He was drawn, time and again, by the Yue ceramics that had been made during the T’ang dynasty. Some of them were celebrated for their moon-white glaze, which experts likened to snow or silver. Others were a grayish shade of green known as “celadon,” a color whose secret had died with the craftsmen working in the Gangyao kilns at Shanglinhu. To stand before a white Yue vase, with its simple lines, its smooth texture, and its calm but eerie lack of pigment, was to be taken far away from yourself. It was like looking at a blank face, and yet he always felt there was something to be learned. The emptiness seemed charged with wisdom. The director was right. He was addicted. Though created by men, the ceramics existed in a realm beyond man’s understanding. He might, if he spent long enough in contemplation, be afforded some small epiphany, but he would never fool himself into thinking it wasn’t limited or partial. There were other layers, hidden meanings. Infinite possibilities. The fact that the mystery couldn’t be exhausted was a source of comfort to him. Not everything could be known.
For almost a quarter of an hour he gazed at a white oblate pot with a subtle or veiled design, two delicate handles protruding from the neck, and when he left the museum his mind felt depthless, unencumbered. Those moments on the second floor had given him sufficient equilibrium, he felt, to last for days. As he crossed the paved area in front of the museum, a gust of wind lifted his jacket away from his body, as if to search him, and it was then that he became aware of someone standing to the west of the main entrance, under the trees. Naemi. He knew her by the darkness of her clothes, and by her air of attentiveness, as if she was listening to music she had heard before but couldn’t quite identify. He knew her by the gold of her hair, that twisted and gleaming gold—like happiness, if happiness were visible. Strange thoughts. She was just a girl he had run into in a club, a girl he had taken for a drink…
As he continued to look at her, she moved towards him slowly, haltingly, as if the distance between them was hard to negotiate, or perilous. Time spilled sideways, like a river that had burst its banks, the flow no longer linear, but vague, diffuse. It took her two minutes to close the gap from fifty feet to five, then half a second to close it to nothing. Suddenly she was up against him, and her mouth was on his mouth, even before a word was spoken, her hands under his jacket, pulling him against her, the black trees above their heads, the dull brown sky.
“I wondered how long it would take,” he murmured.
“How long what would take?” She spoke in the same low register.
“For you to find me.”
“I could have done it quicker.” Her phone rang, but she ignored it. “I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Even now, I’m not sure.”
“But you’re here.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake.” She leaned back and looked at him, her face all ivory and shadows, like the moon. She was more beautiful than he remembered.
“It doesn’t feel like a mistake,” he said.
“Where’s your car?”
“Over there.” He moved his eyes beyond her, to the row of parked cars on the south side of the square.
“Can we go somewhere?”
“Not right now. I have a dinner.”
“You can’t cancel it?”
“No. But I could meet you later.” The wind circled them, and the dark trees stirred, a sound that was like someone with a hosepipe watering a lawn. “Shall I tell you where,” he said, “or do you already know?”
She curled a strand of hair behind her ear, the faintest of smiles at one corner of her mouth.
“The bar in the Park Hyatt,” he said. “Ten o’clock.”
He didn’t kiss her again, though he wanted to. Instead, he touched the side of her face, once, gently, then turned and walked away. The calmness was still with him, the calmness of all that ancient porcelain. Only when he was in the Jaguar did he look back. She was standing where he had left her, and she was looking in his direction. She wouldn’t be able to see him, though, not through the tinted windows.
Chun Tao glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Straight to the restaurant, Mr. Zhang?”
“Yes.”
He was scheduled to meet two commodity brokers from London, and he would have to drink more wine than he was used to, but at least there was the thought of Naemi at the end of it.
If she turned up, that is.
* * *
—
At a quarter to ten, Zhang’s Jaguar pulled up at the foot of the Shanghai World Financial Center, also known as the “Vertical Complex City.” The Park Hyatt, which was the highest hotel in the world, occupied floors 79 to 93. The cloud cover had lowered, and the sheer, curving facade of the building, edged in light that was electric blue, seemed to sink bladelike into the soft mass of the sky. Chun Tao asked if he should wait.
Zhang shook his head. “You can go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Go home. Get some sleep.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“I’ll text you.”
Zhang stepped out of the car. The rain was fine and weightless, like face mist, and the air smelled of mustard seeds and soy sauce. Opening an umbrella, a valet hurried over and accompanied him to the hotel entrance.
Walking into the lobby, with its towering ceiling, its blind turnings, and its unadorned dark brown walls, he felt he was passing through some kind of portal, entering a new dimension. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere mysterious, subversive. By the lifts was a Gao Xiao Wu sculpture of three old men standing side by side, and leaning out from the wall, as if to offer a service or a favor. Made from a shiny white ceramic, they were the size of children, with eyes that looked sightless and expressions that were obsequious or craven. As he placed a hand on top of one of their smooth bald heads, a lift arrived, its door sliding open to reveal the deceptively affable, pockmarked face of Wang Jun Wei.
“Guo Xing!” A smile bubbled under Jun Wei’s skin, like soup under a lid. “Still as handsome as ever.”
Zhang smiled back. “My brother.”
The two men shook hands.
“Nice suit,” Zhang said.
Jun Wei’s eyes widened, as if Zhang had just insulted him, then he grinned. “I’m off to a new KTV place. Like to join me?”
“I can’t. I’m meeting someone.”
“A woman, I suppose.”
Zhang held Jun Wei’s gaze, but said nothing.
“All right.” Jun Wei looked off to one side, then back again. “Call me tomorrow. There’s something I need your help with.”
Zhang stepped into a waiting lift and pressed 87.