Hour of the Rat (38 page)

“Sidney, can I ask you a question?”

He smiles. “Of course! You can ask me anything you like.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just frowns.

So I plunge ahead. “I mean, you went to a lot of trouble. And I really appreciate it. But … it was … kind of extreme.”

He leans back in his chair. Sips his port. He seems truly puzzled. “For the art, of course.”

“F
OR A FEW YEARS
now, I collect art,” he explains as we walk down another overdressed hallway. “First I buy old Chinese painting and calligraphy. Tang Ying. Shen Zhou. Qi Baishi. Because this is my culture, and I like this work. Then European. Vermeer. Goya. The impressionists. I have Monet, I have Cézanne. Very beautiful. I like them very much.”

We’ve come to what looks like an elevator, with shiny brass doors. Sidney pushes the button.

“Then I think I should buy more modern things. Picasso. Warhol. Jackson Pollock. Other works of this nature. Maybe I
don’t understand as well, but I know they are important to the development of artistic tradition.”

The doors slide open. Sidney gestures for me to enter and follows me inside.

“And then I hear more and more about new Chinese artists,” he continues as the doors close. “Many becoming famous. Work selling for big money. But mostly foreigners buy this work.” He pushes the
DOWN
button. “I decide since I am Chinese I must support my countrymen and keep some of this art inside China. Because, you know, in the past, foreigners take art out of China all the time. They are like robbers.”

I know enough about this stuff now to know that a lot of foreigners
were
robbers, pretty much. I mean, you can’t live in Beijing for more than a week without hearing how the “Anglo-French forces” looted and burned the old Summer Palace. But there’s also the part where, during the Cultural Revolution, Red Guards smashed the “Four Olds” of traditional Chinese culture, which included a lot of art. And how some contemporary Chinese artists are getting rich while others are hassled and censored, even arrested.

But, I’m thinking, not the time to get into that whole discussion, right?

The elevator opens onto a short hall, which compared to everything else in this place is pretty plain: white walls, painted concrete, I think. Soft lighting, grey carpet. No windows. We might be belowground. I can hear the hum of circulating air.

“This just temporary,” Sidney says.

At the end of the hall are two Plexiglas doors. Sidney opens one and gestures politely for me to enter.

As I do, the lights come up.

White walls. Paintings. Sculptures and smaller pieces in center exhibits.

A gallery space.

“Wow,” I say.

“Do you like?” Sidney asks. He sounds almost anxious.

“I …” I take a few steps in. It’s huge. I can see another gallery beyond this one.

Not a gallery. This is a fucking museum.

“It’s amazing.” And I mean it.

This first gallery is the traditional Chinese art he talked about. Landscape scrolls. Porcelain vases. Horse statuettes. Calligraphy. The next, Renaissance and neoclassical European. After that the Impressionists, then into the moderns. All the artists whose names he rattled off, he’s got their stuff hanging on the wall.

He’s even got a Warhol Mao.

Finally, the last gallery: contemporary Chinese art.

Yue Minjun. Ai Weiwei. Fang Lijun. Zhang Xiaogang.

I can’t begin to add up what this collection is worth. I don’t know enough to even start. But I do know that what this guy has in his basement is better than most museums in China. Maybe most museums in the world.

From behind me Sidney says softly “So, you can see why I must have work by Zhang Jianli.”

By Lao Zhang.

“T
HIS CIGAR IS FROM
Cuba! You can try it. With this rum, very good.”

“I, uh … sure. Thanks.”

We’re back in the library, or study, or whatever this room with the giant dead deer head on the wall is supposed to be. Vicky Huang has joined us. She’s not sampling the cigar, but she just knocked back a shot of Cuban rum like a pro.

I think about all that wine we left on the table. I bet someone on the kitchen staff is having a nice night.

I’m still trying to take it in, that this guy had me followed all around China and even killed people so he could buy art that he likes. Or is obsessed with. It’s kind of hard to tell.

I guess if you’ve got this much money, so much that you’ve built an entire fucking city that no one lives in, hey, why not?

“So,” Vicky Huang says, getting out her iPad, “now we can arrange for private viewing of Zhang Jianli artwork.”

“To complete the collection,” Sidney says, clasping his hands.

How can I explain the situation? “No” doesn’t seem to be a word in either of these guys’ vocabularies.

Instead I stall.

“It’s an amazing collection. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in somebody’s house, I mean.”

Sydney smiles proudly. Sips his rum. “I think maybe it is my life work,” he says.

Yeah, I think. A life’s work in an empty city that no one will see.

“And I really want to … you know, support that. So as soon as I can sell you some work, I promise you’re first on the list.”

Both of them stare at me, their expressions frozen, Sidney’s in midsmile. The skin prickles between my shoulders.

I’m remembering that this guy has people killed.

I make a command decision.

“I could … uh, donate a piece.”

Sidney frowns. “Donate? You mean give?”

“Yeah. You know, for the collection. Since it’s your life’s work.”

“You cannot
give
!” Vicky Huang hisses, outraged, half rising from her chair. “Then it is worth nothing!”

Fuck. Apparently
giving
something to Sidney Cao is, like, some kind of face-stealing sneak attack.

“Well, no, it’s still worth something, it’s … you know, like, a deduction.”

“A deduction?” Sidney asks, looking confused.

Wait, that’s not right, I think. It would be a deduction for
me
, or for our foundation or something. Maybe.

“Well, I mean …”

I struggle to think. But even though I really tried not to have too much of the wine and the port and the rum, I’m either plastered or so fucking wasted from everything that’s happened that my thoughts are going all over the place.

“So what happens with this collection when you die?” I blurt. “I mean
qu tai
.” Which is a nicer way of saying that.

