“Thank you, Mrs. Zhong,” I said kindly to the old servant, who remained with her forehead on the floor. “I need time to think about everything you've told us. This is all very difficult for me. You can go; please leave me alone with my niece.”
“Do I still have work with you, tai-tai?” she asked fearfully.
I leaned over, smiling, and helped her up.
“Don't worry, Mrs. Zhong. No one will be fired.” No, I wouldn't throw anyone out. I'd just sell the house and leave them to the mercy of the new owner. “Don't forget that in about an hour Fernanda and I will be going to visit a friend who lives on the Bund.”
“Thank you, tai-tai,” she exclaimed, and crossed through the fullmoon door of Rémy's office, much calmer now, bowing with both hands together in front of her face.
“You were right, Auntie,” Fernanda reluctantly admitted as soon as Mrs. Zhong had stepped into the garden. “The story that Englishman—”
“Irishman.”
“—told you was true. They really are watching us. Do you think it's wise to go to this meeting?”
I didn't reply but walked back to the bishachu and lifted the shelf again. I could now bring the object out and examine it carefully. It took a bit of work, because the cupboard had been designed for a longer arm than mine, but I was finally able to get a hold of the wooden object that felt like a small jewelry or sewing box. As soon as it was out in the light, I was surprised to discover a chest, a beautiful Chinese chest that was so old I thought the simple pressure of my fingers might destroy it.
Fernanda jumped up and rushed to my side, filled with curiosity. “What is it?” she asked.
“I haven't the faintest idea,” I replied, setting the chest on the desk next to a small stand that held Rémy's calligraphy brushes. There was an exquisite, gold-colored dragon contorted into spirals on the lid. I couldn't believe how beautiful the piece was, the myriad of details in the drawings, the strange strips of yellow paper with red ink characters that must have sealed it at one time and now hung softly off both ends, the smell of sandalwood it still exuded. It was absolutely perfect! I was astounded by the artisan's meticulousness, the patience he must have had to make such a thing. Just then, without the slightest consideration, Fernanda opened it with those chubby paws of hers. Good Lord, the girl was completely lacking in artistic sensibility!
“Look, Auntie, it's full of little boxes.”
When the chest was opened, it unfolded like a staircase into a series of steps that were divided into dozens of small pigeonholes, each of which contained a lovely tiny little object. My niece and I began to pick each one up and examine them carefully, unable to believe our eyes. There was a small porcelain vase that could only have been made under a powerful magnifying glass; a miniature edition of a Chinese book that unfolded just like the big ones and appeared to contain a complete work of literature; an exquisite ball of incredibly carved ivory; a black jade stamp; a small gold tiger cut lengthwise in half with a row of inscriptions on its back; a peach pit on which we saw nothing at first, but then, when we held it up against the light, discovered that it was completely covered in Chinese characters no bigger than half a grain of rice—characters that also appeared on a handful of pumpkin seeds in another of the pigeonholes; a round, bronze coin with a square hole in the middle; a little horse also made of bronze; a silk scarf that I didn't dare unfold in case it fell to pieces; a green jade ring; a gold ring; pearls of various sizes and colors; earrings; strips of paper rolled up on fine wooden spools that, when unrolled, contained ink drawings of incredible landscapes…. In short, it's impossible to describe everything we saw, much less our astonishment at seeing such treasures.
I may have already mentioned that I was never very fond of Chinese artifacts, despite the fervor they aroused all over Europe, but I had to admit I'd never seen anything like what lay before me, a thousand times more exquisite and beautiful than any of the expensive but crude trinkets sold in Paris, Madrid, or London. I'm a staunch believer in sensitive understanding: understanding through one's senses and feelings. How else can we enjoy a picture, a book, or a piece of music? Art that doesn't move you, that doesn't speak to you, isn't art, it's fashion. Each one of the tiny objects in the chest contained the magic of a thousand sensations that combined like the colored glass in a kaleidoscope to form a unique, breathtaking image.
“What are you going to do with all of this, Auntie?”
Do? What was I going to do? Well, sell it, of course. I desperately needed the money.
