Читать книгу A Head in Cambodia - Nancy Tingley - Страница 14

5

“I haven’t come to a conclusion,” Tyler said as he arranged pieces of a ceramic bowl on his worktable. Some pieces were smaller than my little fingernail, one vanishing between his fingers as he picked it up.

“But any thoughts?” I perched on one of the high stools at the tall table.

“Sure.” He moved a small piece from the row where he’d set it and placed it next to one in a different row. Both had bright blue glaze, one of half a dozen colors. It was a complicated 3D jigsaw puzzle.

“What happened?” I asked, motioning to the bowl.

“Mrs. Searles brought it in. Apparently her maid dropped it.”

I looked more closely. “Is it old?”

“No,” he answered grumpily, looking at a photo that he had lying next to him on the table.

“Okay, I won’t go there.”

“Don’t.” He looked up from his task. “The conservator at the Asian told me he didn’t know of any study of Khmer stone. Surprising.”

“Yes, you would think this material was a likely candidate for research. There are so many Khmer fakes being produced.”

“I did check out a small sample from P.P.’s stone head under the microscope. The surface patina looked awfully uniform to me. This isn’t good, as you know. I’m feeling like I should have taken a larger sample. I called P.P. and asked him to come to the lab the next time he’s in the museum, so I can show him how large a sample I want to take. I don’t want to take too much off the neck and then discover that the head is authentic, even if I can easily fill and in-paint the area I removed.”

“Right. He’s due in the building shortly. I’ll send him down to you.” Tyler went back to arranging the pieces of the bowl. Much conservation work looked tedious to me. I wouldn’t want to be the one who actually glued all those pieces together once he got their arrangement figured out. Still, I couldn’t resist moving a green-glazed piece next to another of the same color. “What if she didn’t bring in all the pieces?”

“That would be a blessing. Then I wouldn’t have to complete the restoration. Can’t imagine she’s going to want to use it once it’s repaired.”

“No.” I leaned forward, looking for more green.

He glanced up and sighed as he realized I wasn’t going anywhere until he told me more of his thoughts on the Khmer sculpture. “The wear on the head is minimal. A few tiny chips, no breaks. I’m leaning toward thinking it’s new. But then I look at it again and the carving is so good, I become uncertain. I’m not a specialist, but the Cambodian fakes that I’ve seen were obviously fake. This is not.”

“I feel that way too. When I first looked at it I thought it was the original. Then when I looked more closely for wear, I got worried.”

“If it’s wrong, the sculptor is a master.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t mind having a fake like that one.” I pointed at one piece of the bowl and a larger one with a matching angle. As long as it felt like solving a puzzle I enjoyed this.

He moved the small shard of ceramic next to the larger one, and I noticed for the first time that his hands were bare. “No gloves?” I said, surprised.

“I found a bowl like this selling online. It’s worth about twenty-five dollars.” He picked up the photo and shook it at me.

“And she’s paying your fee to have you fix it?” Conservators do not come cheap. I studied the photo. “On eBay?”

“She isn’t paying anything,” he said with irritation. “Her husband paid for this museum, and his endowment pays our salaries, in case you’ve forgotten. Yes, of course on eBay.”

“Oh.” I stood up. He didn’t appear to have more to say about the head, and this seemed like a good time to leave.

WHEN I arrived in my office, P.P. was firmly planted in my desk chair, riffling through the papers on my desk. I slouched in the visitor’s chair opposite. “Find anything of interest?” I asked ironically.

“No.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Catalogue.”

“What catalogue?”

“Qing porcelains.”

“You’re suddenly interested in seventeenth- to nineteenth-century monochrome ceramics?”

“No.”

“I sent off the galleys last week. The next version will be the finished product. Or so I hope. Haven’t heard a word from them since it went off. A good thing.” I picked at a snag in my sweater, though I knew that would only make it worse. “Is there something in particular in the catalogue that you need to read?”

“Date.”

I frowned. “The dates of the exhibition?”

P.P. nodded as he began to stack papers.

I handed him the museum newsletter, which was sitting atop a pile he’d just gone through. The cover story gave the dates.

“Ah. Have to get the reservations after the opening.”

“What reservations?” I was beginning to want my chair. Usually he would have jumped up after a few moments and begun to pace, giving me a chance to slide back into my spot.

“Cambodia.”

“You’re going to Cambodia?” This was the first I’d heard of it.

“We’re going.”

“P.P., I have far too much on my plate to be flying off to Cambodia. Maybe in six months, when the porcelain exhibition has closed. Though I expect by then I’ll have something else unexpected on my schedule.” Thinking of Philen and his machinations, I said grumpily, “A new project, no doubt.”

“I talked with Caleb.”

This brought me up from my slouch. “You talked with Caleb before asking me if I wanted to go to Cambodia? If I thought there was any reason why I should go to Cambodia? P.P., you know that Tyler is researching the piece. Hopefully he’ll be able to figure out if it’s real or fake.”

“Arthur’s trip.” He watched me. “The trip with you.”

“What?” I heard my voice rise almost to a screech.

“We’ll go first. To Bangkok. Meet the group in Siem Reap, at Angkor.” P.P. nodded to himself to affirm his plan.

I was out of my chair, headed toward the door. “Group?” I’d been buried in plans for the Chinese exhibition: first the galleys, then the outreach planning—concerts, visiting potters, movies. What had Philen concocted while I had my head down? “I’m going to talk with Arthur. Is he the one planning this?”

“Caleb. Speak with him.”

I hadn’t even realized that the director was back in town. “Caleb? He’s gotten involved? Why would he condone one of Arthur’s wacky ideas?”

P.P. stood up, but rather than recapture my chair, I hurried out of my office ahead of him, down the hall toward Caleb’s office.

