The Painter of Shanghai (33 page)

And yet it’s clear that this crowd wants far more from Yuliang than an apology. ‘Little slut!’ one man shouts. ‘Smiling while showing her teats like a sow. There’s only one place for a low woman like that.’

‘And those
feet
,’ cries a woman. ‘Like big, floppy fish! Why bother taking off your shoes?’

‘How old did you say she was?’

‘Not a day over sixteen!’

Cruel laughter. Panic rising, Yuliang backs away. She’s
almost directly against her canvas when another voice breaks through, familiar. Oversweet and insidious. ‘Please, gentlemen. Let me pass.’

The crowd falls back for a fat woman in a red dress. Fanning herself rapidly, she trots to where Yuliang stands. Hands on hips, she studies her. ‘You’re too thin,’ Godmother pronounces. ‘You’ll blow away at the first wind.’

Yuliang follows the hated gaze down to her body – which (she sees with shock) is suddenly as naked as in her painting. And yes, she is thin. As thin as a great-smoke addict. As thin as the famine victims from the north. Her skin stretches over the bony frame of her womb, sheer as silk. Aghast, she shields her belly with her palms. ‘It’s the child,’ she pleads. ‘He eats everything.’

The bells on the madam’s little purse jingle with false cheer as she steps forward. ‘Don’t lie,’ she says. ‘You know what happens to girls who betray me.’

The crowd, smelling violence, closes in. ‘Give her what she deserves!’ they shout. ‘Pass her back when you’re through! I’ll pay twenty!’

‘I’ll pay thirty!’

Yuliang curls her body against the first blow. She’s just sinking to the ground when she hears another voice: ‘Xiuqing.’

The cold air tastes suddenly of ash and citrus, of old cedar.

Yuliang drops her hands from her eyes. The sight of the slender form gliding toward her seems to release something clenched in her chest. ‘Mama?’ she murmurs. ‘Mama. You came back.’

Her mother sweeps forward, dressed in her finest brocade. A shawl of silver hides her face. But Yuliang would know her anywhere – the fine, soft hands, the perfect posture. Joyfully, she leaps up to greet her.

But then, abruptly, the slim form drops her arms. She looks at
Bathing Beauty
, then back at Yuliang. ‘Daughter,’ she says, pushing back her headdress. ‘Xiuqing. What have you done?’

Icy water seems to trickle down Yuliang’s scalp. Because while the body – clothes, fingers, the perfect posture – are undeniably her mama’s, the eyes aren’t. These eyes have no pupils. They have no color at all. They are as white and as soulless as snow.

Yuliang jerks herself up, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She presses her fingers to her chest. She feels the sweaty closeness of her cotton shift, her undergarments. When she finally rouses herself enough to scrabble for her wristwatch, she sees it only reads 2:30. She has slept for less than an hour.

Mouth still dry, she flops back on the cot, hands reflexively fluttering to her belly. The skin there is smooth and tight, unmarked by her visit to the Russian abortionist Zanhua found for her in the French Concession. For an instant there’s an empty ache, more emotional than physical – an echo of the strange sadness that descended after the procedure. Sitting up, she shakes it off, forcing her thoughts to a pleasanter place: last night’s pre-exhibit ‘varnishing party.’ She reminds herself of Liu Haisu’s clear excitement over her submission: upon seeing it, he promptly put
Bathing Beauty
first in the order of exhibition.
‘It’s the one they’ll be talking about,’ he said gleefully. ‘We’ll make it easy to gawk.’

And even Yuliang, jittery with nerves and lack of sleep, half terrified of what she was about to do, had to admit he was right. Against the other works – landscapes, still lifes, a few traditional portraits –
Bathing Beauty
was little less than a phenomenon. Its crimsons, oranges, pinks, and purples seared one’s eye against the smoky grays of the neighboring watercolor. Yuliang’s naked gaze commandeered the room; defiantly facing down both admirers and opponents. Daring them to order her to redress.

The work also unquestionably fueled the resentment that many of Yuliang’s classmates felt for her already. Hanging herself in place, Yuliang heard the whispers; she saw the smirks. She felt envy fill the room, more astringent than the stink of the veneer. It came as no surprise when her nemesis, the comprador’s daughter, strolled over, her face as tight and painted as her (fully clothed) self-portrait, which Principal Liu had hung in a corner alcove.