“We'll see,” I murmured, starting to place the little treasures back in their places. “For the moment I'll put it back where it was. Keep this a secret, do you hear me? Don't say a word to anyone, not to Father Castrillo or Mrs. Zhong.”
We left for the Bund a short while later, each of us in a rickshaw. The midday heat was stifling. A haze floated in the air, distorting the streets and buildings, the asphalt seeming to melt like gum under the poor sweaty coolies’ bare feet, and no one was safe from attacks by fat, iridescent flies. Municipal employees continuously threw buckets of water on the tram tracks, while the doors and windows of houses were covered by bamboo blinds and rice-paper mats to shield the interiors from the high temperatures. What had Tichborne been thinking to arrange a meeting at such an impossible time! The only thing that made me smile was the wicked thought that our pursuers, whoever they might be, were being deep-fried right along with us.
We passed through the wire fence bordering the French Concession and reached the international Bund within ten or fifteen minutes. It was then that we saw the shimmering waters of the filthy Huangpu, spoiling the incredible majesty of that grand avenue crowded with halfnaked Celestials and Europeans in shirtsleeves and cork pith helmets. The rickshaws came to a stop. The coolies set the poles down in front of an impressive marble staircase guarded by typically British doormen in red flannel livery and top hats bearing the Shanghai Club emblem. In this heat the club's nod to tradition seemed a bit cruel.
Fernanda and I went up the stairs and into the luxurious entrance hall dominated by a bust of King George V. The cool air (nearly frozen compared to outside) smelled of loose tobacco. I took a lovely, deep breath of it and walked over to the concierge to ask for Mr. Tichborne's room number. He interrogated me tactfully, to which I replied pleasantly, showing him the book the Irishman had given me the day before. I don't know whether the concierge actually believed me or just pretended to, but in any event he advised the journalist that we had arrived and asked us to please take a seat in the leather armchairs nearby. Indeed, from what I could tell during the short wait for our host, there weren't any women there at all. Various shops and offices, including a barber's, opened up off both sides of the hall, and an exclusively male crowd wandered silently in and out, with pipes in mouths and newspapers under arms. All men, no women: so typical of misogynistic English clubs.
The fat, bald Irishman suddenly appeared from behind a column and came to greet us. He was very polite to Fernanda, treating her with the respect afforded an adult woman. He then whispered to me that the girl couldn't stay on her own in the entrance hall and would thus have to accompany us, as if this were inconceivable and would ruin our meeting. I tilted my head in assent, letting on without further explanation that that was precisely my intention. A wide white marble staircase curved around behind the majestic iron elevator the three of us took up to the journalist's room. By the looks of it, Rémy's antiquarian friend Mr. Jiang was already waiting for us there.
I had seen a good number of Celestials since my arrival in Shanghai. Not only was the French Concession full of them, but there were also the servants at the house and the clerks in Western clothing at M. Julliard's office. I had not encountered an authentic mandarin, a Chinese gentleman in old-style clothing, a shopkeeper I would have mistaken for an aristocrat had I seen him on the street. Mr. Jiang, who leaned on a light bamboo cane, was wearing a full-length black silk tunic with a shiny black damask vest over top, done up to the neck wit
h small dark green jade buttons. A white goatee, round tortoiseshell glasses, and a skullcap rounded off the image, with a curved gold nail on each pinkie as the final decorative touch. His gaze was like that of an eagle, all-seeing without appearing to move, and the smile that danced on his lips made his prominent cheekbones even more pronounced. This, then, was Mr. Jiang, the antiquarian, whose bearing radiated strength and distinction, though I couldn't have said whether he was attractive or not, I was so unfamiliar with Celestials’ facial features, in terms of both beauty and age. His cane and white beard were obvious signs that he was older, but how much so was impossible to say.
“Ni hao,5 Mme De Poulain. Delighted to meet you,” he murmured in excellent French, bowing his head in greeting. He didn't have the slightest accent, speaking the language better than Tichborne, who mumbled, swallowing most of the vowels.
