Jade Is My Stone

Jade is my Stone

a work of fiction by Pat McGowan

© copyright Pat McGowan

typeset and printed by Pat McGowan

published by Fomelhaut, 2014

with the assistance of lulu.com

Cover design by Rob Millington

twitter: @maigaowen

isbn: 978-0-9925812-1-3

copies available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/fomelhaut

& www.smashwords.com

***** ***** *****

‘We are told a hundred fabulous stories about this stone, none of which carried with it the least probability of truth, though some of their most sensible men would have us believe them.’

Voyages, Captain James Cook

***** ***** *****

To my parents,

Mary and Gerald,

for their untiring support and belief

***** ***** *****

Part I

‘There is no such thing as a little man,

and nothing is impossible,’

Joe Greenstein in The Mighty Atom, Ed Spielman

1

Guangzhou’s Long Life Street is the place to go for browsing and buying jade. It’s where the jade runners assemble to peddle their wares, to push their pieces, to peacefully prosper, perhaps in the blink of an eye. It’s the world’s biggest jade market. While the sellers may push their pieces into place in an attitude of market playfulness, they never push their customers, because they know the value of their treasure and have long learned to let it do the talking. If a pigeon jets in wanting to pay too much for some second grade piece that coos at them, let them fly in and fly out. They too will have their jade story to tell back home. Such deals never lead to repeat business, a vital key to the obscure world of jade trading, but they may cover costs, perhaps rent for a month, a stint at better restaurants, or a down payment on the next holiday. It’s with the ongoing swim and wash of jade dealers and jade dealing where the money mounts in this game.

Shipton, tall, ruddy-faced, fresh off the plane from Sydney, is no pigeon. He’s done his homework, he’s been homing in on what he wants for months now. The moment has presented itself and he is ready to act. He has cut with his delegation back in the hotel for half a day to hold stones and rub them as he rubs shoulders with fellow jade connoisseurs, very few who speak English. He will eventually make his way to the Hualin Jade Articles Plaza on Long Life Street, a plaza given to jade shops, and all this after the seeming kilometres of jade stalls which already en-trance him!

‘Mister! Mister! Jade! See! See!’ comes the call from one stall owner.

Shipton moves on. He’s feeling hot and sweaty, and assailed by the noise. Guangzhou is another of those Asian cities. He has a lot on his mind. And a lot of money in his bag, a black Italian leather shoulder bag which he holds close to his belly. His eyes are wary. He moves like an agent of terror on a mission. The actions he takes today are a gamble. If all goes well, they could launch him to paradise. A bad outcome will blast his life to pieces, leaving him with nothing but a charred wreck of a life he has built up over years, working hard, saving money, learning how to appraise jade, and coaching himself one step at a time in the ABCs of jade buying.

He walks on. He doesn’t stall. He is being carried by the crowd, noisy, with irritating shouts, the visitors dazzled by the wares on display, all sorts of rocks and stones, a trap for the new and the great uncoached. And there are new players, plagues of foreign tourists wanting their souvenir, pigeons with drawling American accents on their retirement tour of China wanting a showpiece, their own little chunk of China, chipped from the greatest jade market in the world. And there are the locals who can’t stay away. It’s a wonderful place to be, sailing these psychic rivers of wealth and prosperity, that feeling of being on the verge on big, big money, like you’re about to have your lottery numbers come down, to claim the loot, and all for a small fee. And there are the out-of-towners, maybe all the way from Xinjiang Province, where they once plucked jade pebbles and boulders from the river, season after season, but now just pluck myths and stories from the air, in real time. Shipton is aware from his reading that once upon a time the whole jade industry was run by the Muslims, and that influence cannot die over night. Mercenaries, who still believe in the merciful one, make merry in the quiet moments, but switch to solemn as a customer meditates a purchase.

Shipton uses this walking time to prepare. The stations of the clarification. He knows about the jihad, the original jihad, of overcoming the infidel within, nothing to do with the infidels who crowd around you. His mission is to become a new man by the end of this shopping trip, a man of means, with a generous glow.

Shipton attains Long Life Street. It’s been a long morning. And there is still much distance to the end of the day. He sits in an outdoor café to drink tea and eat a cake. He wants to be fresh before he enters the shop he has in mind. At his table are a group of dark skinned, shabbily suited Xinjiang traders and their boys. Shipton refrains from playing the western clown. He leaves them to their own devices. His money has better uses.

