An Inch of Ashes (32 page)

‘Are we comfortable?’ the Great Man asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice.

The young man gave the barest nod.

‘Good. Then perhaps we might continue. As I was saying... Hsieh Ho, in his classic fifth-century work, the
Ku Hua-p’in-lu
, set down for all time the Six Principles by which the great artist might be recognized. In reiterating these, we might remember that, while Hsieh Ho intended that all six should be present in a great work of art, they do, nonetheless, form a kind of hierarchy, the First Principle, that of spirit-consonance, of harmony of spirit to the motion of life – that sense we have of the painting coming alive through the harmonizing of the vital force, the
ch’i
, of the painter with the
ch’i
of his subject matter – forming the first rank, the First Level, if you like.’

There was a mild ripple of laughter at the Great Man’s play of words. He continued quickly, his anger at the rudeness of the young man’s interruption set aside momentarily.

‘Bearing this in mind, we see how the Second Principle, the bone-structure of the brushwork – and its strength in conveying the
ch’i
or vital energy – stems from the First and is, indeed, dependent upon it, as a Minister is dependent upon the favour of his T’ang. Likewise, the Third Principle, the fidelity or faithfulness of the artistic representation to the subject, is dependent upon these first two. And so forth...’

He hesitated, then looked directly at the young man seated at the head of the stairs. ‘You understand me, young Master?’

Again the young man nodded.

‘Good. Then let me move on quickly. Fourth of the Six great Principles is likeness in colour. Fifth is the proper placing of the various elements within the scheme of the painting. And Sixth, and last in our great hierarchy, is the preservation of the experience of the past through making pictorial reference to the great classical paintings.’

Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, then moved to one side, half turning as the screen behind him lit up, showing an ancient painting.

‘There is, of course, one further quality that Hsieh Ho demanded from the great artist – a quality which, because it is intrinsic to art, is enshrined in each of those six great Principles – that of
ching.
Of precision or minuteness of detail.’

He indicated the painting. ‘This, as you may recognize, is Tung Ch’i-ch’ang’s
Shaded Dwelling among Streams and Mountains
, one of the great works of Ming art. This hanging scroll...’

The Great Man had turned, looking back at his audience, but now he stopped, his mouth open, for the young man had stood and was making his way slowly down the steps again.

‘Forgive me,’ he said tartly, his patience snapping, ‘but have I to suffer more of your interruptions?’

The young man stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘No. I’ve heard enough.’

‘Heard enough...’ For the briefest moment Fan’s face was contorted with anger. Then, controlling himself, he came to the edge of the platform, confronting the young man. ‘What do you mean,
heard enough
?’

The young man stared back at Fan Liang-wei, unperturbed, it seemed, by the hardness in his voice, undaunted by his reputation.

‘I mean what I said. I’ve heard enough. I don’t have to wait to hear what you have to say – you’ve said it all already.’

Fan laughed, astonished. ‘I see...’

The young man lifted his arm, pointing beyond Fan at the screen. ‘That, for instance. It’s crap.’

There was a gasp of astonishment from the tiers, followed by a low murmur of voices. Fan Liang-wei, however, was smiling now.

‘Crap, eh? That’s your considered opinion, is it,
Shih
...?’

The young man ignored the request for his name, just as he ignored the ripple of laughter that issued from the benches on all sides. ‘Yes,’ he answered, taking two slow steps closer to the platform. ‘It’s dead. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. But you...’ He shook his head. ‘Well, to call this lifeless piece of junk one of the great works of Ming art is an insult to the intelligence.’

Fan straightened, bristling, then gave a short laugh. ‘You’re a student of painting, then, young Master?’

The young man shook his head.

‘Ah, I see. Then what are you precisely? You
are
a member of the college, I assume?’

There was more laughter from the tiers; a harder, crueller laughter as the students warmed to the exchange. The young man had stepped out of line. Now the Great Man would humiliate him.

‘I’m a scientist...’

‘A scientist? Ah,
I see.
’

The laughter was like a great wave this time, rolling from end to end of the great lecture hall. Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, sensing victory.

‘Then you know about things like
painting
?’

The young man stood there, the laughter in the hall washing over him, waiting for it to subside. When it did he answered the Great Man.