“Likewise,” I replied, lifting my right hand so he could take it, then pausing when I realized how absurd the gesture was: Chinese men never touch women, not even for a polite Western greeting. I quickly lowered my arm and remained quiet, feeling slightly awkward.
“This must be your niece,” he said, looking at her but not bowing his head.
“Yes, Fernanda, my sister's daughter.”
“My name is Fernandina,” she rushed to clarify, before realizing that Mr. Jiang had already looked away and was ignoring her. He didn't look at her again the whole time we were there, and in the weeks to come, my niece simply didn't exist as far as he was concerned. Women are of little importance to Chinese men, and girls even less; Fernanda had to swallow her outrage and accept the fact that Mr. Jiang probably wouldn't even see or hear her if she were drowning and screaming for help.
As we sat in easy chairs crowded around a coffee table, the antiquarian told me that his family name was Jiang, his given name Longyan, and his courtesy name Da Teh, that his friends called him Lao Jiang, and that Westerners knew him as Mr. Jiang. Naturally, I thought it was some sort of a joke that I didn't quite understand, so I laughed out loud. But this was another serious blunder: Tichborne raised his eyebrows at me to stop. Then, in a superior tone, he explained that it was polite for Chinese people to introduce themselves by giving their full name—reversing the order and putting family name first, since one's given name is extremely personal and reserved solely for family—then their courtesy name, which only men of higher learning and a certain social class were allowed to use, and then the name given to them by friends in informal situations, which was formed by placing the word Lao, “Old,” or Xiao, “Young,” before the family name. There were many other names, Tichborne said—baby name, school name, generation name, even a posthumous name—but as a general rule only the three that Mr. Jiang had mentioned were used during introductions. The antiquarian remained silent but animated, listening to our conversation. Then, as if doing us a great honor, the Irishman told Fernanda and me that Jiang meant “Jade Case” and Da Teh meant “Great Virtue.”
“And don't forget my given name,” the antiquarian added humorously. “Longyan means ‘Dragon Eyes.’ My father thought it suited the son of a merchant, who must always pay attention to the value of things.”
At that point, it would seem, it was all right for us to laugh.
“Well then, Mme De Poulain,” Mr. Jiang went on—and I must say the name “Dragon Eyes” fit him like a glove—“has everything gone well since you arrived in Shanghai? Has anything untoward happened to you since you spoke with Paddy last night at the consulate?”
“With whom?” I asked, surprised.
“With me,” Tichborne clarified. “Paddy is the diminutive of Patrick.”
Fernanda shot me a look of reproach that bore an unmistakable message: So he can call himself Paddy, but I can't call myself Fernandina? I followed the antiquarian's lead and simply ignored her.
“No, Mr. Jiang, nothing untoward has happened to us. I left all the servants on guard to watch the house last night.”
“Good idea. Do the same tonight. We're running out of time.”
“Time for what?” I asked worriedly.
“Did you find a small chest among the pieces in Rémy's collection, Mme De Poulain?” he suddenly asked, catching me off guard. My silence gave me away. “Ah, I see that you have! Well, good. Marvelous. You must give it to me so I can resolve this matter.”
Just a moment. Stop right there. No, none of that. Who was this Mr. Jiang for me to simply hand over a very valuable piece that could help me escape ruin? What did I know about Mr. Jiang apart from what Tichborne had told me? And who was Tichborne? Had I unwittingly brought my niece into the lion's den? Could these two colorful characters be members of the very Green Gang that was supposedly threatening our lives? My sudden nervousness must have been obvious, because my niece placed a reassuring hand on my arm and turned to the journalist.
“Tell Mr. Jiang that my aunt's not going to give him a thing. We have no idea who the two of you really are,” she declared.
That's it, they're going to kill us now, I said to myself. The Irishman would pull out a gun and threaten our lives if we didn't hand over the chest, and then the antiquarian would sever the tendons in our knees.
