The Scratch on the Ming Vase (5 page)

Chapter Ten

“No,” said T'ai, “I'm not kidding.” He handed Nicki her bag. “He's a member of the Chinese royal family. What's left of it.”

“But I thought Pu Yi, the boy emperor, had no children.”

“He didn't. But he had plenty of nieces and nephews,” T'ai explained.

“When the Manchu dynasty was overthrown in 1911, the family members were tossed out like garbage onto the streets,” added Lila.

“Not quite, although it was a frightening time for the remnants of the Manchu imperial family,” said T'ai. “My uncle has always wanted to return to his homeland and try to help some of his cousins, but—”

“He'd be thrown in prison as a traitor,” said Lila.

Nicki nodded.

“Now I get it.”

“What do you get?” asked Lila.

“I think I have something that might lead to your uncle.”

“Here we are,” said T'ai, holding the door for Nicki so she could carry her duffel bag with two hands.

The university cafeteria was packed with students and faculty members.

“You wouldn't think it would be so crowded this time of year,” she said.

“Summer students trying to get in a few extra courses,” said T'ai. “I'm taking one at night so I can help Lila during the day.” He smiled. “We've got to convince the tourists that they need a trinket from Chinatown.”

“I doubt your grandmother needs much help in that department.”

“Right,” said T'ai, directing her to a seat near the windows.

“Have you always stayed with your grandmother?” asked Nicki, wondering where T'ai's parents were and why he didn't live with them.

“I have for a few years,” he said.

“What about your parents?”

“They're in Vancouver now. We don't get along too well.”

“I'm sorry,” Nicki said.
At least you know where they are
, she thought.

“What about you?” asked T'ai. “Are your parents—”

She cut him off immediately. “Are you sure this Dr. Byron knows where to meet us?”

“I called him last night after you left. We've met here before.” T'ai removed his jacket, and Nicki placed her bag gently on the floor beside her feet. “He's a nice guy, for a professor. He's taken Mac and me out for lunch several times.”

“And he's an expert in Chinese history?”

“He's a visiting professor. Sort of a research fellow, I guess, because he doesn't teach any courses. But that's his field all right.”

“And you told him about the Ming?”

“I said a friend of mine had a vase and wanted to know its history. I said nothing about David Kahana.”

Nicki looked around the cafeteria. “Good.”

“Can I get you something?” asked T'ai.

“No, thanks.” Nicki picked up a napkin and starting tearing little pieces from the edge.

“Nervous?”

“I guess.”

“You don't have to work today?” he asked.

“No, tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday? That's too bad.” T'ai saw Byron from across the room. He stood up and waved to him. “Here he comes.”

Nicki watched him weave his way through groups of people carrying trays of food and armloads of books.

“Dr. Peter Byron,” said T'ai, “this is Fu Yin.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Nicki, extending her hand. “Thanks for agreeing to help us.”

“I'm happy to do what I can,” the professor replied.

“It's really very beautiful,” said Nicki, pointing to her duffel bag.

“We can't look at it here,” said Byron. “Too many students with nothing better to do than gape.”

“How about your office?” asked Nicki.

“No, that's no good.”

Why can't we go to his office?
she wondered.

“Let me think,” said Byron, placing an index finger on his chin. “There's got to be some quiet place nearby.”

“Let's go to Mac's room,” suggested T'ai. He turned to Nicki. “He lives here in residence.”

“Good,” said Byron, and the three of them headed across campus.

The door to Mac's room swung open when T'ai knocked. His friend was nowhere in sight.

“He must have a class. The guy never rests.” T'ai closed the door behind the other two. “He won't mind if we come in.”

Nicki removed several layers of bubble wrap from the vase.

Peter Byron was more interested in Mac's room and everything in it.

“Takes me back,” he said. Then he opened a desk drawer. “Can I borrow a pen?” he asked. “I want to take some notes, then I can check my sources for information about your bowl.”

“Vase.”

Nicki watched his eyes skim back and forth across the desk drawer, as if he was searching for something. Finally, he picked up a pen. Then he looked for paper, but instead of going for blank sheets from an open package, he riffled through typed pages sitting in a pile next to Mac's printer.

“Here it is.” Nicki handed the vase to Byron.

