The Serpent We Know: A Holiday Tale of the Arts Department

“Could I get mansions covering ten thousand miles, I’d house all the poor scholars…”

Du Fu

“By the way, we’ve got New Year’s plans,” Wei Zhao announced as she pulled into the long drive in the campus fringe of Mulberry. Wei heard the entomologist sink into the upholstery.

“I thought we were doing a peaceful evening of Huluween horror, Sichuan Palace and Papa John’s, and bringing 2025 in with a bang or maybe three,” Will sulked.

“Now, that’s a Hallmark movie I’d watch,” the University’s youngest tenured prof mulled, waiting out the ailing garage door. “Not that New Year. The Lunar New Year. The Year of the Snake. Multicultural Center, end of January.”

“Oh,” Will brightened. “Sure.”

“Plus I said Netflix,” she admonished, stopping four inches short of the back wall.

**

There was a certain pall over the University Multicultural Center heading into the Year of the Snake. Since the end of winter break, three Asian-American students had reported hate-based harassment or assault – the latter incident referred to the Millington PD and resulting in two arrests and a semester’s suspension of a major frat charter with accompanying alumni meltdown. Wei’d referred two of her students to Campus Counseling Services for anxiety, depression, insomnia, isolation, and pondered on those seeking alternative ways to numb the pain.

Wei relaxed as she watched a sea of red lap and surge to what she recognized as Omnipotent Youth Society. OYS’ themes of stagnation, the monotony of daily life in industrial North China, and neijuan – cynicism toward the driving Asian work ethic – actually seemed to energize the largely teen crowd.

“Where’s the buffet?” demanded Assistant Professor Kalish had the metabolism of a hawk moth. Roughly 10 feet out food table flanking the dance floor, she spotted a broad back hovering over the assorted bounty of Pan-Asian dishes, and attempted to tug the far taller and more ravenous Will back toward the rocking Chinese New Years partiers.   

Haeju Pyeon murmured something without looking up from a selection of plump bao.

“Sorry?” Will half-shouted over the Wu Tiao Ren tune that had succeeded OYS.

“I’m gratified you decided to join in the festivities, Professor Wei,” Pyeon repeated, ignoring the bug man. The Korean-American lit professor had from the outset presumed Wei would perform chaperone duties as the youngest Asian faculty member. “You missed the Northern Lion Dance. About the only traditional element I’ve seen tonight.” Pyeon grunted as he selected a cha siu bun.

Wei pretended to examine a framed calligraphic work on the wall above the table. Many of the students had brought cultural items or their own works to display at the party. “The Asian Student Union wanted a mix of the traditional and contemporary. After what they’ve been through lately, I’d say they’re entitled.”

“Hey, Professor!”

Pyeon jumped, and the bao bailed. The professor pivoted toward a fit, grinning young man in a campus hoodie and the small but equally hard-planed redhead supporting his wobbling weight. “Tim,” the professor stated coolly.

“Tim” stumbled over, jostling the table. “And, hey, Dr. Wei!” he giggled as Wei backed diplomatically out of fume range.

“I thought this was to be an alcohol-free event,” Pyeon said.

“Yeah, Dude, Dude yeah. Thas’ why Kelli wanted to make a couple stops first,” Tim stammered. He suddenly blinked and looked up at the hanging above the table. “I said ‘Kelli, Dude, Mom tol’ me t’keep an eye on the, the uh, picture…’”

“The calligraphy,” Wei amended. “We covered imperial calligraphy in the opening lecture, Mr. Dinetti.” Tim Dinetti was down from the Chicago burbs, and favored his third-generation mother over his father.

“Oh, yeah, the calligraphy,” he managed. “Hey, Prof, you’d prolly like this. It’s a poem. ‘Bout a snake, Mom says.”

Pyeon momentarily regarded the yellowed vertical scroll encased in what likely was a Target or Hobby Lobby frame. “You don’t know Classic Chinese?”

“Ah, nooo…” Tim mumbled. “Just, you know, Mandarin.”

“It’s the language of the traditional writers and artists of, I believe, your culture.”

Tim looked more wounded than angry. His girlfriend tugged at the student’s elbow. “C’mon, babe,” Kelli said stiffly.

