Looking at Jade

He’d been in the back room when they first came into the gallery. They must have stepped over the doormat to prevent the bell from jangling because it was the sound of their voices that had alerted him. When he came through the door they’d turned their backs on him, leaned their heads together and whispered through suppressed laughter.
Hoad stood quite still behind the mahogany table that served as a desk until they fell silent and began to stroll around the room. They ignored him but spoke too low for him to make out their conversation and seemed to share a joke.
It was nearly closing time and had been quiet all day. Hoad had been half way through making a coffee. He wondered if he could go back to it, then decided against. He stood and waited.
‘How much?’
Hoad jerked out of his reverie. The boy was pointing at a bronze figure. Hoad quoted a price that was deliberately the high side of accurate but the boy didn’t flinch. Instead he reached out a hand and caressed the shoulder with his thumb.
Hoad didn’t get many students in the gallery. It was the wrong side of town, for a start, and most were intimidated by the lack of displayed prices.
‘And this?’ holding out a pale blue lotus bowl with one hand.
Hoad, unfailingly polite, named his price. The boy nodded and sauntered about the room with his arm round the girl’s waist and his hand thrust into the back patch-pocket of her jeans. They moved with a liquid grace as though they were a two-headed mythical animal, the boy always taking the lead. It could have been a dance, with Hoad the single member of an exclusive audience.
He watched them carefully. The boy touched everything; the girl, nothing.
They stopped beside a large Chinese rug at the far end of the L-shaped room. The boy took his arm from the girl’s waist, squatted down and flipped the corner over.
‘Silk?’
Hoad nodded.
‘It’s good.’ It was a statement.
‘Everything’s good,’ Hoad said. He moved out from behind the table and walked the distance towards them, his footfalls echoing on the wooden floor. These two looked like students — jeans, no coats despite the late spring, hair that swung loose — but they didn’t behave like students.
‘How much?’ the boy said again.
Hoad had only unpacked the carpet that morning and had thought it perfect, but now he wasn’t so sure. He thought there might be some damage to the border, but it could be a trick of the light. ‘It’s priced at …’ he began. He paused for a moment, then gave a figure: it was very expensive. ‘But it might be negotiable.’
The boy straightened, took a mobile phone from his pocket and moved away. The girl stayed next to the carpet.
Slowly, and with the poise of a performer, she slid her right foot from her shoe and, looking deep into Hoad’s eyes, she smoothed the long silk pile of the rug with her bare skin. She looked at him longer than was necessary. Caught off guard, and powerless to break the gaze, Hoad almost staggered.
He felt his breath come in staccato jabs. He quickly glanced over at the boy — her boyfriend or husband, there was no way of telling — but he’d walked almost around the corner at the far end of the gallery and still had his back to them. His voice could only be heard as a low murmur. The girl stroked her toes back and forth in the cream tufts and watched his gaze move from her pink painted toenails back to her face. Her eyes were black, almost as black as her hair, which was straight and very long, and unfathomably lustrous.
He swallowed. His voice, when it emerged, felt like gravel. ‘Is there anything here that you especially like?’ he asked.
She pointed to the lit display case against the back wall holding his signature piece — a vase that had cost him his inheritance and won him a global reputation — without, apparently, looking at anything else. Hoad noticed that she wore no jewellery. ‘I’ve always loved that,’ she said. He was confused. He was sure he would have remembered if she had been in the gallery before. Perhaps it had been when Hoad was away on a buying trip and his partner had been there.
He let a long breath out. ‘You have exquisite taste. Do you know what it is?’
She nodded. ‘Nephrite jade,’ she said with a faint unidentifiable accent. Her voice was so quiet he had to lean towards her until he could feel the warmth of her body.
He had been on the point of asking her to accompany him over to the case when she slipped her shoe back on and turned towards the boy. He had put the phone away and was gesturing at his watch.
‘Tell him to wait,’ Hoad said. But the girl ignored him, ran over to her boyfriend and resumed their hip-linked status as they left the gallery.
Through the window, Hoad watched their progress down the street feeling as hollow-frail as papier-mâché.

