CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next morning, I wake up to the soft glow of the natural-light lamp, and the mellow light is like a razor scraping across my nerves. What have I done? But the awful heaviness in my stomach isn’t regret. I’m not sorry—exactly—that I broke up with Ken. I just wish it had worked out. Or that he’d been just a little less self-absorbed. The only thing I can’t judge him for is dishonesty. Yes, he might have covered up that he was going full throttle on the “let’s see other people” thing, but I’ve done much worse.

I’m actively lying to my parents.

It’s the thought that keeps coming back to haunt me. Look at how awful I felt about Ken hanging out with another girl when he was actually pretty open about being non-exclusive. I can just imagine how my parents will feel if they find out about my way bigger deception.

I bury my head under a mound of pillows, but sleep eludes me. I pretty much went to bed after my breakup with Ken—which means that I’ve been sleeping for an obscenely long time.

Blearily, I drag myself out of bed and right to the soaking tub. I fill the tub, turn on the jets, and empty the entire bowl of rose petals into the water. Then all the bath salts that I’ve been carefully rationing. I can get more. Alyssa included room service in her . . . What is this, exactly? Bribe? Gift? Who cares? Whatever it is—I’m going to take full advantage of it. Apparently, all it takes is the world’s worst breakup for me to become a full-on princess.

Argh. I need ice cream. And cue room service.

Hours later, I have an empty bowl of ice cream and am officially a prune from soaking in the jetted tub.

Unfortunately, I don’t feel all that better. OK, maybe a smidge better. But I need more ice cream. My stomach gurgles in protest. Forget ice cream. I should order lunch. Did I eat breakfast? It’s really bad when I skip a meal. I never skip meals.

Just as I’m telling myself that ice cream doesn’t count as a meal and that I will not order more, my phone lights up. It’s Eric. Great. Just great. I don’t hear from him in two weeks, and this is when he texts me—when I’m a sad, wrecked ball of mopiness.

Hi Gemma. Can you meet me?

Nope. No way. I’m in no state to cozy up with Eric to discuss a scheme that might have me blackmailing my cousin or something equally dubious.

Another text from Eric pops up.

I have information about your mother.

What the hell? When I last talked to Eric, he didn’t seem to know anything about my mother, and now he has information? My hands shake as I text back.

I can meet now.

Armed with oversize sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, I enter the East Palace Gate of the Summer Palace. My electronic guidebook says that it will take hours to see everything in this imperial pleasure garden and summer resort complex, but I’m not here to sightsee. I’m here to find out what Eric knows about my mother.

Eric suggested that we meet in the Garden of Virtue and Harmony, and when I arrive, he’s already there. He’s standing in front of a beautifully ornate three-tiered building in brilliant red, gold, and green. This time he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of a suit.

“Hello, Gemma.” His tone is unexpectedly formal. This isn’t the funny and sweet Eric I last saw. It’s not even the pissed-off Eric I first met. This Eric is somber and distant—and this version is the most unsettling of all. It’s because of what he knows about my mother.

My heart careens to my feet. “What did you find out about my mother?”

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he gestures to the building behind him. “Empress Dowager Cixi of the Qing dynasty had the Grand Theater built in the late nineteenth century for the Beijing opera performances that she loved.”

Grand Theater. It’s grand all right and totally deserves its name. Although I’m dying to know what Eric knows about my mother, I pause to take in the jade-green pillars, fancy scrollwork, and curved roofs climbing into the heavens. “It’s beautiful.” What wouldn’t I give to perform in that theater? Except, as a woman in Empress Dowager Cixi’s time, I would have been forbidden to perform in classical Beijing opera.

“When you told me that your movie Butterfly is based on M. Butterfly, a play about a Chinese opera singer, I thought you would be interested in seeing this.”