‘Enough to know that Tung Ch’i-ch’ang was the dead-end of a process of slow emasculation of a once-vital art form.’

The Great Man nodded. ‘I see. And Cheng Ro... I suppose he
was
a great painter... in your estimation?’

There was more laughter, but it was tenser now. The atmosphere had changed, become electric with anticipation. They sensed blood.

The young man looked down. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘You know your trouble, Fan Liang-wei?’ He looked up at the older man challengingly. ‘You’re a slave to convention. To an art that’s not a real art at all, just an unimaginative and imitative
craft
.’

There was a low murmur of disapproval from the tiers at that. As for Fan himself, he was still smiling, but it was a tight, tense mask of a smile, behind which he seethed.

‘But to answer your question,’ the young man continued. ‘Yes, Cheng Ro was a great painter. He had
lueh
, that invaluable quality of being able to produce something casually, almost uncaringly. His ink drawing of dragons...’

‘
Enough!
’ Fan roared, shivering with indignation. ‘How
dare
you lecture me about art, you know-nothing! How
dare
you stand there and insult me with your garbled nonsense!’

The young man stared back defiantly at Fan. ‘I dare because I’m right. Because I know when I’m listening to a fool.’

The hall had gone deathly silent. Fan, standing there at the edge of the platform, was very still. The smile had drained from his face.

‘
A fool?’
he said finally, his voice chill. ‘And you think you can do better?’

For a moment the young man hesitated. Then, astonishingly, he nodded and, his eyes never leaving Fan Liang-wei’s face, began to make his way down to the platform.

The Café Burgundy was alive with news of what had happened.

At a table near the edge of The Green, the four friends leaned in close, talking. Wolf had missed the lecture, but Sergey had been there with Lotte and had seen the young man mount the platform.

‘You should have seen him,’ Sergey said, his eyes glinting. ‘As cool as anything, he got up there and stood at the lectern, as if he’d been meaning to speak all along.’

Wolf shook his head. ‘And what did Fan say?’

‘What
could
he say? For a moment he was so dumbfounded that he stood there with his mouth hanging open, like a fish. Then he went a brilliant red and began to shout at Shepherd to sit down. Oh, it was marvellous. “It’s
my
lecture,” the old boy kept saying, over and over. And Shepherd, bold as brass, turns to him and says, “Then you could do us all the courtesy of talking sense.”’

They all roared at that; all but Catherine, who looked down. ‘I’ve seen him, I think,’ she said, ‘in here.’

Sergey nodded. ‘You can’t really miss him. He’s an ostentatious little sod. Do you know what he does?’ He looked about the table, then leaned back, lifting his glass. ‘He comes in at the busiest time of day and has a table to himself. He actually pays for all five places. And then he sits there, drinking coffee, not touching a bite of food, a pocket comset on the table in front of him.’ Sergey lifted his nose in a gesture of disdain, then drained his glass.

Wolf leaned forward. ‘Yes, but what happened? What did Fan say?’

Sergey gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Well, it was strange. It was as if Shepherd had challenged him. I don’t know. I suppose it had become a matter of face... Anyway, instead of just sending for the stewards and having him thrown out, Fan told him to go ahead.’

‘I bet that shut him up!’

‘No. And that’s the most amazing part of it. You see, Shepherd actually began to lecture us.’

‘No!’ Wolf said, his eyes wide with astonishment. Beside him, Catherine stared down into her glass.

‘Yes... he droned on for ages. A lot of nonsense about the artist and the object, and about there being two kinds of vision. Oh, a lot of high-sounding mumbo-jumbo.’

‘He didn’t drone, Sergey. And he was good. Very good.’

Sergey laughed and leaned across the table, smiling at the red-haired girl who had been his lover for almost two years. ‘Who told you that? Lotte here?’ He laughed. ‘Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. It’s a pity you missed it, Catherine. Shepherd was quite impressive, in a bullshitting sort of way, but...’ He shrugged, lifting his free hand, the fingers wide open. ‘Well, that’s all it was, really. Bullshit.’