“Yes, that's a Ming all right,” he said, then gave it to T'ai.

That's it? That's all you're going to say?
“Can you tell me anything about it?” asked Nicki.

“What year would this have been fired?” T'ai gently turned the vase around. “Can you determine the age from the dragon design?” T'ai looked at the bottom. “I guess it would have been made in 1600 or so.”

“Yes, yes,” said Byron, “you're probably right.”

Nicki watched his gaze shift back and forth between the vase and every book, file, and disk on Mac's desk.

What's this guy's problem?

“How do you know that the vase isn't from the Tang dynasty? Since that came immediately before the Ming period—wouldn't it be difficult to tell?”

T'ai went to correct her, but Nicki gestured him not to speak.

“Well, you can't be sure, of course. It could be a Tang vase.” He scratched down something on the paper, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and went to put the pen back into the desk drawer, but dropped it.

“I'll get that,” said T'ai, bending over to pick it up.

Byron's hand moved fast, but Nicki was sure he stuck something on the underside of the drawer.

Did he just plant a bug?

“I'll consult some of my colleagues and see what I can find out,” he said. “But really, I think you'd better take this to an expert in ceramics. Maybe somebody at the Royal Ontario Museum.”

“Yes,” said Nicki, “the ROM has had exhibits of Chinese porcelain in the past. That's a good idea.”

As she began to wrap the vase, Mac entered the room.

“What's going on?” His face turned bright red, and he stormed over to T'ai. “What! You think you can bust in here without even asking me?”

“But, the door was—”

“I don't care. Get out of here.”

Nicki and Byron shuffled out to the hall.

“Mac, you always said I could—” T'ai stopped. “Your forehead. It's bruised.” He moved closer. “What happened, Mac?”

“Forget about it.”

He slammed the door in T'ai's face.

T'ai hollered through the crack.

“Mac, I'm sorry. Really. You said I could come here anytime.”

There was no reply.

T'ai slapped his hand on the door several times, but Mac didn't open it. “Mac, are you coming to the dance tonight?”

Still nothing.

“Dance?” asked Nicki. “You mean that disco—retro—whatever dance?”

“Yeah, that's it.” He leaned against the wall. “I haven't exactly been in the mood for fun lately, but it might get my mind off things for a while. Why don't you come?” He raised his voice. “I'll be back for you later, Mac.”

Nicki looked at Byron. He was listening to every word they said. Then his cell phone rang.

“Gotta take this,” he said. “Sorry I wasn't much help.” He turned his back to them and moved aside to talk to his caller. He took a small pad out of one pocket and a pen out of the other.

Nicki watched him write something down and underline i
t.

He had a pen all along.

Chapter Eleven

“Okay, so you're right. There's no way that Byron is a professor of Chinese history,” said T'ai. “But how did you know he'd get tripped up on dynasties like that?”

“Just a hunch,” she said.

“A hunch? Come on.”

“He seemed distracted.”

“That's true,” said T'ai.

“How long has Dr. Byron been taking you and Mac out for lunch?” Nicki asked.

“I don't know, a month maybe.”

“You mentioned last night that Mac hasn't been himself lately. How long has that been going on?”

T'ai thought for a second.

“I get your point. But why?”

“I'm not sure.” Nicki kept her duffel bag planted firmly on her lap during the subway ride. When it was time to exit near the ROM, she and T'ai waited for everyone else to push through the doors first and then made their way off the train.

A museum administrator gave them permission to speak with an expert in Chinese porcelain. They found Dr. Wong on the second floor putting together an exhibit of ceramic dishes from Northern China.

“Hello, sir,” said T'ai. “We were wondering if you could spare a few minutes.”

“Certainly.” He removed the gloves he'd been using to handle the pieces and invited the two of them to sit down at his workbench.

Nicki placed her bag in front of Dr. Wong.

“So, what do we have here?”

“A Ming vase,” said Nicki.

Dr. Wong looked over the top of his glasses at her.

“She's not kidding, sir.” T'ai lifted out the vase and removed the wrap.

Dr. Wong said nothing. He turned the vase around several times, felt the thickness of the walls, and examined the bottom. He held it up to the light, then gently ran his finger along the rim.