“Wow. That’s really thoughtful.” I didn’t realize this was why Eric suggested that I go to the Summer Palace. M. Butterfly is set during the Cultural Revolution when classical Beijing opera, usually performed for imperial rulers, was outlawed. Even the fictional opera singer Song Liling—who played the part of a woman to spy for the Communist Party—was punished for his art. Loyalty to the government was no protection in the time of the Cultural Revolution. “You’re right that I’m interested.” A pang hits me. If only Ken had been as supportive. And if only Eric weren’t keeping things from me. “But stop stalling.”

A wry smile softens his face, and for a moment, he looks like the Eric I’d met. “I wanted to ask for your help.”

“My help?” My amazement quickly turns into suspicion. “Wait. Does that mean your information about my mother was just a way to lure me here?”

“No! Of course not,” he says. Then his ears flush red. “I mean, I really do have information, but also, I hoped you could help me.”

“I see.” My voice is frosty. “So, this is a trade.”

He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be a fair trade. You’d be doing me a favor if you agree to help me, but I’m not sure I would be doing you a favor by telling you about your mother.”

My stomach churns, and it takes an effort to speak. “Tell me.”

“After I met you,” he says slowly, “I asked my grandmother if she had known your mother.” He clears his throat. “She said that she had. She told me . . .”

“Just spit it out.” My whole body tenses up as I wait to hear what he’ll say.

“Your mother is a thief.”

“Are you crazy?!” I’m so loud that other tourists turn to look at me; my chest is heaving and my face is hot with anger. I step away from Eric so abruptly that my heel catches on a jutting edge of stone and I almost trip.

Eric doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with a face full of wariness.

The rage pounding through my body settles down enough for me to ask, “What, exactly, is she supposed to have stolen?”

“A painting.”

“Ha! That shows you what you know. My mother is a director at a museum. She’d no more steal a painting than she’d burn down her own house!”

“My grandmother says it was priceless.” Eric’s face sets in grim lines. “A Tang dynasty painting believed to have been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Your mother stole it from our family.”

No. It’s not possible. “Your grandmother is a liar!”

“My grandmother isn’t lying.” Eric’s face and shoulders are rigid. “I’ve seen the scars on my grandfather’s knees from kneeling on broken glass and the scars on his back from being caned until he passed out. His back is twisted and bent from years of hard labor in a communist commune. Ye Ye was in constant pain until the day he died. And it was because of that painting.” Those caught with contraband classical art during the Cultural Revolution were often punished the way Eric’s grandfather was.

My body goes limp with horror. This can’t be real. What Eric described is what happened to Song Liling in M. Butterfly. How could it have happened to actual people? Except of course it did. The Red Guard found it in Ye Ye’s home, so he paid for that painting with his blood and bones. But why would my mother steal a painting that had caused Eric’s family so much tragedy? The air presses down on me, and suddenly there are too many people around, and the heat beating down on me stifles my breath and makes my skin prickle.

Eric glances at me in concern, but then he stares at the brightly colored theater, and his voice is hard. “I haven’t told you the whole truth about the feud between our families.”

No shit. “So why don’t you tell me now?”

His gaze returns to me. “Before the Cultural Revolution, our grandfathers were best friends—closer than brothers. But the revolution turned friend against friend. Anyone, even family, could betray you. It was a time when fear was stronger than friendship or family. Our grandfathers both joined the Red Guard—a militarized youth organization under Chairman Mao. That’s when they became enemies—rivals for power in the ranks of the Communist Party.”

With a jolt to my heart, I remember what Alyssa said about my grandfather. Sung Shen Yi has made a name for himself as someone you don’t want for an enemy. A chill runs down my spine. That’s my grandfather Eric’s talking about. The same one whose very name is censored by the government. And, according to Alyssa, he won’t like that I’m in Beijing.

“Your grandfather betrayed mine. He accused my ye ye of being a counterrevolutionary, an enemy of the people, and when his fellow Red Guard searched his home . . . they found the painting. Ye Ye swore that he didn’t know how it got there, but you can see how it looked. A Red Guard caught with art from the Tang dynasty in his possession.”

I can. All too well. Bile rises in my throat as scenes from M. Butterfly flood my mind. The elegant Butterfly singing in a theater like the one in front of me. Song Liling beaten for his art.

