The Wild Beasts of Wuhan (6 page)

“I don’t understand.”

May Ling pulled her towards one wall. “Have you heard of the Fauves?”

“No.”

“It means ‘wild beasts.’ It was a French art movement at the beginning of the twentieth century. As you can see, the artists were in love with colour and were famous for their bold brushwork.”

Ava walked up to one of the paintings and looked down at the signature. “Matisse?”

“Yes, these are all supposedly by Matisse,” May Ling said. She turned and pointed to another wall. “And over there, André Derain, Georges Braque, Raoul Dufy, Maurice de Vlaminck, and, of course, our Monet.”

“This is spectacular.”

Uncle and Wong Changxing entered the room. Ava saw surprise register on her boss’s face, while the tension she had detected in Wong’s was now ripping across his.

“When my husband came back to Wuhan,” May Ling continued, “he told me about the paintings he had seen and how much he loved them. He bought some art books, and though he couldn’t read them because they were in English or French, he used to stay up at night, poring over them as if he was looking at pictures of his children. I started looking into the movement myself, and I began to share his passion for the Fauvists. It was the colour and the simplicity of the paintings that attracted him, and then me.

“I bought the first one — that Derain painting of the Tower Bridge in London — for his birthday. He was upset with me for spending so much money, but after I explained what a good investment I thought it would be, we decided to buy more. Our little gallery here became the largest private Fauvist collection outside of Europe.

“Our Chinese friends never saw the sense in it and didn’t appreciate them. Among the Westerners, though, it changed their perception of Wong Changxing. He was no longer just another newly rich Chinese businessman, a man with no education, no breeding, no manners.”

“This is such a beautiful collection,” Ava said. “It does speak well of its owners.”

May Ling exhaled and then seemed to struggle to catch her breath. “Except — many of these paintings are fakes.”

Ava turned to look at Uncle. His face was impassive.

“Fakes?” Ava said.

“Yes, forgeries.”

Wong Changxing opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He waved an arm at the paintings. “Fakes!” he finally yelled, his arm rotating like a windmill, his eyes squeezed shut in rage.

“Can we go somewhere to sit and talk?” Uncle said.

May Ling looped her arm through Wong Changxing’s. “Calm,” she said.

They walked through the living quarters and entered a kitchen. It was a Chinese kitchen that could have been found in a hundred million homes: a small round table with four chairs, a standard fridge and oven, and on the counter a rice cooker and hot water Thermos.

“Your guests?” Ava asked.

“They’ll sing and drink for another four hours,” May Ling said.

“What happened with the paintings?” Uncle asked.

Wong Changxing banged his fist on the table.

“Calm,” May Ling said again to her husband, resting her hand on his arm. She turned to Uncle and Ava. “It began when I bought the first one. I was ignorant about how to proceed, so I went to the art dealer in Hong Kong who helped us acquire our ceramics — they are genuine, by the way. I talked to him about the Fauvists and asked him to find me one. He called me in two months, saying he had located the Derain in a private collection in Switzerland and that it was ours if we wanted to pay the price. I did. When it got here, we loved it and we decided to buy more. I commissioned the dealer to do exactly that.”

“
We
commissioned,” Wong Changxing said.

“Yes, sorry, we did make the decision together. His name — the dealer — was Kwong Kan and his gallery was near Lan Kwai Fong. We told him to call us whenever a Fauvist painting came on the market. Over the following years we bought the twenty you just saw. Braque. Dufy. Matisse. More Derain. Vlaminck. And the Monet, which cost fifteen million dollars. Then two years ago our dealer died — cancer — and we took a break.

“Our collection was already impressive and, more important, we loved it. My husband started every day with tea, hot and dry noodles, and time alone in the room with the paintings. But he was never really comfortable with the Monet
Water Lilies
because it was clearly Impressionist. About six weeks ago we decided to sell it. We had no idea how to go about this, so I called Harrington’s auction house in Hong Kong and told them what we wanted to do. They sent an appraiser here to look at it.”