Sidney leans back in his chair. Sips his rum. “I leave to my children. I have three,” he confesses. “I can afford this.”

Yeah, if anybody can afford to dodge China’s one-child policy, it would be Sidney Cao.

“How do you know they’ll keep it together? The collection, I mean.”

“If I tell them to, they will,” he huffs.

“But … how do you
know?
I mean, they could totally decide to sell off pieces of it after you’re gone.”

Sidney’s eyes narrow. “Of course I can make this a condition of their inheritance,” he says, and he sounds pretty pissed off.

It’s another one of those times when I feel like I really stepped in it.

What can I say? There’s got to be something. Think, I tell myself. Fucking
think
. Dude built a giant mall that looks like a pyramid. Or ziggurat. Whatever. In the middle of wherever we are, in some place that no one cares about.

I’m flailing around, and what I finally grab onto is this: “But … if this is your life’s work, don’t you want other people to maybe … you know,
see
it?”

Sidney seems to think about this. Puffs on his Cuban cigar. “Yes,” he finally says. “My plan is someday build a proper museum. For the future, when Xingfu Cun is established as a business and cultural center for this region.”

Weirder-ass shit has happened, I guess.

“Okay,” I say, “so then it makes sense for you to … uh, create that museum plan now. As a nonprofit. And we can donate a Zhang Jianli piece to, to help support that. It will be a way to … to teach people about art. And to appreciate your life’s work. For the future.”

There’s this silence that’s as heavy as if someone tossed a boulder into the room.

Sidney takes another puff on his cigar. Sips his rum.

“Very interesting idea,” he says.

A
FTER SPENDING THE NIGHT
in a bedroom that’s bigger than my entire apartment, where almost everything in it is white—white carpets, white walls, white furniture, and a white baby grand piano (and I have to say, it’s better than another bedroom suite I passed, which looked like a Disney-princess store exploded inside it)—I turn down Sidney’s offer to stay and relax a few days in beautiful Xingfu Cun. “Many fun things to do!” he tells me over breakfast. We’re back in the dining room, where a buffet’s been laid out featuring a Chinese breakfast, an omelet station, fruit, pastries, and, for some reason, pizza. “We can ride horses or play golf. And of course we have karaoke and, if you like, paintball.”

Karaoke or paintball, with Sidney Cao—I’m not sure which prospect creeps me out more.

“Thanks, Sidney, that’s very … you know, sounds like fun. But I still have some … some business I need to deal with.”

He looks disappointed. I don’t know, maybe he’s bored here and I’m a distraction. Or he just likes showing off all his stuff.

“Of course, of course,” he says.

T
HEY
’
LL FLY ME WHEREVER
I need to go, he tells me. At this point I’m not really sure where that is. I don’t even know where I am, actually.

I could go back to Beijing. We’ve arranged to meet there in a week, Sidney and Vicky and me, after I’ve had a chance to talk to Harrison about the agreement I made. He may not like it, but I figure if no money’s changing hands, at least we won’t get ourselves any deeper in shit with the government.

“And as soon as we get our … our new business license taken care of, if there’s other work you’re interested in buying …”

Even as I say that, I kind of shudder inside. I mean, what would Lao Zhang think, about this guy buying up all his art and stashing it in his basement?

Sidney picks up his croissant with his chopsticks, takes a bite. “If you have any problems with the license, just let me know. We can help with that.”

Which is another thing I need to talk to Harrison about.

“How about Shanghai?” I say.

S
IDNEY HIMSELF DRIVES ME
to the airport, in his Lamborghini.

“You like this kind of car?”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s … very fast.”

I’m plastered against the seat. The engine sounds like a cloud of hornets on steroids, and we’re going so fast that I’m really glad there aren’t any other cars on the road.

By the time we get to the airport, I’m drenched in sweat.

The jet waits for us on the tarmac.

“See you in Beijing.” Sidney clasps my hand at the foot of the boarding ramp. “But please come and visit again soon.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll do that. And, uh … thanks, for …”

How to put it? “Picking me up. And everything.”

“My pleasure.”

W
HEN THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT
leads me to my seat, I see my duffel bag, rescued from the Guiyang hotel, sitting on the couch across the aisle.

I
N
S
HANGHAI
I
CHECK
into this crazy old hotel, the Astor House, built in the nineteenth century, on the north end of the Bund. I’ve stayed here before, and I like it because it’s actually not very expensive and the wood floors are so old that they’re slightly sunken from a century and a half of footsteps.

I don’t know that many people in Shanghai. My main connection here is Lucy Wu, and she’s in Hong Kong. Or who knows, maybe Vancouver. But Shanghai is a big rail hub and air hub. I can get just about anywhere from here pretty easily. And there are so many foreigners that no one is going to notice me.

I was guessing Xingfu Cun is maybe in Anhui, since that’s where Sidney’s company was based originally. Wherever it is, it’s a short flight to Shanghai. We left Sidney’s mansion at 11:00
A
.
M
., and I’m already settled in my hotel room at just past 2:00
P
.
M
.

There are things I need to do. Things I need to figure out.

I start by calling my mom.

“Oh, hi, hon! Where are you?”

“Shanghai. I’m … uh, finishing up some business.”

“Just so you know, the toilet’s all fixed now, and everything else is fine. Andy says he knows someone who can work on the ceiling in the guest room. You know the plaster’s falling down?”

“Yeah.” I hesitate. “So … uh, did my friend John bring a dog over?”

“He did! She’s so sweet! He said you found her on the road?”

“Something like that.”

“You know, he really is nice. I think he really likes you.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But the dog, the dog’s okay?”

“She’s fine. I’m giving her the antibiotics like I’m supposed to. And John recommended a vet here to check on the wound, so we’re doing that. I’m taking her in tomorrow.”