Collectibles, page 23
“Makes him angry.”
“Ah. Anger makes hot. Good picture.”
“But now,” Tomorbaatar said, “he’s found something he thinks will work.”
“Work to make you go back?”
“Exactly. A copy of The Secret History is going to be auctioned at Sotheby’s. A very important copy. It’s ancient and written in Mongolian.”
“This is history of Mongol people. Of course written in Mongolian.”
“You’d think so, but no. The original was, and the copies made from it for the Khan’s family. But those have been lost. The earliest existing copies are in Chinese. They’ve been translated back, of course, centuries ago, but we don’t have any of the originals.”
“Auction one is original?”
He shook his head. “It’s supposed to be one of them, but I don’t think so. The provenance is murky and—”
I said, “What part of book is provenance?”
An-Zhang spoke. “Ma, ‘provenance’ means the history of the book’s ownership. What Tom means is, the owner claims this copy can be traced back at least a century and shown to be much older than that, but Tom thinks the trail is as phony as the book.”
“Yes, I do,” said Tomorbaatar. “But my boss wants it. For Mongolia. He acknowledges it might be a fake, but in case it’s real, as the owner claims, Mongolia can’t let it go to someone else.”
“Wants you go to auction, buy? But you feel bad, know not real?”
“Worse. Mongolia’s policy is not to buy items of cultural heritage. We feel it’s insulting to have to pay to get back what’s ours. He wants me to ‘find a way to get it.’ ”
“Hmm. Doesn’t mean steal, I think. So find way mean, ask rich friends buy.”
“Yes. To prove my friends are useful.”
“Ah. If friends don’t buy, not useful. Then who cares, you look good in tuxedo? He send you back.”
“Exactly. But how can I ask someone to pay a lot of money for something I’m pretty sure is a fake?”
“No how.” I looked at Tomorbaatar, then at my son. “I agree, can’t ask. But if don’t ask, boss sends back. So you come to me. For why?”
“Well, Ma,” said An-Zhang, “we said advice, but it’s more than advice.”
“Know this already. Please tell, what you want me do.”
“You know we want you to do something?”
“Of course, know. No advice help in this trouble. Only someone do something. You want I be someone. Yes, good. What you want me do?”
Tomorbaatar smiled his widest yet. “Andy, you were right. She’s a total gem.”
I have never seen a partial gem but this might have been a Mongolian saying. Perhaps it had something to do with the Chinese mines in his country, so I didn’t ask his meaning.
“The thing is, Ma,” An-Zhang said, “it’s the owner of the book. It’s Uncle Seven.”
∗ ∗ ∗
After the young men left I resumed work on the dress I was sewing for my youngest granddaughter. I can think best when my hands are busy.
Uncle Seven. The youngest of seven sons of the Yan family, named by his parents Yan Yi-Lun. We had known each other decades ago in Hong Kong. Yi-Lun worked in one restaurant, my husband in another, while we all tried to save for passage to America.
Even in Hong Kong, when we were all poor, Yi-Lun had been a collector of things. He would visit dusty shops, buying a clay horse or a brush painting or a pot that had sat on a shelf for years. Bearing each in quiet triumph to his room, he would clean it minutely. He would sit drinking tea, admiring the new treasure on the shelf where he’d set it. He’d invite his friends for tea, also, to do the same. More than once I went, with my husband. The room was tiny, as all our rooms were, but in Yi-Lun’s case it had almost nothing in it. All Yi-Lun’s clothing lay folded in a box alongside his single rice bowl. He used a Japanese-style futon, which he rolled up. His treasures sat carefully spaced on shelves. His friends exclaimed over the peaceful elegance of his room compared to the jumbled disorder of ours. We determined to emulate him but the resolve never lasted. In his case, however, the sparseness of his room was as much the result of his desire to properly display his treasures as of the poverty we all shared.
Stalking a treasure, Yi-Lun was infinitely patient. He would visit a shop many times that had so far yielded nothing. Over endless cups of tea he would negotiate with a proprietor whose price he considered high. He was satisfied when he could carry an acquisition home, disappointed but undaunted when he lost a prize. He kept track of the disposition of items he had not been able to obtain. More than once he was successful, a long time later, in securing a treasure that had for some reason returned to the market.
