiling. Did she know I’d already looked the address up?
“I’ll not disremember, love. Tara.”
I too was smiling as I hit the road. You can get fond of people, a bad sign.
The library was air-conditioned, thank God. I stood for five minutes dripping sweat in the blissful coolth before moving. An hour and I’d found it in the local Post.
The time it snowed in Hong Kong, it seems, was one of those legends instantly made and as quickly forgotten. Local people actually roped the snow off and charged a dollar a look, as Ling Ling had said. I read the whole paper. And the ones for the next couple of days after. They cleared the library about then “because of the typhoon signal.” We all trailed out into the sludgy air, me and about thirty Chinese.
The sky was blue but not bright cobalt any more. It looked as if it were trying to become dark, though in fact the day was scorchingly bright. The trees near the bank buildings were swaying now. The air caught and puffed. Lovely. I’d looked up
“typhoon.” It means big wind. I smiled. In East Anglia we’d not even notice this faint zephyr. The City Hall’s near the ferry terminal. I thought I glimpsed a stubby leper poling himself rapidly along among all the legs, but no. Imagination, probably.
My mind still nibbling at forgery for survival, I sat in a Wan Chai bar watching the bar girls over a glass of ale and listening to the pop music.
Forgery. Mankind can’t control antiques. Mankind can’t prevent fakes, either. Oh, I know governments, those starry-eyed fools, try. Even the United Nations has a go. It’s hopeless, cobbling smoke. Forgery is lovely, vital, essential to the well-being of humanity.
The antiques industry is built on duplicity. In it, fables abound. Deceit dominates. The reason is that Mr. Getty, Mme. de Meuil, and Mr. Terra are the modern museum Medicis—they’ve got what the rest of us crave, the wretches. Art critics hate them for their fabulous collections and snap about vanity, selfishness, et cetera, et cetera. The battle rages.
Meanwhile, the world sulks because Lady Lever has the stupendous antiques we all want. So what happens? —We go for the next-best buys, anything in art or antiques.
And there’s not enough. So the universe is stuffed with copies, repros, phonies, duds.
And human beings are as bad. We’re all hybrids saying we’re pure. Nations, races, classes, religions, each pretending they weren’t coined yesterday, with sham lineages back to Adam, phoniest myth of all. There were plenty of phony legends I could choose from.
“Eh?” I said.
“I’m Tracy,” a Cantonese girl said, bringing a supply of ale to my nook. Three glassfuls queued for my attention. Tracy’s accent was pseudo-American.
“Are you American?”
“No,” she said, delighted. “I’m going to marry an American.” She indicated a group of American sailors across the bar. Any one? “You’re not American.”
“Sorry,” I said. More U.S. dazzlement.