“Was that necessary?” Wei demanded as Pyeon glanced back up at the vaguely familiar characters. She did know Classic Chinese, and identified the character for “snake.” Words were Pyeon’s bailiwick, the visual hers, and the work appeared to be a reproduction from the Tang Dynasty period.

“Tim is normally a brilliant young man, or at least he should be once he acquires a measure of personal and literary discipline,” the older professor sighed. “I should shoot you a copy of the piece he submitted as part of our Touchstones program. Well, Tim’s piece concerns a World War II Chinese Army deserter who absconds with a priceless piece of Tang Dynasty art being shipped inland as protection from Japanese forces, with plans to bribe U.S. troops charged with evacuating non-Chinese immigrants. The soldier’s treasonous act proves for naught, as an American soldier falls in love with a family member and secures their escape from the continent. He must live with the guilt of effectively hiding away an important treasure of a home which has been altered possibly forever.

“The writing is primitively promising, and no doubt the author employed AI or Wikipedia to flesh out the historical details. But there was a ring of authenticity that moved me to recommend Tim polish it up for submission to an anthology coming up from Kaya Press. I’ll shoot you the story,” Haeju Pyeon repeated. “The Serpent We Know. We’ll work on that title.”

He turned back to the calligraphy, having paid the illiterate arts their due. Wei withdrew gracefully in search of Will, who had slipped away during Pyeon’s discourse.

**

In true University fashion, the Multicultural Center’s twin gender-free restrooms had been sited in a nearly impossible-to-find corner down a labyrinthine series of corridors.

“Anybody in there?” The entomologist ventured. “Anybody?”

Satisfied after a silent moment, he randomly picked a handle and rapped twice for good measure before turning it. Will opened and then as quickly closed the door, though the bulky man on the toilet had neither yelped or come up swinging. Will realized such a composed response was highly unorthodox, and yanked the handle again.

“Oh,” he muttered inanely, stared into the lifeless eyes of the yappy Haeju Pyeon. Will leapt as the door clicked shut behind him, then nearly collided with the prone prof as he recoiled from the bloodied inside handle. Professor Kalish realized escape would be self-incriminating.

Will dug for his iPhone as he perched on the sink, then grimaced.

**

“It must have been very upsetting for you.” Professor Zhao nodded toward the sodden crotch of his khakis.

“All I soiled was the crime scene, at least according to the Girl With The Snake Tattoo there. I think somebody’s labrador was using the sink.” Wei glanced toward the teal-haired crime tech conversing with a middle-aged cop she recognized as a friend of her department chair Saanvi. She frowned.

“By the way, was Pyeon zipped?”

“Jesus. Yes.”

“Professor Pyeon was as OCD as he was patronizing. He was sitting on the closed toilet lid?” Will nodded irritably. “So, he’d probably completed his ‘transaction.’ He wouldn’t have left things a mess. I can see some blood on the door – was he shot or stabbed?”

“Naw. Just his hand. Tattoo Girl told the cop Pyeon had a splinter she didn’t think was related to the cause of death. Which seems to be his smashing his head on the bathroom wall.”

“Like maybe the killer shoved him.”

“Or he fell.”

“No. I think he was killed, maybe on purpose, maybe by accident. Somebody was waiting for him outside the door, and they struggled before he got shoved back against the wall. Then the killer cleaned up— No. No. The splinter. What if they struggled over something, a tug-of-war that gave Pyeon a splinter, and he lost? And his blood got on the thing they were fighting over, so…”

“So the killer’s gotta wash it off and doesn’t have time to wipe the sink.”

“Ask Snake Tattoo if there were any blood droplets on the floor.”

Will peeked over toward the young woman. “I am not doing that.”

“At least you can cook,” Wei said. “I’ll be back. She’ll want to know what Pyeon was fighting over.”

**

“Yeah, what’s missing?” Detective Mead asked.

Wei stood above the ravaged Asian buffet, gawping at the now slightly askew calligraphy. She scanned the characters rapidly, and turned to the cop.

“Could you do me a favor and pull that down for me?” the diminutive scholar requested. Mead yanked a new pair of surgical gloves from his jacket, craned over the table, and carefully removed the frame from its temporary moorings. Wei winced after a half-second.

