Don Winslow - The Trail to Buddha_s Mirror

“Seriously, who are you?”

“That’s a complicated question.”

“Shall we begin with an easy one? What’s your name?”

That’s not as easy as you might think, Olivia. My mother gave me the “Neal,” and we just sort of settled on the “Carey.”

“Neal Carey.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard. And what do you do, Neal Carey, when you aren’t inviting yourself to dinner?”

“I’m a graduate student at Columbia University.”

“In…”

“New York.”

“I meant what’s your major?”

“Art history,” he said, and regretted it as soon as the syllables were out of his mouth. That was a really stupid mistake, he thought, seeing as everything you know about art history is scribbled on a spiral pad in your pocket. Joe Graham would be ashamed of you. Oh, well, too late now. “I’m writing my thesis on the anti-Manchu messages encoded in Qing Dynasty paintings.”

Oh, God, was it Qing or Ming? Or neither, or all of the above?

“You’re kidding.”

Oh, please, don’t let that be “You’re kidding” as in, “You’re kidding, that’s what I did my thesis on.”

“No.”

“That’s hopelessly remote.”

“People often say the same thing about me.”

“How did you come to be interested in something so obscure?”

“I revel in the obscure.”

Which is true, he thought. My real thesis is on the themes of social alienation in Smollett’s novels. So feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner.

“Listen,” Olivia said, “tonight really is a private sort of evening. But I’m sure Lan will come in tomorrow to help close the show down. Could you come back then? Maybe we could have lunch.”

Yeah, and maybe you’ll tell Li Lan and Dr. Bob about the interesting visitor you had in the shop and they’ll take off. Maybe you’ve already seen through my act.

“I’m going home tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry,” she said. Then, as if offering a consolation prize, she warbled, “Did I give you a brochure? It has photos of the paintings.”

She reached over to one of the pedestals and handed him one of the slick, four-color catalogs.

“Thank you. Do you think you could ask Li Lan to sign this for me?”

“You can ask her yourself. Here she is.”

I didn’t even hear the door, I’m so out of shape, Neal thought.

Then he stopped thinking altogether and fell in love and it was just like falling off the edge of a cliff into the clouds. Falling toward Li Lan in the mists.

Olivia said, “Li Lan, Neal Carey. Neal Carey, Li Lan. Neal is a big fan of your work.”

It took her a moment to work out the slang, then she flushed slightly, struggling to set down the two grocery bags she was holding. She put them down on the floor and then bowed her head ever so slightly to Neal. “Thank you.”

Neal was surprised to feel himself also blushing, and more surprised to notice that he bowed back. “Your paintings are beautiful.”

She was small, and a little thinner than he would have thought from her pictures. She was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and black jeans, and still looked elegant. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Those gentle brown eyes sparkled like sunshine on autumn leaves.

“I went to the city,” she told Olivia, “to do some special shopping for dinner tonight.”

“You should have had Tom or Bob bring you. I’ll call Tom to come pick you up.”

“I can walk,” she said. “It is a beautiful day. And they are busy speaking about garden.”

“I’m calling them.”

Li Lan nodded her head. “According to your thought.”

“Neal is a student of Chinese art history,” Olivia said.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit.

“Truly?” asked Li Lan.

Well, no.

“He is doing research on Qing Dynasty painting. Something political.”

Had he been alert, had he been in true working shape, he might have noticed Li’s slight wince on the word political. She turned those eyes to him as she said, “Ah, yes… Chinese paintings can mean many different things at same time. Picture of single flower is picture of single flower but also picture about loneliness. Qing picture of-what is word?-goldfish… shows just fish, not fish in water. Perhaps is about Chinese people with no country. Perhaps is about just goldfish.”

“Do your paintings mean many different things?” Neal asked. His voice sounded funny to him, thin and hollow.

She laughed. “No, they are merely pictures.”

“Of real places?”

“To me.” She smiled shyly and then turned stone-serious and looked down at the floor.

No wonder he loves her, Neal thought. Run away, Doctor Bob, run away. Take her with you or follow her where she goes, but don’t let her go.

Suddenly he was desperate to keep the conversation going. “Are you speaking about the reality of the mind?”

She looked up at him and said, “It is the only reality, truly.”

“You two have so much to discuss,” Olivia said. It was one of those unspoken questions women are so good at asking each other. Do you want to invite this guy to the dinner? Would Bob mind? It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.

“I think then he must join us for dinner,” Li Lan said. “Is that all right?”

“What a good idea!” Olivia said, as if the thought had never occurred to her or to Neal, even though all three of them knew exactly what had transpired.

“I must warn you, I do the cooking. Is it still all right?”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“It is not, but I would be delighted.”

“Eight o’clock?” Olivia asked them both.

“Great,” Neal said.

“Very good,” said Li Lan. “Now I better be going, get busy.”

“I’ll call Tom.”

“No, please. I can walk.” “The bags look heavy,” Neal said. “Not very heavy.”

Olivia shook her head and said to Neal, “She’s a tough lady.” Li Lan flexed her biceps and made a ferocious face. “Oh, yes. Very tough.” Then she dissolved into seemingly helpless laughter. Neal knew all about helpless right then.

So he did something he knew how to do. He went to the library. Maybe it would settle him down, and God only knew he needed to bone up on Chinese art. Jesus, he thought, why did I have to come up with that stupid lie? I know better than to overreach like that.

Settle down, he told himself. So Li Lan is beautiful, so what? You knew that coming in. So she’s an artist instead of a hooker? So what? You know some nasty artists and some pretty nice hookers, so don’t jump to conclusions. So she did a painting that sucked your soul into a vortex, so what? It’s not much of a soul to begin with.

So why are you so obsessed with Li Lan? Pendleton is the subject. So shake it off. Cool out. This is just another job, another gig, and the endgame is to send Pendleton home, stop his California dreaming, and get him back to the lab. Then you can go back to your own desk. So do it.

So do what? What now? You can’t hand her two K and tell her to dump him. That plan is out the old window. Maybe she’d like to go to North Carolina with him. Yeah, right. Maybe he’d like to go to Hong Kong with her. Maybe… maybe you should actually talk to them before forming any opinions. Just lay it out to Pendleton and see what happens. Keep your head and do your goddamn job.

He found the Asian arts section in the subject card catalog, then went to the stacks and tried to concentrate on Qing Dynasty landscape painting. That’s what he started with, anyway. He ended up staring at the photo of Li Lan in the brochure.

He grabbed a cab at Terminal Square and gave the driver Kendall’s address.

Olivia answered the door. She had changed into a white silk brocade jacket over black silk trousers. “In honor of the occasion,” she said, brushing the backs of her fingers across the jacket.