‘Madame Pan,’ she said sweetly. ‘You have my congratulations. Such a prominent spot – I expect plenty of men will want to buy you.’ Glancing at
Beauty
, she added, ‘And I’m certain, of course, that your
husband
will be very proud. Will his first lady be coming too?’

Boar or no boar, Yuliang very nearly slapped the girl’s face; nothing more than the prospect of certain expulsion kept her hand by her side. But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still fuming when Liu Haisu came by
Beauty
’s new spot.

The young principal’s visit, however, was far more encouraging. Liu Haisu handed her a full wineglass that
smelled faintly of sewage, then cocked his head in thought. Yuliang assumed he was giving her painting a second going-over. But when she looked up from her drink, his amused eyes were on her.

‘Courage, my friend,’ he said. ‘Think of how Manet must have felt before showing
Le déjeuner sur l’herbe
at the Salon des Refusés. Or Sargent, with
Portrait of Madame X
.’

‘And look what happened after.’ Fresh from European art history exams, Yuliang knew how much scorn was initially heaped on both works.

‘Look indeed,’ Liu Haisu retorted. ‘The paintings woke a sleeping public. They’re now studied by every art devotee in the world.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘“The deathly white of Madame X’s complexion, so disturbing forty years ago, in today’s light can be seen as nothing short of pure genius.”’

‘You read my essay?’

‘It ended up in my portion of this year’s exams.’ He swirled his wine expertly. As though this might somehow improve it. ‘Your writing has certainly progressed.’

Yuliang grimaced as she recalled her first essay two years earlier – the one she’d finally had Zanhua finish for her, after stubbornly resisting help until two hours before class. It was a humiliation she’d promised never to repeat; within a term she’d conquered five hundred new characters.

‘Does that mean I passed?’ she asks now.

‘I pass people based on work, not words.’ He drained his glass. ‘For me, you passed the day you sat for the entrance examinations. Why else do you think I overruled
those conservative old ox-farts who wanted to keep you out?’ He nodded at Yuliang’s wineglass. ‘Finish that. It will help.’

Yuliang did – and it did.

Still, seven hours later, she now feels it all over again: the damp-palmed cramp of raw terror. Not for the first time, she finds herself wondering whether she is making a fatal mistake. She expects controversy, of course. But what if her work is met with complete outrage and nothing more? What if her career ends before it’s even begun? Zanhua (she suspects) would be relieved, at least – though of course he’d never be ungentlemanly enough to say so. It is one of the unspoken terms of their reconciliation: they don’t discuss her painting. Just as they don’t discuss her aborted child.

The Door of Hope, where the French Concession constables took Yuliang that night, is a Nanjing Road refuge for prostitutes. Inside the whitewashed clinic, a stern German doctor probed Yuliang and asked questions through his Chinese nurse. ‘Were you drinking?’ the nurse murmured. ‘Do you smoke? Take white powder?’ And a moment later, frowning, ‘Are you aware that you’re with child?’

Yuliang turned her face away. ‘Get rid of it,’ she whispered.

The woman crossed herself and shook her head.

Later, they gave her a sedative, opened a file. They asked more, endless questions: ‘Do you know what day it is?’ ‘Do you know where you are?’ ‘Can you give us the name of someone we can send for?’ Guifei came to
mind first, but she was away, visiting relatives for the upcoming holiday. Chen Duxiu was in Beijing, and Ahying and Qihua would both simply turn to Zanhua.

And so Yuliang said nothing. Through her laudanum-induced haze, she simply waited, and watched the room fill with girls.

Some straggled in bleeding, their cheap dresses ripped. Others sashayed in in false fur and satin. Some were older, their faces hard beneath the harsh lines and bluish bruises. Others were young enough to carry dolls. One girl, thirteen or fourteen at the most, said she had been tied to a bed and fed on table scraps, like a dog. When the German doctor tried to touch her she flung herself across the room. Sickened by the familiarity of it all, Yuliang fixed her eyes on the atrocious painting that hung on the wall: Jesus Christ, having his feet washed.

The washer girl’s eyes were almond-shaped, her modeling clumsy, her color flat. The work’s perspective was almost laughably skewed. And yet for all her scorn, Yuliang couldn’t help but remember another pair of feet, bruised and broken in a small tin tub. She remembered Zanhua’s white hands massaging corrupted tissue and shattered joints. The hours spent encouraging her (‘Take a deep breath; walk with me’) as, step by agonizing step, Yuliang hobbled around the house, relearning how to walk.

