Free A Cup of Light by Nicole Mones Page B

those who collected pots, who owned them, fell often into two types. There were the corporate heads, tycoons, self-made men who had achieved wealth and now wanted discernment. They wanted the best, all at once. It was not necessary for them to love what they bought.
    Then there was another kind of buyer—the person like her, but with money, who loved pots. Sometimes these clients had art-history knowledge rivaling that of well-known scholars. Sometimes they were obsessive and crazy. From Gao’s knowledge, and his clear avidity, she would take him to be the porcelain-lover type. On the other hand, he fit the life-profile of the tycoon. “The Chenghua cup is lovely,” she said. “A wonderful piece.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œBut if it is real”—she spoke casually—“if it is real its discovery is rather important. Forgive me if you already know. I have no wish to waste your time outlining the obvious. But only eighteen of these cups are known to have survived in the world. That would make this the nineteenth cup. If it’s real.”
    He took an edamame pod from the plate and easily, using only the tips of his chopsticks, split the pod and extracted the shiny little bean. She watched with admiration. She couldn’t control chopsticks like that. He placed the bean inside his mouth. “If it is real,” he repeated.
    â€œ
If
it is real, its discovery is of importance,” she said succinctly, still keeping her voice light, playing out his line.
    He looked at her. “Is it not the case that of the eighteen cups, two are here in China? Among the holdings of the Palace Museum?”
    â€œThat’s so,” she said.
    â€œMost are in Taipei.”
    â€œYes,” she answered. “Eight. Mr. Gao. Are you saying that this is one of the two cups from Beijing?”
    â€œNo,” he said in quick retreat. “I don’t know that.”
    â€œI see.” She put down her chopsticks and smiled at him across the table. Her braid had come over her shoulder and she reached up and flipped it back. She could feel him looking at her ears again. Take a good look and wonder about me, she thought. You probably want to know why I use these old-fashioned things instead of implants. You’ll never find out.
    Of course Lia could have had cochlear implants if she’d wanted them. She didn’t. She didn’t want a plate surgically implanted in her head. Moreover, she’d be trading one electronic universe of sound for another, neither being the full, natural spectrum experienced by those who could truly hear. She’d gotten used to her set of speakers. They didn’t catch the high frequencies—the jingle of keys, the microwave buzzer—as well as implants did, but she really didn’t care. She didn’t want to change. She liked the ease with which hearing aids could be plucked out. No plate inside you. Your head was yours, your world your own.
    â€œMr. Gao. I must compliment you. Whether the cup is real or not, it’s an exquisite piece. Beautifully made. Very
hoi moon,
” she said, and then repeated in Mandarin: “Very
kai men jian shan,
” Open the door on a view of mountains. “Truly it is one of the nicest works I’ve ever seen.” She looked at him steadily. “So perhaps on reflection you will decide not to sell it.”
    â€œPerhaps,” he agreed. “Suppose the cup is not real.” He looked back up at her. “Who do you say it is who made it?”
    â€œI don’t know the answer to that. Not yet.” She picked up her mottled stoneware cup of green tea and drank from it, left her sake cup alone. Interesting little lagniappe of a power play. Neither touched the alcohol. “But you could help me also, Mr. Gao, if you would be so kind. I can better sell your pots with a full story. Do you mind? A few questions?”
    â€œOf course I do not mind.” He leaned his bare