Into the plaza, Shipton identifies Shop D20. It has an open front. The shutter which is used to close the shop spans its full length. The shelves on the back wall are filled with precious jade carvings, ceramics and antique silverware, while the left side displays racks of jewellery like coral necklaces, ivory bracelets, and rings of every colour. The owner, a wispy, educated man in a white short sleeve shirt and dark trousers, is sitting behind his counter talking in Cantonese to a woman whose body is weighed down with bangles and rings and necklaces. They are both poring over a piece inside the glass display cabinet serving as the counter.

This allows Shipton time to browse, compare what’s on display with what he has been told about the shop. Shipton’s plan is to buy from this man, Mr Wu. He has been assured from a collector back in Sydney that Mr Wu can be trusted. But Shipton must decide.

The bangled lady is gone.

‘Can I help you,’ Mr Wu says in fine English.

‘I’m interested to buy a piece of white jade.’ Shipton leaves it at that.

Mr Wu nods. He reaches under the glass counter and lifts up a tray with a number of white jade pieces.

‘The simplest, the most basic piece I have is this.’ He shows a polished oval stone of gleaming white jade.

Shipton holds it, feels it, rubs it in his hands. ‘Very nice.’ he puts it back down.

‘That’s two hundred dollars.’

‘Chinese or US?’

Mr Wu stays calm. ‘Of course, American dollars.’

Shipton focuses on a carving of a crab devouring a tiny fish. The detail is fine, it radiates soft, smooth whiteness. ‘Isn’t that just beautiful.’

‘Oh, this is special. Carved by a master. It’s so hard for me to sell it.’

‘Cheap?’

‘One thousand dollars.’

‘Fair enough. I’m sure it will call its owner.’

Mr Wu invites Shipton to sit down. ‘I think you know about jade. No need to pretend you’re a tourist. Just tell me what you want.’

Shipton opens his hands in front of himself. ‘Jade? It takes many years to know jade. I’m a child.’

Mr Wu continues slowly. ‘You must learn the yin and yang of jade. It’s a stone with a long tradition, and market value. And yet it is a thing of the mind. One whose mind is closed will never know the magic of jade.’

Shipton is already turning his attention to pieces behind glass on the back shelf. ‘I know people like you. Back where I come from. They say that the wealth vibration comes before the actual wealth.’

Mr Wu offers a smile and remains silent.

Shipton points to one of the items on the wall. ‘Can I look at that dragon bowl, please.’

‘Sure.’ Mr Wu brings it out and sits it on the counter with reverence, with deference.

It’s pale green, semi-translucent, fifteen centimetres wide, a bowl with carvings of dragons decorating it all around. Shipton picks up the piece and rotates it. There is one large dragon, fierce, scaly, with five claws, two horns and long whiskers. He appears to be roaring at another dragon. There are eight others. It’s nine dragons. The other eight are emerging from the waves that beat at the bottom of the bowl.

‘This is a brush washer,’ Mr Wu says.

‘What? For an artist to wash his brushes?’

‘Yes, an ornamental brush washer. It’s from the eighteenth century.’

This is the art object that Shipton has dreamed of owning. It’s perfect. It ticks all the boxes. The delicate and detailed carving, the utility, a bowl to wash brushes, and the story of the nine dragons. Shipton forgets the details, but he knows that nine in Chinese is a significant number which serves as an entry point into some serious philosophical discussion. Nine can mean nine or it can simple mean a lot in Chinese literature. Shipton puts the piece down.

‘Not a bad piece of jade, eh?’

Mr Wu nods. ‘It is actually from a gallery in New York where it has been for fifty years.’

‘Amazing.’

‘Another piece of jade I love so much it pains me to put it up for sale.’

Shipton feels relief at his learned nonchalance, a demeanour he has learned to practice over the years, even when buying simple stones from local lapidary markets back in Australia.

Mr Wu puts the nine-dragon brush washer back on the shelf and locks the cabinet.

‘You know, if I had some extra money to invest, I’d buy a piece like that. What’s it worth?’

‘Mr Wu also knows the art of nonchalance. ‘Three hundred thousand American.’

‘Do you give discounts?’

‘I’m sure you know our saying that gold has a set price, but jade has no price.’

Shipton reaches out to the business card holder on the counter and helps himself to a card. He scans it closely. ‘So you are Mr Wu?’

‘Yes. I’ve been here for ten years in this same shop. But I travel often as part of my work.’

‘Your work?’

‘I mean dealing in jade.’

‘Oh.’

‘The money I have in my bag could only ever be a deposit on a prize piece of jade like what you showed me. But what’s the lowest price you would accept for that washer.’

‘You need to make me an offer.’

