I’ve just finished a delicious filet mignon, but it sits a little heavier in my stomach than I’d like. Across the table, Antoine leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, exuding a natural calm that makes me grit my teeth. I don’t know how he does it. If I spent in a year what he did just today on the gala tickets and our new clothes, not to mention the flight from Chengdu—business class, of course—I’d need a paper bag to breathe into.
The auctioneer, a thin, slick man with a honeyed voice, steps up to the podium and taps the mic. The buzz of conversation in the room fades.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he begins in English, his accent as well polished as his shoes. “Welcome to tonight’s exclusivecharity auction that will benefit Shanghai’s best animal welfare organization!”
The guests clap.
“We have a single, very special item tonight—an antique music box,” he continues. “It’s estimated to date back to mid-eighteenth-century France.”
A spotlight illuminates a glass case at the front of the room. Inside is the fabled music box.Ah, so that’s what it looks like!
In theory, I’ve seen it before, in Grandma Feng’s house. That’s how my memory had retained the rose-and-ribbon motif I had sketched sometime last year. But that same memory had somehow filtered out the object itself.
“The starting price is 30,000 dollars or 220,000 yuan,” the auctioneer announces.
It’s twice what Jie got for it in Chengdu. I glance at Antoine. His face is unreadable, although his grip does tighten around his wine glass.
Mrs. Wu rises from her seat. Her breathtaking cheongsam shimmers under the lights as she waits for the mic.
“Thank you all for being here!” she says when a server hands her the mic. “Your generosity tonight will directly support abandoned pets by providing shelter, care, and a second chance at happiness!”
The room applauds politely.
She smiles. “Let’s make this a night to remember.”
The auctioneer recovers the mic. “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, let the bidding begin!”
Several paddles shoot up.
“Do I have 35,000 dollars?” The auctioneer acknowledges a bidder.
To my surprise, the room explodes with a frenzy of higher bids. 40,000. 45,000. 60,000… The numbers climb steadily. Ilose track as voices call out bids in rapid succession. Antoine sits unmoving, his paddle still on the table.
I lean over and whisper, “Aren’t you supposed to be bidding?”
“Patience, Laura.”
When the price hits 200,000, most of the paddles drop. Only Antoine’s and another man’s—a sharp-dressed European in his forties—remain.
“Do I hear 210,000?” the auctioneer shouts. “Anyone? Don’t miss this opportunity!”
The other man raises his paddle.
“Two hundred fifty,” Antoine says.
I nearly choke on my water.Is he out of his mind?
Antoine, whose gaze is fixed on the other bidder, doesn’t seem to notice my panic.
“Do I hear 300,000?” the auctioneer asks.
No, you don’t.
The room hums in suspenseful anticipation. Even in this crowd, 300,000 isn’t pocket change.
Antoine doesn’t even flinch when he raises the bid to 400,000.
While the auctioneer sings his praises and dares the others to do better, I decide it’s my duty to speak up. What if Antoine has a secret gambling addiction, and this auction triggered it? What if he’s going to spend all the money he has on a trinket? Or worse, the money he doesn’t have?