*

For the next three weeks, Hoad arrived at the gallery early and spent every minute waiting for the girl and boy to come back. He changed his routine and spent more time standing looking out of the window, observing the passing cyclists and reflections in the swaying water of the canal. From time to time he walked outside, noting the displays in the other galleries: Kashgai carpets, silks from Thailand, Venetian glass and contemporary paintings. Stopping at an intersection where roads and water met, he’d study the shifting patterns of people window shopping, the street-lights shimmering and spangled in puddles from the rain. At the end of the day after their visit, when the couple had not returned, Hoad had taken the Chinese rug out of the gallery, rolled it up and placed it in the store room. He had told his partner that it was imperfect and that he had to contact his supplier before he set a new price, but he knew he wanted to prevent a sale in case the boy wanted to negotiate.
The days were getting noticeably longer but the temperature had, if anything, fallen a couple more degrees and a few unseasonable flurries of snow could be seen beyond the glass. Hoad had made the final arrangements for his next buying trip and was looking forward to spending some weeks where the air didn’t make him gasp every time he left his front door. He had already collected his overcoat prior to leaving for the evening and was writing a note to his assistant when the door opened and the girl was standing in the gallery alone.
Blood rushed through him as though under high pressure and he felt everything from the tips of his fingers to the end of each strand of hair fizz with energy.
‘Oh,’ she said in her quiet voice. ‘You’re about to close.’
He let the coat slide to the floor behind the table. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We don’t close until six o’clock,’ not caring that the discreet sign outside said five-thirty. ‘ We have …’ He revised his words. ‘You have nearly thirty-five minutes, at least.’
She walked a few steps into the room and stood perfectly still looking at him again with those disconcerting black eyes. She’d left the door open. Hoad could feel the freezing air around his feet. Once again the girl wore no coat and he couldn’t understand how she could bear to be outside in just a woollen sweater.
‘Did you want to see the rug again?’ he asked eventually.
‘No.’
‘Because we still have it, if you were interested.’
‘No.’ She shook her head slightly and her hair glinted as the movement caused a ripple to move through its length. The palm of his hand tingled with the thought of it.
All at once, she turned on her heel and walked towards the back of the gallery. Hoad sprang forward, closed the door, toyed with locking it — and would have put up a ‘Closed’ sign, if he’d had one — but decided against. He followed her to the display case.
‘Please, put the light back on.’
Hoad obliged. Immediately the vase inside glowed with a milky translucence and the structure of the cabinet could be seen faintly through its feather-thin bowl. The girl stood, apparently transfixed for almost a minute, and Hoad thought she was holding her breath. They were standing so close that he could smell her shampoo; the urge to stroke her hair had almost overwhelmed him when she spoke again.
‘How much?’
‘It’s not for sale.’ He took a step backwards. Why could people only see things in terms of what they were worth and not what they meant? So many people came into the gallery with a view to obtaining a good investment that would languish the rest of the owner’s life in some vault or safe, unappreciated and unloved.
‘Good.’ The word completely disarmed Hoad. His anger evaporated like mist and curled away into the afternoon.
‘Good?’
‘Yes. I am glad it not for sale. It means that it is your favourite piece too.’ She paused. ‘And I am glad it is nephrite. Traditional jade.’
‘It would be worth even more if it were jadeite.’ Their eyes met in the reflection of the display case. His heart beat rose and rose until the thudding in his throat almost hurt.
‘Tell me about the vase,’ she said.
He turned to look at her . ‘Well …’ he said, seeing his own eyes reflected back from the depths of her black irises, ‘… you’re right. This is my favourite piece’, without shifting his attention from her face. ‘This is what started my passion for Chinese art.’
‘I understand that,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Tell me about the vase itself.’
It was difficult to marshall his thoughts but he made himself compose a catalogue description of the vessel. ‘It’s a Chinese ring vase from the Song Dynasty, carved from a single piece of celadon jade.’ He faltered because his voice seemed on the point of giving out. He observed the texture of her cheek, almost as smooth as the jade, and the curve of her lips, but she nodded for him to continue. He swallowed painfully. ‘ Each of the rings is part of the original stone but, as you can see, they float loose from the handles, which are in turn carved with intricate twinings of plums and leaves.’
The door opened and the bell jangled but he remained staring down at her. ‘There is a legend about jade carvers …’
She stepped backwards and waved to someone behind him.
‘I’m here,’ she called to the boy who was walking towards them. She looked quickly back at Hoad. ‘I’ll hear the rest of the story one day next week,’ she said and lightly ran the length of the gallery to join the boy. She pulled the door closed behind them with a slam.