“The original is missing,” she announced.

“It’s a fake?”

“It’s a photocopy. Pretty fresh. You can see some slight smudging on a few of the characters, and I can already see a little transfer on the glass. Could you hold it up to the light?”

Det. Mead exhaled, somewhat aggrieved, but complied.

“Yup,” Wei nodded. “Marker. See that rough spot, inch or so long, on the inside of the frame?”

The cop leaned in. “The splinter.”

“This is what Professor Pyeon was wrestling for with the killer.”

“A copy of a fake Chinese painting?”

“Calligraphy. Du Fu.”

“Say what?”

“Du Fu. Born in the Gongxian Province, about 700 A.D. Military advisor to the governor general of Chengdu who retired to the country to write poetry. One of China’s greatest poets.”

“I’m happy for him.”

“The balanced and structured style, the Lu Shi verse form – balanced couplets and a clear rhythmic structure. Unless somebody’s very skilled at forgery, this appears to be one of his surviving works. A brand-new surviving work. And somebody’s stolen it. Well, re-stolen it.”

**

They found Tim Dinetti at the mahjong tables. Crazy Rich Asians and Mrs. Maisel had popularized the game among Asian-American students, and Tim was engaged with a pair of international students and a portly, intense teen in a Rick and Morty tee who deftly manipulated the tiles. Tim looked blearily up at Wei, but the mahjong shark jabbed a finger at the prof and the cop.

“Mahjong!” he called, crushing his depleted Red Bull triumphantly.

“Mr. Dinetti, we need to talk,” Wei murmured. “Somebody’s taken the Du Fu.”

Tim’s chair squeaked back, and tiles rattled. He jerked his head toward the hallway outside the now-sedate activities room, inspecting the floor. Wei followed his gaze, and spotted Kelli comparing bling with a trio of coeds near the idled DJ riser. Tim signaled her, and his date waved it off before the group erupted in laughter.

“Dad’s gonna fucking kill me,” Tim moaned.

**

“It was Mom’s idea,” Tim groaned, holding his forehead. Detective Mead had stationed a uniform in the hallway outside the center’s library room; the teal-haired girl was now examining the console of the library’s mammoth but appropriately outdated Inkjet printer. “How’d you know?”

Wei smiled. “It was your story. Professor Pyeon noted The Serpent We Know had a ring of authenticity, and once I realized what you’d brought to the party, I knew why.”

The professor turned to Mead, poised over a legal pad. “During World War II, the Chinese government feared paintings, sculptures, carvings, and other works would be plundered by Japanese forces. So they shipped the imperial art of the Forbidden City cross-country for safekeeping – nearly 20,000 cases, by truck, rail, steamship, even bamboo rafts. Of course, there were losses and thefts along the way. Was he a soldier, Tim?”

“My great-uncle – Great-Grandma’s brother -- was assigned to drive some of the smaller stuff west to Nanjing. Mom told me the Japanese had killed millions of Chinese, and the government would probably crash by the time the war was over.”

“The imperial government fell to the Communists in 1949,” Wei explained. Mead failed to jot it down.

“Great-Uncle Huang was scared to death Great-Grandma and his wife and kids are gonna get blown to shit or put in a prison camp, and decided to take a couple things he thought nobody would miss. He hoped he could pay off somebody to get the family out of China.”

“In addition to helping civilians and refugees during the war, the military’s Operation Beleaguer helped repatriate Japanese and Korean citizens who’d been living in China, from 1945 to 1949,” Wei noted.

“Great-Uncle Huang sat on the Du Fu stuff until he saw an opportunity. With all the chaos coming down, he figured he could get out of China and then escape somewhere safe. But then, like in the story, my great-grandpa, who was a colonel, fell in love with Great-Grandma and went through all kinds of shit with the military to get her and the family out. Great-Uncle Huang knew he’d be a wanted man if the government ever found out the Du Fu was missing, so he deserted and came to America. He couldn’t bear to destroy the thing, but Mom said it like haunted him so much he confessed to Great-Grandma, and they secretly passed it down to my Grandma and Grandpa and then Mom and Dad. But Mom said it started eating at her, too. Then Dad’s restaurant started struggling, and Mom saw a way to save the business and get rid of the thing.”