Eventually she drifted into a bruised half-sleep, one filled with floating images of the past. She thought she saw Jinling smiling at her, whispering, ‘Listen, Yuliang.
Listen…
’ She saw Wu Ding in an opium haze. ‘You see?’ he slurred. ‘You’re very smart. You could be just about
anything…’ She shut her eyes against him, only to feel his soft grasp on her wrist. ‘Yuliang. Yuliang, my beloved. Wake up.’

‘Don’t
touch
me.’ Jerking away, Yuliang opened her tired eyes again – this time to the sight of her husband.

Zanhua stood before her, his face drawn and pale, his left cheek smudged again by ink. His hair was uncombed, pointing stiffly in three directions. Confused, she tried to sit up. ‘How…?’

He put a finger to her lips. ‘The painting. You wrote your name and address on the back.’

She stared at him a moment, struggling to comprehend both the words and the evening’s astonishing reversal – the fact that the very work that had driven them apart earlier had somehow brought them back together.

‘The baby,’ she said at last. ‘They won’t take it out. But I don’t want… I can’t…’

‘Shhh,’ he said again. ‘It’s all right. We’ll have more.’

Yuliang doesn’t remember speaking another word. She just remembers the way he wrapped his arms around her. And his warmth: the way it covered her in safety. Allowing her to slip back into her stonelike sleep.

28

The next day’s turnout is the best mix of wealthy Shanghainese and art-savvy Chinese. The men wear slim suits, understated ties. The women are powdered and pouting, their dresses bedecked with the braids and buckles still popular in the wake of the Great War. Altogether, they’re about as far from Yuliang’s loutish dream mob as could be. Still, for the first hour her heart leaps to her mouth each time anyone views her work.

The reactions fall mostly into the expected range: there are guffaws and giggles, double-takes and outright blushes. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ snaps one matron. ‘Not even your husband should see so much of you at once.’ Another man studies the portrait with bulging eyes, then invites Yuliang on a holiday in Hongzhou. Far more offensive, though, is the first offer Yuliang ever receives for her work. It comes not from a man (as her nemisis predicted) but from a young couple flush with new Shanghai money.

‘Dah-ling!’
gushes the wife, using the Anglicized endearment that’s now fashionable in chic social circles. ‘It’s perfect for the parlor – it matches the chaise wonderfully.’

‘I don’t know – the browns might not work with the ottoman.’ Her husband narrows his eyes in thought. ‘We could try it in the billiards room.’

‘Or the third-floor powder room,’ the woman offers, already reaching for her purse. ‘Over the bath? Once they finish the plumbing? It might be amusing…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Yuliang interrupts, unable to bear any more. ‘It isn’t for sale.’

‘Not for sale?’ The woman turns to her husband in confusion.

‘Of course it’s for sale,’ he says. ‘This is Shanghai. Everything is for sale.’

‘Not this,’ says Yuliang (though what she almost says is,
Not me
).

The woman points at
Bathing Beauty
, like a child denied a toy. ‘But then, why paint it at all?’

Yuliang takes her in – the impeccable bob, the tasteful nails, the Paris-perfect suit of summer wool. Her outfit and grooming for today alone likely cost more than Yuliang’s entire wardrobe. Oddly enough, though, what Yuliang feels for her isn’t envy but pity.
You’re bored to death,
she thinks suddenly.
And you don’t even know it.

She says it gently: ‘I paint because I am a painter.’

The majority of her viewers, however, are appreciative in far more affirming ways. ‘
Charmante! Une belle image – très post-impressioniste!’
exclaims one Frenchwoman, whom Yuliang only later realizes is a juror. An American in pongee pumps her hand like a well handle. Uchiyama Kanzo, the young Japanese who runs the bookstore where Guifei and Xing Xudun attend their meetings, offers to hang her work on his shop walls. Perhaps most encouraging is the French consul, also one of the day’s three central judges. A florid man with a shining flap of hair combed carefully from one ear to the other, Monsieur
Delafleur spends nearly five minutes before
Bathing Beauty,
blinking as though something’s caught in his eye.

‘You’ve studied abroad?’ he asks Yuliang at last, through his translator.

‘No, monsieur.’

‘You did this – how? With mirrors?’

‘A combination of mirrors and memory.’ She drops her eyes rather than see him trying to picture her painting this way.

‘Quite surprising,’ he offers finally, and looks her up and down once more.