“Excuse me a minute,” he said, while he went to get a magnifying glass.

T'ai looked at Nicki and raised his eyebrows.

She shrugged her shoulders.

When the expert returned, T'ai had questions.

“How old is this vase? Do you think it was made at the imperial factory at Ching-te-Chen?”

“It is true that the finest pieces came out of the factories of that great porcelain town,” agreed Dr. Wong, continuing his inspection with the magnifying glass. “Everything they needed was right there in the hills—the kaolin clay, the materials for glazes, the cobalt—everything.”

Nicki spoke up. “I researched these markings on the bottom, and I think they are a signature. My book said this is the six-character mark of Wan Li.”

Dr. Wong smiled and nodded.

Then she made a remark about the design on the vase, and Dr. Wong continued.

“Yes, the five-clawed dragon is wonderful, isn't it?”

“Is this a valuable vase?” asked T'ai. “I read on the Internet that one like it sold at auction for almost seven million dollars.”

“I don't doubt it,” said Dr. Wong. “You don't often see an underglaze of this color.” He pointed to the deep red background. “Copper red was a very difficult shade to fire. The temperature had to be exactly right, or it would turn black. And in those days, they didn't have electric kilns, of course.

“A piece like this,” he continued, “would have been created for the royal family—for the emperor.”

Nicki and T'ai exchanged quick glances.

“And would this piece have been passed from the Ming emperor to the emperor of the Qing/Manchu dynasty?” she asked. “In other words, would it have been in the royal household during the time of Manchu rule?”

“Possibly. And if it were, it would be worth far more than seven million dollars. In fact,” said Dr. Wong, “it would be priceless.”

“What do you mean it
would
be priceless?” asked Nicki.

“This vase would be one of a kind,” he said. Then he looked over the top of his glasses again. “If it were genuine.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, this one is not. I'm sorry.”

Nicki's heart sank.

“Are you sure?” asked T'ai.

“Positive,” said Dr. Wong. “Oh, it's a very good replica—in fact, I'd say it's one of the best I've seen. Probably fired in 1920 or thereabouts, to serve as a duplicate of the one that belonged to the emperor.”

“Are there many of these duplicates around?” asked Nicki.

“Just a minute,” said Dr. Wong. He left the room and returned with a folio containing information about historic vases.

He leafed through quickly until he found what he was after.

“Yes, of course.” he said. “This red underglaze with the five-clawed dragon design did belong to the Chinese imperial family. It was stolen from them before the overthrow of the Qing dynasty.”

He pushed the folio across the table.

“Historians believe it may have ended up in Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?” said T'ai.

Nicki nudged his leg.

“Yes,” replied Dr. Wong. “Honolulu's Chinatown played a crucial role in the birth of modern China. Sun Yat-sen, the revolutionary who put an end to the ruling monarchy, was born in Zhongshan but was educated in Hawaii.”

“I've, uh…I've heard that there's a bronze statue of him in Honolulu,” said Nicki.

“But not everyone wanted to see the end of the Manchu regime, and there is speculation that the vase was offered to anyone who could do away with Dr. Sun.” Dr. Wong looked at the folio again. “You asked me about the number of duplicates that are in circulation.” He thought for a minute. “This might be the only one. Whoever made it would have needed the original to copy from.”

“How do you know this one is fake?” asked T'ai.

“When examining Chinese pottery and porcelain from this period,” he continued, “you always begin with a question.”

“What question?” asked Nicki.

“Where is the scratch on the Ming vase?” Dr. Wong smiled at his younger companions. “You see, the Chinese craftsmen were wonderful, the best in the world, and they took their work very seriously. And they knew that for a work of art to be truly beautiful, in the deepest sense, it had to contain a flaw. So, after the artist had created the most magnificent piece he could, he would add a tiny scratch, or a “wrong” spot of paint. Anything small just to make sure it was not perfect.”

“Because perfection is not beautiful,” said T'ai.

“Right,” said Dr. Wong. “Perfection is lifeless,” he added, as he left the room to replace the folio.

“Hawaii!” T'ai whispered to Nicki.

“I know, I know,” she replied. “It looks like David Kahana brought the vase all right— the real one—to return to your uncle and his family. But where is it now?”

“And where is he?”