“She found a collector? I know a similar Tang Dynasty piece by Wang Xizhi might fetch tens of millions.”

“The online dude only offered like a half-million tops. That’s why we came up with this idiot plan. Mom ‘loaned’ me the Du Fu, which was supposed to get ‘stolen’ during the party. Except instead, Mom and I would get it to the collector guy this weekend in Chicago while Dad’s at work.”

Mead tapped his pen on the pad. “Your Mom tell this collector what you two were planning?”

Tim shrugged despondently.

“Whyn’t you call her, if you haven’t already?”

Tim wandered off to a corner couch, and the young tech signaled Detective Mead to the printer. Wei scanned her memory for any unfamiliar, out-of-place faces she’d seen downstairs. She knew a number of Asian arts collectors and dealers, and while most were scrupulously ethical, there were always a few online oddballs who weren’t above fraud or outright robbery to secure a piece for their private gallery or a hot buyer.

Mead sat back down, eyeing Tim raking his fingers through his hair as he broke the news. “The printer memory showed a scan printed out 11X17, landscape, about 75 minutes ago. Be an incredible coincidence if that wasn’t the Fu Du thing.”

“Du Fu. Professor Pyeon screwed up the thief’s original plans. He recognized the Du Fu, probably by literary style and content. Du Fu was a loyal civil service, but he was critical of the imperial government’s failures and wrote about famine, war, and personal tragedy. He’d survived being taken prisoner during the An Lushan mutiny and civil war, and it no doubt affected him. Millions died, and the Dynasty was severely weakened. Du Fu didn’t attempt to return to government service until well after the rebellion and his artistic self-exile.”

“Mm.”

“Thing is, Du Fu’s poem is about more than snakes, or at least reptilian snakes. In Chinese culture, the snake has deep symbolism – wisdom, rebirth and renewal, power and healing. But the snake’s also seen as cunning, stealthy, silently dangerous. And that seems to be Du Fu’s takeoff point. He talks about the serpent emerging from its discarded skin to become wiser, more cunning and deadly. I wonder if Du Fu might have heard whisperings of a new coup brewing. That would make this piece a potentially invaluable historical document that could provide new insights into the Tang Dynasty. I’m guessing that’s why Pyeon ‘stole’ it. But then—”

“Nature called louder than History,” Mead finished.

Wei nodded. “Our second ‘thief’ spotted Pyeon removing the piece, followed him to the restroom, and attacked as he came out.”

Mead glanced at Tim, who stared glumly at his phone. Wei was typing furiously on her own phone as he turned back. She stowed the device and smiled angelically at the cop. “You think Dinetti’s being wasted was an act? Maybe he decided to scrap his mom’s plan and make his own deal for the calligraphy thingie.”

Tim flopped back into his chair dejectedly. “Mom wasn’t home, so I had to tell Dad all about the Du Fu. He laughed.”

“Laughed?” Mead blinked.

“’Til I told him about Professor Pyeon. Dad hated that thing more than I thought – he’d been thinking about turning it in to some Chinese Cultural Something…”

“The China Cultural Relics Protection Foundation?” Wei inquired. “May I suggest your parents contact the Chicago Art Institute? It would be safer and a fewer headaches to let the Institute serve as intermediary with the Foundation.”

“If we ever get it back,” Tim muttered.

“We will.” She turned to Mead. “Who got Tim into this unusual and distracting state of inebriation? Who dragged Tim away from Professor Pyeon before they could get into a possibly revealing discussion of his story or the Du Fu? Who was in a position to overhear Tim’s discussions with his mom, to drag out the details over post-coital pillow talk?” Wei’s phone buzzed, and she peered at her screen. “I’d get downstairs quick as you can, Detective. Once I realized who our second thief was, I texted Will to keep an eye on Kelli and move in when the time was right.”

Mead shoved his chair back. “I got guys downstairs, and you ask Dr. Science to move on her?”

“Good God, not on Kelli. On her ginormous purse. I didn’t want to risk damaging the Du Fu if she got combative with your men.”

Mead shook his head and retrieved his own phone.

Wei beamed at the bewildered Tim. “And he cooks, too.”