*

Hoad cancelled his trip, gave his assistant two weeks’ holiday and spent every minute of every day of the next week in the gallery. Instead, his partner went to search for antiquities in the sun. The girl did not come back. By Saturday closing time, Hoad began to feel ridiculous. But it didn’t stop him staying on in the gallery until past seven o’clock to get the paperwork up to date. When he set the alarm and left the building he had a plan for the following day.
It had been a long time since he had visited the less fashionable part of the city and he planned a walk that would take him past the picturesque canals of the old town on the outskirts of which lay the university. Spring was at last emerging from her winter sleep. The blossom that had been nothing but a pink haze outline on the branches in the early part of the week had now burst through with an exuberance of buds and scent. Bird song filled the air and Hoad felt the sun warm his cheek for the first time in months.
And with the sun came the students. They crowded the wooden seats beside the canal-side bars. They sat heaped together in a bundle of duffle coats and sweaters on every available surface, laughing and drinking.
Hoad walked the towpath and scanned their faces. Sometimes he saw a skein of black hair but it never had quite the lustre he was looking for. Occasionally there was something about the way someone walked, and once he thought he heard her voice only half a metre away from him but when he turned to look, a curly-haired girl tipped her head back and laughed coarsely. Always he was disappointed. He wished he had a dog with him but he made the glorious day his excuse for extended exercise. He bought a drink and something to eat and joined the throng at the wooden tables for an hour. His feet hurt and his back ached but he was curiously happy. Some of the wild irresponsibility of his companions had infected his usually impenetrable seriousness. By dusk — his mission a failure, as he knew it must be — he turned away from the student quarter and headed back towards his own comfortable apartment building.
He was less than a block away from his destination when he saw her.
On the other side of the road was a coffee bar. The windows were illuminated with the lamps set out on the tables within and, although the glass was clouded in a half-moon of condensation, he clearly saw her profile turned towards him, white, like alabaster, against a backdrop of black hair.
He stepped into the road and walked straight across, not registering the angry warning blast from a passing vehicle. On the other side he stood facing her where she sat looking out into the street. Looking at him.
He smiled and lifted a gloved hand in salutation before turning to the entrance. Inside the heat and conversation was like a stockade preventing him from seeing her. He ordered an expresso at the counter and, in a sudden burst of ambition, two slices of Genoa cake. After an agonisingly slow transaction, he picked up his cup and, carefully balancing two plates in one hand, he negotiated the shifting crowd of people taking refuge from the evening chill.
When he looked up from the swirling coffee and maze of bentwood chairs, smile already prepared, she wasn’t to be seen.
Desperately he looked around the room and searched the space towards the door but she was nowhere. Put simply, she had been there and now she was not. How had she walked past without him noticing? But she had seen him. Acknowledged him, even. Was expecting him with his offering of cake and myth. Bewildered and abandoned he looked across at the table where she had sat and saw with a shock that the view to the street was black. The pavement, between pools of light from the street lamps, was quite opaque through the steam and darkness. A one-way mirror only. She couldn’t have seen him at all.