“A tall
gweilo
with no manners and bad teeth,” Wong Changxing said.

“He was just doing his job,” May Ling said. “He spent more than two hours with the painting and then he spent another two hours on his laptop. When he was finished, he told us he thought the Monet was a fake.”

“How did he know?” Uncle asked.

“There was no record of it. It had never been catalogued anywhere. And when he checked the provenance, it was fictitious,” she said.

“Do you understand this?” Uncle said to Ava.

“Some of it.”

“What did you do?” Uncle asked May Ling.

“I asked him to look at our other paintings.”

“He did?”

“He spent close to a week here. I never knew just how much detail they go into, and how much detail is available.”

“What was the outcome?”

“He was certain that ten other paintings were fakes, three were probably genuine, and the rest were problematic.”

“What did you do?”

“We gave him a cheque for eighty thousand Hong Kong dollars and asked him not to say anything to anyone until we had a chance to investigate.”

“He agreed?”

“He did, and so far he has kept his word.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“We apparently have seventeen fake paintings that cost us more than eighty million U.S. dollars,” she said.

“And a dealer who is dead,” Ava added.

“And whose shop was closed when he died and whose records were destroyed by his family. I spoke to Kwong’s brother last week, and he told me he didn’t see the point of keeping all that paperwork when there was no more business.”

“What do you want us to do?” Uncle asked, the difficulty implied.

“Find the people who cheated us,” Wong said.

Uncle glanced at Ava. “Wong Changxing, you must understand how complicated this could be.”

“Find them.”

“Find who? The dealer is dead.”

“He wasn’t smart enough to do this on his own. He had help. He worked with someone who knew his stuff, someone who orchestrated this.”

May Ling said, “Actually, he may not have known they were fakes either. Looking back, we made a mistake going to him. He was an expert in ceramics, not paintings. We — I just assumed he would apply the same degree of due diligence. Now it is obvious that he didn’t.”

“Who did you pay?” Ava asked.

“His company, but that means nothing.”

“There are a lot of paintings. What if he was dealing with a lot of people?” Ava said.

“Then find them all,” Wong said.

“Let’s suppose I do, then what? How do I get your money back? They sold to the dealer and he sold to you.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“What are you saying?” Ava asked.

Wong stared at Uncle. “You can make them pay in some other way.”

“I’m an accountant,” Ava said carefully. “My job is to find and recover funds that have been stolen. I’m not in the revenge business.”

“I have heard that, from time to time, you employ unconventional methods,” said May Ling.

“Not with any pleasure, only when necessary, and always as a means to an end, not as the end itself.”

Wong turned to Uncle. “Is this your view?”

“Ava and I need to talk,” Uncle said.

“We’ll wait,” Wong said.

“No, this is a very complicated business and it could take some time. And I have to tell you, I am not sure it is right for us.”

“You are our best hope,” May Ling said.

“We do not perform miracles,” Uncle said, standing up. “So, if you will forgive me, we will go to our rooms and let you return to your guests. We can meet again in the morning.”

Ava saw that Uncle’s remarks did not sit well with Wong, but before he could speak, Uncle was already halfway out of the kitchen. She followed, feeling two sets of eyes boring into her back.

“Could you find the person — the people who did this?” Uncle asked when they were in the elevator.

“Maybe. But it’s messy, old.”

“Did Wong’s request for retribution bother you as much as it seemed to?”

“Yes.”

“He is no different than many of our other clients. They all feel the same; they just can’t bring themselves to say it.”

“Is that why he brought us here? Because he thinks that’s what we do?”

“He probably had nowhere else to turn,” Uncle said, sidestepping her question.

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and they stepped out into the hallway. “Do we really need to talk about this anymore?” Ava said.

“No. I will tell them in the morning that we have to turn down their project.”