In all this time Yi-Lun also worked diligently at his job. He was not an inspired chef, as my husband even then was becoming, but he brought the same doggedness to his work as he did to his pursuit of a treasure.
One day, Yi-Lun’s employer announced his decision to emigrate to New York. He intended to open a restaurant in the Chinatown of Manhattan. He didn’t offer passage, but promised his kitchen staff he would hire any of them who came to him there. That night, in his tiny room, Yi-Lun said goodbye to his treasures. The next day he sold them all. Thus Yi-Lun, alone among the restaurant’s chefs, traveled to New York with his employer. He was on the new restaurant’s staff on opening day. That restaurant, a success from the start, spawned a chain of six more. Yi-Lun advanced from underchef to assistant chef, then out of the kitchen into the office to be manager of the chain. One of his responsibilities was overseeing banquets from beginning to end. During the planning for a wedding banquet he met the older sister of the bride-to-be. He courted her patiently until she accepted him.
In the course of things Yi-Lun’s employer died. With his father-in-law’s help Yi-Lun bought the restaurant chain from the widow, who was willing to sell all seven of the restaurants but not their name. Yi-Lun renamed them Uncle Seven’s, becoming, himself, Uncle Seven. As he remains.
Before he was Uncle Seven, before he left Hong Kong, he tried to persuade me to go with him.
“My prospects are bright, Yong-Yun,” he said. “I’ll be proud to look after your two sons. I’ll treasure you as you must know I already do. Come to America with me.”
This was not the first time he’d tried to convince me to abandon my husband, to tie my fortunes, instead, to his.
His arguments were powerful. With my husband, I had arrived in Hong Kong three years before. We lived in two small rooms, cooked in the hallways with other families. In addition to my husband’s work in the restaurant kitchen, I worked also, cleaning offices, yet the money mounted slowly. Life in Hong Kong was hard. In America it would be easier, especially for my sons, but that my family would be able to go to America was by no means assured. Yi-Lun’s affection for me was sincere, I knew. His prospects, as he said, were bright. I had no question in my mind that he would care for my sons as though they were his own.
But they were not. They were my husband’s. I loved my husband. We had started this journey together. Together we would remain. For yet one more time, I turned Yi-Lun down.
If I had any regrets about my decision, I had only to think of Yi-Lun’s beloved treasures, now scattered to the winds.
My family did finally come to America. Over the years, we remained on polite terms with Uncle Seven. In fact as my husband’s fame grew, I found Yi-Lun’s interest in me waning, replaced by a focus on my husband—specifically, on his talent in the kitchen. Yi-Lun tried more than once to entice my husband to join the staff at Uncle Seven’s, promising him the job of Executive Chef for the Uncle Seven’s chain. My husband’s kitchen book would raise the reputation of Uncle Seven’s from excellent to outstanding. Yi-Lun dreamed of a Michelin star.
I didn’t know what that was, nor did my husband, until Yi-Lun told us.
My husband had no such grand dreams. He enjoyed feeding his neighbors, his friends, first in the restaurant where he was employed, later in his own. He also preferred, where Yi-Lun was concerned, to keep his distance. I had never told him about Yi-Lun’s advances, but my husband was not a fool.
∗ ∗ ∗
Having filled my head with memories, I put my sewing aside. From the red kitchen telephone I made two calls. Although my daughter has given me a red case for my cell phone, I still consider it rather small to hold very much luck. For this job I felt I would need a larger amount.
My first call produced exactly the result I hoped for. That was a good omen. I spoke to a young woman at the Museum of Chinese in America. This is a place I do not understand the need for, as all it contains are photographs of the early, dirty, crowded days of Chinatown, plus old shop signs, dented tea tins, with very few porcelains, silks, or jades. The young woman, however, in passable Chinese, confirmed they could provide the service I required.
My second call also was successful. I changed my dress, fixed my hair. I even put on black shoes with small heels. I prefer to do my detective work in sneakers, but at certain times, a disguise is necessary. I have never been one to shirk my professional responsibilities.