Mr. Jiang stretched his lips into a mocking smile—had my fear been that obvious?—and quietly said:
“Exactly two months ago, Mme De Poulain, the chest you found in your home came to me from Peking with the imperial seals intact. It was one of several objects bought just outside the Forbidden City by my agent in the capital. The court of the last Qing6 monarch is collapsing, madame. My great country and our ancestral culture are being destroyed not only by foreign invaders but also, and above all, by this weak, outdated dynasty that has left power in the hands of warlords. The pathetic young Emperor Puyi can't even control the theft of his own treasures. Everyone from the highest dignitary to the lowliest eunuch unscrupulously steals items of inestimable worth, all of which can be found a few hours later in the antiquities markets that have recently sprung up in the streets around the Forbidden City. In a vain attempt to stop this, Puyi decreed that a complete inventory be taken of all valuables. Unsurprisingly, the first in a terrible series of fires erupted a short while later in the street stalls where antiquities were being sold. To be more precise, according to the papers, the first fire occurred in the Palace of Established Happiness on June twenty-seventh, and just three days later I received the hundred-treasure chest that you found in your home, leaving no doubt as to its origin.”
“I didn't know any of this!” Tichborne stammered angrily. Was he really upset, or was he just pretending? True, all he had mentioned the night before at the consulate was “something very important” and “a piece of art.” Had the antiquarian kept this from him until now? Didn't he trust him?
“‘Hundred-treasure chest’?” I asked, curious, pretending to ignore the Irishman's discontent.
Mr. Jiang remained impassive. “It's an old Chinese tradition. The name comes from the fact that they contain exactly one hundred objects of value. Believe me, Mme De Poulain, many hundred-treasure chests like ours have come out of the Forbidden City since June twentyseventh.”
“And what is so special about ours, Mr. Jiang?” I asked sarcastically.
“That's precisely the problem, madame: We don't know. Some of the objects must be truly priceless, because the following week, the first week of July, three notable gentlemen from Peking appeared in my shop. They wanted to buy the chest and were willing to pay however many silver taels I asked.”
“And you didn't sell it?” I asked in surprise.
“I couldn't, madame. I had offered it to Rémy the same day the lot arrived on the Shanghai Express, and he bought it, naturally. The chest was no longer in my possession, and that's what I told those honorable gentlemen from Peking. They were not at all pleased by the news and insisted I tell them who owned it. I refused, of course.”
“How do you know they were from Peking?” I objected suspiciously. “They could have been members of the Green Gan
g in disguise.”
The antiquarian Jiang smiled so broadly his eyes disappeared in the folds of his Oriental eyelids.
“No, no,” he replied happily. “The Green Gang appeared a week later, accompanied by a couple of Dwarf Invaders—Japanese, that is.”
“Japanese!” I exclaimed. I immediately called to mind what M. Favez had told us about the Nipponese: They were dangerous imperialists with a large army and had been trying to take control of Shanghai and China for years.
“Let me continue, madame,” Mr. Jiang begged. “You're making me lose the thread of my story.”
“Sorry,” I murmured, surprised to see how that rotund Paddy smiled in satisfaction at the reprimand I had just received.
“The distinguished visitors from Peking were very upset when they left my shop, and I was certain they'd be back or would at least try to find whoever owned the chest. Their attitude and words made it abundantly clear that they intended to get what they wanted, by fair means or foul. I knew that the object now in Rémy's hands was an excellent piece, an original from the reign of the first Qing emperor, Shun Zhi, who ruled China from 1644 to 1661, but why such interest? There are thousands of Qing objects on the market—many more since the fire of June twenty-seventh. I could have understood if it had been a Song, Tang, or Ming7 piece, but Qing? In any event, so that you will fully understand my surprise, let me just tell you that at first I paid no attention to the shrill falsettos these obstinate customers used. Then, as they left my store, I noticed the short little steps they took, with their legs close together and bodies leaning forward. I could no longer ignore the fact that these were Old Roosters.”
“Old Roosters?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Eunuchs, Mme De Poulain. Eunuchs!” Paddy Tichborne burst out with a guffaw.
“And where are there eunuchs in China?” Mr. Jiang asked rhetorically. “In the imperial court, madame. Only in the imperial court in the Forbidden City. That's why I told you the gentlemen were from Peking.”