“He’s a very powerful man. It isn’t my intention to cause him offence.”

Uncle shrugged. “Even powerful men need to be reminded now and again that there are things in this world they cannot control or command.”

( 6 )

Ava crawled into bed and lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She found herself thinking about Michael Lee, and fell asleep with her mind full of brothers and sisters she had never met.

She woke with a start, a ripple of fear running through her belly.

“I’m sorry to come into your room like this, but I knocked and you didn’t answer,” May Ling said. She was standing about six feet from the bed.

“My God.” Ava sat up. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Uncle said we’d talk in the morning.”

“No, I want to talk to
you
. I don’t want the men involved.”

“I’m not sure —”

“It will take five minutes,” May Ling said. “You’ve come all this way; give me five minutes.”

Ava turned on the bedside lamp. May Ling had changed from the Chanel suit into black silk pyjamas. Ava looked at the clock on the nightstand; it was almost four a.m. She sat up, ready to move to a chair, but May Ling walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

In the glare of the lamp, Ava could see faint worry lines on her face. “Your husband?”

“He drank so much with the guests that he could barely get his clothes off before he passed out.”

“What do you want?” Ava said.

“Are you always this direct?”

“I try to be.”

“Good, me too. It saves time.”

“So, what do you want?”

“You’re going to turn us down, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. My husband was foolish to talk about revenge. It was disrespectful to you. But this affair has affected him in a way that I can scarcely believe.”

“Such anger is common.”

“No, no, this goes well beyond anger. I don’t know where to begin . . . You know — I’m sure you know — he comes from very humble roots. He has virtually no formal education, his reading and writing skills are basic, and when it comes to the financial complications of our business, well, he is strictly a micromanager.”

“Leaving the macroeconomics to you?”

“We are a team.”

“You weren’t always.”

“No, he started without me and he did very well. He worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, building a distribution business. It wasn’t big but it brought him in contact with a wide range of people, and he had a talent for making clients like him and trust him. And because he never betrayed a trust, because his word was better than any contract, he became someone who people went to when they wanted to broker a deal but didn’t want to be directly implicated.”

“Like the military?”

“Yes, and Customs, and provincial government officials, and city officials. All of them used him, and they still do.”

“The Emperor of Hubei.”

“Yes, he is in many ways the line connecting all the dots.”

“So what does it matter if he bought some fake paintings? No one will think any less of him.”

“First of all, I am the one who bought them. I did it with his knowledge and approval, but I am the one who hired the dealer, negotiated the terms, and convinced him they were a good investment.”

“I see.”

“But they were his paintings, you can be certain of that. He was a bit embarrassed at the beginning, the idea of someone like him collecting fine art and specializing in something as abstract as the Fauvists. He never talked about it with our Chinese friends.”

“What about the ceramics?”

“Those? That’s what every successful Chinese businessman or official buys. Old Chinese plates, paintings, sculptures. Those people who were here last night, they all have houses full of them. No, the paintings were different. He was the one who first saw them, and he was the one who — on his own — fell in love with them. They symbolized in his mind what he had become: a man of taste, of culture, a worldly man. They gave him a sense of self-worth that money alone could never do. And let me tell you, others began to look upon him in that way as well. I can’t begin to guess how many Western diplomats, politicians, and businessmen have been to our house. Every visit starts the same: they expect us to ply them with liquor and food and then — their idea of our culture — sing karaoke with them. Well, we are always good hosts when it comes to food and liquor, but karaoke is for the Japanese and Chinese visitors. Instead we would take the Westerners upstairs to see our collection. Their reaction was always the same: they would be dumbfounded, and then impressed. And whatever opinion they had of my husband would never be the same again. What he especially liked was that many of these people stayed in touch with him because of the art, not the business.”

“I think I understand a bit better,” Ava said.

“A bit?”

“Yes.”

May’s eyes became more focused. “That’s such a little word. I would have thought my husband’s pain would be clearer to you.”