‘I’m not a rich man. Like if a rich farmer came in here, perhaps he could throw three hundred thousand on the counter, pay cash, but...’

‘You make me an offer and I’ll consider it.’

Shipton stands up as if to terminate the conversation. Besides, other customers are browsing about the shop. ‘Let me think about it, Mr Wu. Thanks for your time.’

Mr Wu also stands, matching Shipton, staying one with him. ‘Perhaps you think this is not convenient to conduct a negotiation. Why not come back to my place?’

‘You live near here?’

‘Yes, across the road. I can show you some real jade there.’

‘I have the time, I suppose,’ Shipton say non-committedly.

‘Wait while I call my daughter to mind the shop. Then we can go.’

As Shipton and Mr Wu prepare to cross the ocean of a road, the brakes of cars and buses squeak and hiss. Their crossing is supervised by a policeman wielding a baton, a vain attempt to turn the tumult and chaos of the crowded afternoon in a type of symphony.

Mr Wu stops at a shop, a food store with a window to the street. He buys a soup served in a plastic container.

‘Pork and fig. It’s my favourite,’ Mr Wu says. The cook does it perfectly and now is the best time of day to drink it.’

They slice through the slow moving crowd, turn off the street into a courtyard crammed with cars. The noise of the street becomes dull and distant as they enter this new space.

‘I’ve been to New Zealand,’ Wu says.

‘You probably know the place better than me,’ Shipton replies.

‘The South Island. Some good jade. Just not carved the way we like.’

Shipton remembers. ‘I had an uncle who knew a lot about stones in New Zealand. When I was young we went out camping,’ he says. A part of Shipton’s past he is happy to recall.

‘I visited a factory. Didn’t make it to the rivers,’ Mr Wu says.

Shipton is chuffed. He gets to visit a private home here in Guangzhou. The others in the hotel being treated as tourists, as outsiders, given the confected view of the city. Shipton has been invited into the home of a local. That makes him feel good.

The stairwell is dank and dirty, public property, nobody’s responsibility, care for yourself as you move through these common places festering with smells of mould and cat pee, and rotting vegetables.

Mr Wu opens his heavy metal door. They enter. He slams the door shut and locks it. His face takes on more colour. He can smile as if he remembers something pleasant, that he is home and free to live again, leaving behind that mad world outside his door.

They take off their shoes.

‘Please come through.’ Mr Wu says.

The house is filled with light. A huge window reveals a vista of the city where the cars and people are ants far below. Silent, buzzing power and plenty.

Wood is the dominant decorative theme in this apartment. The floor, sideboard, tables, lounge with wooden arms and legs. All set off with cream mats and rugs.

Mr Wu ladles the soup into two dishes.

‘Excuse me, this is my lunch. Try some.’

Shipton is not so keen. He takes the first scoop slowly. ‘Hey, this isn’t bad.’ He scoops faster.

They soon have cups of aromatic green tea in front of them.

’But before we talk more about the brush washer, I want to show you my prize piece.’

He retreats down the hall into another room and soon returns with the purest white nephrite carving of a mountain, with pine trees and pathways. Mounted on a wooden stand. It’s a white that gleams like a full moon. Imperial jade. To be in the presence of this carving is to imagine you are an emperor.

‘You have to feel it. That is the key to knowing your jade,’ Wu says. ‘And you will one day in the future discover that to know jade you need to listen to it. Jade gives out a tone. Listen for it. The purer the grade, the better the chime. He uses a stainless steel stylus to tap the jade to create a chime best described as sweet.

Shipton stands up to examine the work more closely, to follow its perfection, to test its flawlessness with his searching eyes. To listen with both his eyes and ears.

‘Do you see the scholar?’ Mr Wu asks.

Amazing, the one vein, call it a flaw if you like, present on the chest of the scholar. How nature and man have come together to produce this exquisite work of art.

‘I believe it was originally made for the emperor. But it was decided not to show it to him. That it may upset him, he did not want to hear about flaws of human nature. It was too Christian. Not part of his tradition.’

Shipton sits down. Awe written all over his face. ‘Thanks for this.’

Mr Wu makes himself busy replacing his jade mountain and unpackaging the nine-dragon brush washer.

Now, do you still wish to make me an offer me for this work?’

Shipton knows he had chosen the right dealer. However, he still has plenty of work to do. He goes to speak and then stops, again and again. He must tread carefully.

‘This piece is so steeped in symbolism and story, it will never lose value,’ Mr Wu begins.

‘My problem is that I am a worker, back in Australia. Not a dealer with huge cash reserves,’ Shipton says.