CALEB New had clearly gone to directors’ school. Either that or they found him at Central Casting. He was suave, wore the right—expensive—suits, and fit perfectly into an old boys’ network that allowed him access to people able to support an institution like the Searles that depended on private donations. He was always flying here or there, fundraising, his laissez-faire administrative style sometimes creating havoc in the museum. Arthur Philen, who was left in charge when Caleb was gone, furthered the problem with his constant attempts to overthrow him.

“I can’t go to Cambodia,” I said, charging into Caleb’s office. “I have an exhibition opening in a month and a catalogue I need to write for an exhibition that opens in just a year. I should have had it written already.”

“How are you, Jenna?” Caleb asked, unruffled as ever.

“Fine, thank you, but really, there isn’t any reason to go off to Cambodia just because P.P. has brought in a head that, by the way, may be a fake, and if not a fake, happens to belong to a well-known sculpture.” I took a breath.

“Arthur seems to have gotten the ball rolling in my absence.”

“Well, can’t you stop the ball?”

He handed me the newsletter that just moments before I’d thrust in P.P.’s face. I took it, confused. “What?”

“The back page, I believe.”

On the center of the back page was a small announcement about a trip for upper patrons to Cambodia. Led by me, with Arthur Philen also in attendance. “You’ve got to be kidding. He didn’t even ask me about my schedule. This trip is during October, and October is when my Chinese porcelain exhibition will be up.”

Caleb nodded. “It did surprise me that you were willing to go then.”

“Willing to go? He didn’t even consult me. And how did he get it in the newsletter? He had to have gotten it in way past the deadline for text.”

A voice behind me said, “It’s short.”

P.P. was right. The announcement was only two lines. If I was lucky, no one would notice it. That would be the perfect solution to this ridiculous plan.

“He wants to create fanfare about the head.” Caleb straightened his cuffs.

“We don’t even know if the head is authentic. Tyler is looking at it now to try to figure that out, and at the moment he’s thinking it’s modern.” I was having some difficulty keeping my voice calm.

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Arthur didn’t tell me that.”

“That man—” but I saw Caleb’s other eyebrow go up. I wasn’t sure why he kept Arthur on the staff, but suspected it was because Arthur made him look good.

“Fait accompli,” he said, raising his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.

I could feel P.P.’s hands on the back of my chair. I leaned forward. “Caleb, please, you need to put a stop to this. You know it’s just part of Arthur’s plan to undermine you. I can imagine the fanfare that he anticipates and his spot in the limelight. He can see the headlines now: ‘California Museum Returns Stolen Sculpture.’”

“Yes. Well, it would put us in a good light.”

“Not if the headline the next day read, ‘Stolen Sculpture a Fake.’”

Caleb missed a beat before saying, “How’s the exhibition coming along? The outreach schedule is impressive. You must be very happy.” He fussed with some papers on his desk.

The conversation had ended, and I felt as if I hadn’t taken part in it. “It’s great,” I said as I stood to leave.

“Bangkok first,” P.P. said.

“Yes, certainly, P.P.,” Caleb said. “You and Jenna can go to Bangkok first.”

I barely needed to listen to his response. I’d never heard Caleb deny P.P. anything, but I was stunned that he’d agreed with Philen’s harebrained scheme of taking a group of people to Cambodia while simultaneously defusing a potentially volatile situation with a possibly stolen head. I needed to come back and discuss this with Caleb when P.P. wasn’t around. Or better, I could hope the plan would fade away, though the newsletter I held in my hand suggested otherwise.

Traveling with Philen and P.P., who was demanding in his own way, promised to be a nightmare. I groaned, but P.P. barely glanced at me as he turned to go to the conservation lab. I debated whether I should join him, but I had other work to do. The ceramic exhibition was looming, and the tasks related to it were increasing. I hurried to my office to begin to write down all that I needed to do.

My phone was ringing as I entered. “Jenna Murphy, curatorial.”

“Hi, honey,” my mother said.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up? It’s a little crazy here today.”

“You sound upset.”

“I’m fine. Well, not entirely, but I’ll tell you about it when I see you Sunday.”

“Have you seen Eric lately?”

I closed my eyes. My brother’s problems had woven a web around my family. His drugs, his depression, his dramas. I didn’t want to be thinking about him now. I didn’t want the worry of him now. I tried to keep from sounding concerned. “No. What’s up?”

“He’s not answering my calls. Could you give him a ring?”

“Sure, but you know he does this. Winds us up. Worries us to get our attention.”

“I don’t think it’s intentional, honey. It’s just the way he is.”

I could hear the concern in her voice. “I’ll call. You and Dad are coming to the opening of the exhibition, aren’t you? You got the invitation?”

“We got it. I have to RSVP. Your Dad isn’t coming. He has a previous commitment.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and said as unemotionally as I could, “I know he doesn’t like these big events.”

“It’s not that. It’s parent-teacher night at the school, and he obviously can’t miss that. He has some real problem kids in his classes this year.” She paused. “I thought I might bring Sean. Would that be okay?”

“Absolutely. I would have invited him, but was discouraged from inviting too many friends and family.” I was always happy to see my brother Sean. “I do have to run, Mom.”

“Okay. See you Sunday.”

I sat back, my anger at Philen now sidetracked by worry about Eric. I pressed speed dial and waited. After three rings the call went to voicemail, and I knew that he’d seen it was me and turned off his phone.

Nothing I could do about Eric. I’d tried. And nothing I could do about Caleb. Clearly he wasn’t going to budge about canceling Philen’s trip. I could only hope that not enough people signed up to make the trip viable.

There was one thing I could do, though. I leaned forward and Googled eBay. I could lighten Tyler’s workload and buy him that bowl.