*

Hoad cursed his impulsiveness in giving the gallery assistant the extra holiday. She was due only a single week and it meant that he had to go to work on Monday morning. He dressed with the care that he always took. His suit was perfectly pressed. Only his tie jarred. It had been a present and was one he didn’t wear often. He didn’t like the pattern, which was taken from a painting by Klimt and too obvious for his taste, but he chose it purposely and as a personal statement that marked the end of an unusually foolish episode of his life.
The girl came to the gallery at midday. Hoad was almost annoyed to see her.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, as he would any visitor.
She looked momentarily uncertain and her glance flicked backwards towards the street outside. She walked forwards a step or two. ‘You were going to tell me about the jade carver,’ she said.
Hoad wondered if he might say something about seeing her in the cafe. Or if she would. But then he remembered that she hadn’t seen him.
Together they walked towards the display case and the vase. It was lit artificially from above and the sunshine from the windows highlighted honey-coloured inclusions in the stepped foot under the bowl. It looked as beautiful as the first time he had seen it in the house of the man who was to become his business partner. It had cost all he had at the time but he felt he was buying a piece of Chinese history, part of an ancient culture that had captured his soul.
‘Jade, as I am sure you know …’ He smiled to acknowledge her previous comments and his heart leaped as she smiled in return, opening her mouth a little so that he could see the pink tip of her tongue. ‘… as I am sure you know, is an exceptionally hard stone. Nephrite jade is softer than some but has a grain which calls for great skill from the carver.’ He grazed her elbow to turn her aside so that he could lift the lid of a small glass-topped table, but then he found unable to release his contact with her. He saw a muscle move in her cheek and she lifted her arm free. He spoke quickly to cover his embarrassment. ‘Even a small piece like this,’ he gave her a carved chimaera to hold, avoiding her fingers as he did so, ‘will take many hours and many years of experience. You cannot chip or chisel jade. Every piece must be worn away either by abrasion or sand pastes.’ He felt he was losing her attention.
‘But the carver, tell me about the carver,’ she said.
Perhaps he could invite her to lunch. He could lock up the gallery for an hour or two and he would have time to tell her the legend of the jade carver whose design was like a signature in every piece he touched and who fell in love with his patron’s daughter. They would share a bottle of wine and he could settle into the tale and she would listen with her eyes glistening as he revealed the last fatal line of the story.
The bell jangled and immediately Hoad thought the boy had returned as before, to claim his girlfriend but it was a group of men, three customers whom he had seen before and who had made infrequent, but significant purchases.
‘Excuse me. I must see to this,’ he said but he left the lid of the table open as a token of his trust.
Hoad could tell immediately the men were not in a serious investment mood but had come to see what was new. They split up and wandered around the gallery looking at everything and nothing. He had to be attentive. At one point the girl walked back to the entrance and Hoad broke off his conversation to intercept her.
‘I’m sure they won’t be long,’ he said.
‘I have to go now.’
‘I’d like to finish telling you the story.’
‘Would you let me hold the vase?’
‘Would you have lunch with me?’ he said softly, which was no answer.
She was silent for a moment and moved nearer the door. Hoad expected to see the boy there but the street was empty and only the shop canopies flicked in the breeze.
‘Can I hold the vase?’ she repeated. Her eyes caught him again.
‘What’s your name?’ The man whose conversation he had interrupted was getting impatient and was walking towards them.
‘Ting. Ting Yu Li. Will you let me hold the vase?’
‘Come back in an hour and we’ll have lunch, Ting Yu Li.’ Hoad opened the door and waited for her to leave. She remained where she was and Hoad’s customer paused, looking uneasily between the two. She was waiting for her question to be answered. Hoad stood by the open door. ‘Maybe,’ he said, suddenly reckless. ‘Yes.’
There had been a sudden flurry of activity in the gallery and Hoad was kept busy answering queries, taking contacts and, once, making a sale. It was nearly two hours before the girl returned and, as though in answer to a prayer, the last customer left as she slipped in through the open door.
Hoad felt as if he were on the edge of a precipice. He had been very busy but he had still found the time to disarm the alarm to the display case, certain that she would be back, and the key was already in his pocket. He slipped his hand in and jutted the sharp edge painfully into his palm as he walked towards her. He hadn’t opened the case in fifteen years.
‘I haven’t booked but there is a good restaurant in the next street that I’m sure would still be open.’ he said.
‘I’ve eaten.’
‘Oh,’ said Hoad.
‘You said I could hold the vase.’
‘I said “maybe”. ‘
He noticed that uncertain flicker of her eyes towards the door again, then she smiled, took his hand in her soft cool fingers and led him towards the back of the gallery.
It was so long since he had held the vase in his hands he had forgotten how cold it was. It was nearly fourteen inches high and about as much again at the widest part of the bowl. It was completely unmarked; perfect, just as it had been when it had left the carver’s hand.
‘This vessel,’ said Hoad to the girl, ‘is probably a thousand years old. Chinese wisdom says that “Gold has a value, but jade is priceless”. It has has been prized as long as Chinese civilisation itself.’ A smile softened his eyes, ‘But you already know that.’ He turned to the girl and, unable to prevent his voice from trembling said, ‘Jade to jade, Ting Yu Li.’
She held out her hands and Hoad placed the vase carefully into them. He closed her fingers around the entwined handles and covered her hands with his palms. They stood looking at each other over the bowl and he felt her fingers flutter under his own.
‘I want to see the translucence in daylight,’ she said and walked swiftly down the gallery and around the L, towards the front windows. The boy came inside and the bell jangled. He held the door open for her and she walked out into the street, stepping over the doormat as she did so, holding the vase high in front of her like a priestess.
Hoad watched her every movement from beside the empty display case: every
step, every blink of her eye, every shift of her fingers on the celadon jade bowl. Ting Yu Li walked a few steps parallel with the gallery window to move from the shadow of the awning into the sunlight, directly in front of Hoad. She moved the vase slowly away from her body until she was standing with it held at arms’ length over the expanse of grey, hard concrete. She turned to look at him through the glass, looked away, then back, her face as impassive as the surface of the jade.

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