‘But surely you are doing well in your career if they send you overseas for work.’

‘Back in Australia, educating children, and buying a house is a lot more expensive than here in China. I do work hard but it’s not easy to save. I’d be prepared to offer you one hundred thousand,’ Shipton says, with a momentary flush of red across his face.

‘I respect your offer. But I need to make some money in this business. I too have rent, and I’m wanting to send my daughter off for a good education. I would be prepared to negotiate around the two hundred thousand mark if you are interested.’ Mr Wu’s demeanour hadn’t changed since he entered the house. But now he becomes more bouncy, suggestive, in control of his situation at every moment.

Shipton locks his hands together. ‘Mr Wu, that is so wonderful, that you oversee your daughter’s education. And how nice that she knows her father so well. I want to tell you that I’m adopted. I hope one day to find my father, but that will take time and money. This is part of my idea, to get a little bit ahead in life so I can solve these puzzling questions that rack my brain. I could possibly stretch my offer to one hundred and ten thousand.’

‘Shipton, the way you talk reminds me of how much I love my daughter, and how I want her to go through life without the aches and pains of the less fortunate. I would feel bad that I didn’t sell you this amazing work of art. But I will also feel I am failing my family if I sold this classic piece so cheaply. Can you offer me more?’

Shipton is getting fidgety. He is back in that space of wondering if he is about to perform the ultimate terror act on his life, do the most stupid thing he has ever done. To blow the real estate windfall on his old home in five quick minutes? Or is this going to be his master stroke?

‘I can also guarantee safe passage of your piece to Hong Kong if you wish?’

‘Oh, I never thought of that? Is it a problem?’

‘Not really for foreign tourists. But some people ask for it.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Wu. But the best offer I can make is one hundred and twenty thousand.’

‘You’ve put me in a very difficult position. Shipton. I know you won’t go higher, but I want you to be the guardian of this piece. I know you are one of us.’

‘But I may sell it next week.’

‘Shipton, a dealer in our plaza wants to buy this to cut it up and make small items, he reckons he can double his money. But I know you see the art of the piece as it is.’

He puts out his hand to shake.

Shipton leans over and shakes. ‘One hundred and twenty thousand.’

‘Now, how will you pay?’

‘I have a deposit here of five thousand. The rest I can get from the hotel.’

‘So you can come back tonight. Or I could go back to the hotel with you now.’

‘That’s fine with me, if you have the time.’

‘We can go via the office of verification, if you want to pay them a few dollars. But I have all the paperwork with the piece.’

Returning to the hotel in a bent and rusted taxi, its driver, a chainsmoker, with his radio blaring, and he on and off his mobile phone each block of the way, sitting beside this supremo of jade, Mr Wu, holding the work of jade that Shipton is about to buy, he has a beautiful realisation about how wealth is but a state of mind, and with such a state of mind, everything is going to be fine. His view fixed on the people in the street through the taxi window, Shipton is leaned back and idly wondering what sort of new joys the next level of this game will bring him.

Part II

The Jademaster

One cold winter morning a young man walks five miles through the snow. He knocks on the Jademaster's door. The Jademaster answers with a broom in his hand.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to learn about Jade.’

‘Very well then, come in out of the cold.’

They sit by the fire sipping hot green tea. The Jademaster presses a green stone deeply into the young man's hand and begins to talk about tree frogs.

After a few minutes, the young man interrupts. ‘Excuse me, I am here to learn about Jade, not tree frogs.’

The Jademaster takes the stone and tells the young man to go home and return in a week.

The following week the young man returns. The Jademaster presses another green stone into the young man's hand and continues the story.

Again, the young man interrupts. Again, the Jademaster sends him home.

Weeks pass. The young man interrupts less and less. The young man also learns to brew the hot green tea, clean up the kitchen and sweep the floors. Spring comes.

One day, the young man observes, ‘The stone I’m holding is not genuine Jade.’

from The Trader's Window, Ed Seykota

2

His square face crimson with anger, Shipton hurls his first glass bottle against the wall. It’s a bottle of whiskey, half empty. With a base thud, it explodes with the glass shattering into a thousand pieces. The spirits fly, leaving the brickwork splattered.

This man, in board shorts and bare feet, is tall, an athletic build, an ex-footballer who played front row forward, a position more valued for its brawn than its brains. His brown hair is thick and messy, in need of a cut.

Despite his anger and this bottle-throwing misdemeanour, Shipton’s eyes cannot entirely erase a country boy kindness, eyes you’re more likely to associate with a kid fresh from the land, though he’s