Catherine glanced up at him, as ever slightly intimidated by his manner. She picked up her glass and cradled it against her cheek, the chill red wine casting a roseate shadow across her face. ‘I didn’t just
hear
about it. I was there. At the back of the hall. I got there late, that’s all.’

‘Then you know it was crap.’

She hesitated, embarrassed. She didn’t like to contradict him, but in this he was wrong. ‘I... I don’t agree...’

He laughed. ‘You
don’t
agree?’

She wanted to leave it at that, but he insisted.

‘What do you mean?’

She took a breath. ‘I mean that he was right. There
is
more to it than Fan Liang-wei claims. The Six Principles... they strangle art. Because it
isn’t
simply a matter of selection and interpretation. As Shepherd said, it has to do with other factors – with things unseen.’

Sergey snorted.

She shivered, irritated by his manner. ‘I knew you’d do that. You’re just like Fan Liang-wei, sneering at anything you disagree with. And both of you... well, you see only the material aspect of the art – its structure and its plastic elements, you don’t see—’

Sergey had been shaking his head, a patient, condescending smile fixed on his lips, but now he interrupted her.

‘What else
is
there? There’s only light and shadow, texture and colour. That’s all you can put on a canvas. It’s a two-dimensional thing. And all this business about things unseen, it’s...’ He waved it away lightly with his hand.

She shook her head violently, for once really angry with him. ‘No! What you’re talking about is great design, not great art. Shepherd was right. That painting, for instance – the Tung Ch’i-ch’ang – it
was
crap.’

Sergey snorted again. ‘So you say. But it has nothing to do with art, really, has it?’ He smiled, sitting back in his chair. ‘You fancy the fellow, don’t you?’

She set her glass down angrily. Wine splashed and spilled across the dark green cloth. ‘Now
you’re
talking bullshit!’

He shook his head, talking over her protestations. ‘My friend, Amandsun, tells me that the man’s not even a member of the Arts Faculty. He really
is
a scientist of some kind. A
technician
.’

He emphasized each syllable of the final word, giving it a distinctly unwholesome flavour.

Catherine glared at him a moment, then turned away, facing the aviary and its colourful occupants. On one of the higher perches a great golden bird fluffed out its wings as if to stretch into flight. The long, silken under-feathers were as black as night. It opened its beak, then settled again, making no sound.

Sergey watched the girl a moment, his eyes half-lidded, then, sensing victory, pushed home with his taunts.

‘Yes, I bet our dear Catherine wouldn’t mind
him
tinkering with her things unseen.’

That did it. She turned and took her glass, then threw its contents into his face. He swore and started to get up, wiping at his eyes, but Wolf leaned across, holding his arm firmly. ‘Too far, Sergey. Just a bit too far...’ he said, looking across at Catherine as he spoke.

Catherine stood there a moment longer, her head held back, fierce, proud, her face lit with anger; then she took five coins from her purse and threw them down on to the table. ‘For the meal,’ she said. Then she was gone; was walking out into the Mainway, ignoring the turned heads at other tables.

Sergey was wiping the wine from his eyes with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘It stings! It fucking well stings!’

‘It serves you right,’ said Lotte, watching her friend go, her eyes uncharacteristically thoughtful. ‘You always have to push it beyond the limits, don’t you?’

Sergey glared at her, then relented. The front of his hair was slick with wine, his collar stained. After a moment he laughed. ‘But I was right, wasn’t I? It hit home. Dead centre!’

Beside him Wolf laughed, looking across at his sister and meeting her eyes. ‘Yes...’ he said, smiling, seeing his smile mirrored back. ‘I’ve never seen her so angry. But who is this Shepherd? I mean, what’s his background?’

Sergey shrugged. ‘No one seems to know. He’s not from one of the known families. And he doesn’t make friends, that’s for sure.’

‘An upstart, do you think?’ Lotte leaned across, collecting up the coins and stacking them in a neat pile.

‘I guess so.’ Sergey wiped at his fringe with his fingers, then licked them. ‘Hmm. It might be interesting to find out, don’t you think? To try to unearth something about him?’

Wolf laughed. ‘Unearth... I like that. Do you think... ?’

Sergey wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. ‘No. He’s too big to have come from the Clay. You can spot those runts from ten
li
off. No, Mid-Levels, I’d say.’