Locking three of my six locks—today, the top three—I left for my appointments. First I brought my package to the Museum, where I met with the young man who would be handling my request. We had a brief discussion. I explained exactly what I wanted done. When he asked why, I told him it was for sentimental reasons. That actually made no sense but I’ve found it’s an explanation people respect. The young man assured me my item would be in the best of hands the entire time. I was reluctant to leave it, but as I’d considered various ways of accomplishing my goal, this had appeared best.
Then I went on to my second meeting, the one for which I had changed my outfit.
Uncle Seven received me immediately in his office above the largest of his restaurants, a banquet house on the Bowery. “Yong-Yun! You look splendid! No different from the day we met. Come in, come in.”
“Ah, Yi-Lun. Flattery still comes easily to you, I see.” I seated myself on a red velvet sofa. In Yi-Lun’s generous office, displayed even more perfectly than a previous generation had been in his tiny room in Hong Kong, a number of exquisite antiquities sat on carefully-lighted shelves. Jades, porcelains, scroll paintings—it was obvious that over the years Yi-Lun had resupplied himself with treasures to love.
I said to him, “As for yourself, you look as prosperous as I know you to be.”
Sitting beside me, he poured hot water into a delicate porcelain teapot, an item, I thought, that actually did belong in a museum. “It has been my good luck to have done well since I came here,” he said.
“Other men wait for good luck. You make yours out of bad luck, or no luck at all.”
“I try my best.” He sounded humble but his look was smug. “You’ll have tea, of course? It’s Jin Jun Mei. Emperor’s Golden Eyebrow. Have you tasted it before?”
A ridiculous question. Of course I had not. The price of half an ounce of Jin Jun Mei would feed me for a month. Even if I were a wealthy woman I doubted I would spend my fortune on tea.
Nevertheless it is extremely impolite to turn down an offer of tea when you are visiting. I’m not a person who likes to be impolite. Therefore I agreed to take a cup.
Yi-Lun also offered a plate of Smiling Faces. These sweet dough balls were among my husband’s specialties. I took two, out of courtesy. While I waited for the tea to steep I bit into one. “This is quite good,” I said.
“Not as good as your late husband’s.” Yi-Lun smiled.
“Very nearly,” I replied, though they were not.
The tea was another matter. Sweet, velvety smooth, it brought with it a faint memory of greenery as though I were breathing the mountain air near my village in China. Perhaps if I were a wealthy woman I would permit myself a cup of Jin Jun Mei on celebratory occasions, after all.
Over the first cup of tea we spoke, as I had this morning with the young men, of our families. Yi-Lun’s wife was well, his children flourishing, his grandchildren small whirlwinds. I recounted my children’s accomplishments, which fortunately I do not tire of doing. I didn’t do this in the order of their birth, reserving my third son for the end of my report. When I spoke of him Yi-Lun said, “Oh, yes, An-Zhang. I have gotten reacquainted with him, over the last year. What a charming young man. With such interesting friends.”
“Yes, An-Zhang told me of meeting you,” I replied. “You have been together at a number of cultural events, I believe.”
“Yes. I have met An-Zhang’s . . .”
“His fiancé,” I said, offering a tranquil smile.
Yi-Lun inclined his head. “Another charming young man. An-Zhang also introduced me to two other friends, one of them a Mongolian diplomat. He was sharing the evening with an American-Born Chinese friend.”
Finally, we embarked upon the second cup. It was as delicious as the first.
“Yong-Yun, I’m enjoying your company greatly, as you know I always have. I think, though, that you have not come here to reminisce, or to catch up.”
I put my cup down. “No, Uncle Seven, I have not.”
“ ‘Uncle Seven?’ This is a formal visit then?”
“It concerns the friends of my son An-Zhang.”
“Which friends?”
“The Mongolian diplomat. The American-Born Chinese.”
“I see.”
“You’re a wealthy man, Uncle Seven. You’ve risen far since our days in Hong Kong. Your restaurants enjoy an excellent reputation. I see that you continue to collect treasures, which are, as I would expect of you, quite beautiful.”