“I thought the painting had been destroyed by the Red Guard like so much other art, but Nai Nai said that Ye Ye kept it from being destroyed somehow. For years, he held on to that painting as compensation for his suffering—until your mother stole it.”

“No,” I whisper, my mind numb with shock.

Eric doesn’t seem to hear me. “And it wasn’t just any painting,” he says bitterly. “It was a painting rumored to be from Empress Wu’s art collection from the Tang dynasty. Of course, it meant Ye Ye’s destruction.”

“Sorry.” My head goes woozy with lightness. “Whose art collection?”

He shoots me a strange look. “Wu Zetian. She’s—”

“I know who she is.” I shake my head to clear it, but that doesn’t help. Too many questions buzz in my brain. A painting believed to have been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. A painting rumored to be from Empress Wu’s art collection from the Tang dynasty. A painting kept from being destroyed somehow. Nothing makes sense. Only one fact remains unchanged—and I cling to it in this sea of confusion. My mother wouldn’t have stolen that painting. Her whole career has been to give people the experience of art.

“Eric, I’m so sorry about what happened to your grandfather. And I believe everything you told me about my grandfather. But my mother didn’t steal that painting.”

Eric’s eyes go cold. “My grandmother says she did.”

“What proof does your grandmother have?” I ask, trying to sound calm.

“Your mother disappeared without a trace right after the painting was stolen.”

“That’s your proof?” I’m almost giddy with relief. “Just because my mother left her family after the painting disappeared doesn’t mean that she stole it!”

A muscle jumps in Eric’s cheek. “If my grandmother says your mother stole the painting, then she did. My grandmother isn’t a liar.”

“And my mother isn’t a thief!”

We glare at each other, the tension building up between us like invisible bricks. Then I think of my mother, year after year, warning me against ever stepping foot in Beijing. What do I really know about my mother? “My mother didn’t steal that painting.” Even to my own ears, the denial sounds weaker than it did before.

“My grandmother described the painting to me.” His gaze never wavers from my face. “It’s a painting of a lady wearing a red dress with a blue-green shawl and sash in the style of the court ladies of the Tang dynasty. She’s sitting with a brush in one hand, writing calligraphy.”

I’ve seen that painting.

Shivers cascade over my body like I’ve been dumped in freezing water. That’s the painting hanging on the wall in my mom’s office at home. It’s a copy. It has to be. My breath crowds into my chest. Could this be the reason my mother doesn’t want to come back to China? Is she a wanted criminal after all? Voice taut with fear, I ask, “Did your family ever press charges?”

“No. My grandmother didn’t press charges,” Eric says carefully. “It’s not a good idea to admit that your family possessed a painting that was supposed to have been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution.”

I don’t say anything. The dizziness is making my head spin like a tornado. You’ve never fainted in your whole life, I tell myself sternly, but my watery legs and wobbling head don’t seem to be paying attention. Is this what Alyssa meant when she said her grandmother collapsed from shock? I suddenly get how that can happen.

“Gemma?” Eric’s voice seems distant and far away. “Are you OK?” Worry loosens the hardness of his face. “Listen, maybe I shouldn’t have told you about your mother.”

“I’m fine.” I make myself stand straight, spine rigid. If my mother stole that painting—and it’s a big if—then she had good reason. But what were those reasons? And would my mother tell me if I asked her? Right. I can just imagine how that conversation would go. Do you know that Tang dynasty painting in your office that I always thought was a copy? Funny story—I happen to be in Beijing (against your express wishes), and this guy told me that it’s the original. From Empress Wu’s own collection. That you stole. From our family’s sworn enemy. Thoughts? Anything you’d like to tell me?

Never mind. Asking my mom isn’t an option.

That means I have to find out another way. “I need to talk to Alyssa. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Funny.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s actually the favor I was going to ask you. I know exactly where Alyssa will be tonight. And my sister will be with her. But I need you to impersonate Alyssa so I can get in to talk to Mimi.”

“Then,” I say, “it looks like we need each other to get what we want.”