We both looked at his office shelves, he in satisfaction, me with an appreciation that was not feigned.
“I understand,” I said, “that among the items you seek out now are books. I see none here, however.”
“I rarely am interested in books. Only when one is extraordinary.”
“The Secret History of the Mongols? Is that one extraordinary?”
“Ah.” Yi-Lun smiled. “Is that why you’re here, Yong-Yun? You’ve heard about the book? Do you want to see it?”
“I want you to give it to me.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“As I said, you’re a wealthy man. You’re about to sell this book, so it cannot be as dear to your heart as some of your treasures. Whatever price this book can bring you, you do not need. However, it has another price. If you sell it at the auction, it will literally be at the cost of two young men’s happiness.”
I told the story of Tomorbaatar, his Chinese-American friend, his superior at the Consulate. “Tomorbaatar could probably raise your price,” I said. “But he’s too honorable a young man. He feels he cannot ask his friends for money to buy a book he thinks is inauthentic.”
“I disagree with that assumption.”
“Its provenance is murky. Don’t look at me that way, Yi-Lun, I’m not completely uneducated.”
He smiled. “I apologize. But Yong-Yun, of course it doesn’t have a spotless provenance. I found it in a tiny shop in a tiny town in Gansu Province. The proprietor only knew it had been on the shelf above the door since his great-grandfather’s time. No one there could read it, or even tell what language it was written in. I suspected the script was the ancient Mongolian, but I didn’t dare hope what it might be until I had it safely home.”
“You’ve had experts look at it?”
“Of course. Also, once it’s sent to the auction house, any interested buyer will be permitted to have experts examine it.”
“I’m asking you once more, Uncle Seven, not to send it to the auction house. Give it to me, to give to Tomorbaatar. If it’s real you’ll be acknowledged as a hero by the Mongolian people for making such a priceless gift. As will Tomorbaatar for receiving it. If it isn’t real you’ll save yourself embarrassment. In either case, once it’s in Tomorbaatar’s hands his happiness will be assured. That’s important to my son. Therefore it’s important to me.”
“Yong-Yun, what you ask is a very large favor. Very large.”
“Uncle Seven, I ask it in the name of our long friendship, extending back over the years to Hong Kong.”
“Ah, Hong Kong. What days those were! Of course, I asked something of you then. You turned me down.”
“Things worked out very well for you, nevertheless. Better, I think, than if I’d agreed.”
“It’s possible you’re right,” Yi-Lun said readily. “I found a wonderful bride who gave me wonderful children. Even at the time I understood your decision. I’ve never held it against you. Still, once we all came here, there was another rejection, also.”
“My husband, who would not work for you.”
“Indeed. My restaurants, as you say, are doing exceedingly well. I enjoy a high reputation. Yet you have tasted it for yourself.” He gestured at the Happy Faces. “The best from my kitchens cannot come up to your husband’s work.”
“I’m sorry if that’s been a source of discontent for you over the years,” I said. “I myself am not the cook my husband was, either.”
“Nor I. Though some on my staff could be, I believe, if they had the knowledge your husband had.”
“Few have that.”
“But you do, Yong-Yun. Written in your husband’s kitchen book.”
I sat very still.
“Come,” Yi-Lun said. “One book for another. A fair transaction, I think.”
I looked at him. I shook my head, saying slowly, “My husband carefully guarded his book. His recipes. His methods. His secrets. That book was his life’s work.”
“I know. The Mongols also carefully guarded their Secret History. We are in a position, the two of us, to add new chapters to both of these books, if you’ll indulge my flowery image.”
Yi-Lun waited.
I said nothing.
“Perhaps,” he said gently, “you’d like time to consider my offer. It will be a week before the Secret History is sent to the auction house. Unless, before that week is up . . .” He didn’t finish, but his meaning was clear.
∗ ∗ ∗
I returned home. While I cooked dinner I thought about my husband, laughing in the kitchen, making Happy Faces for our children. I thought of the happiness in my son’s face when I told him it would please me if he married Tony. Of Tomorbaatar, hoping to stay in America with his friend. Of Tomorbaatar telling my son that I was a complete gem.
