The Painter of Shanghai (44 page)

‘Ah, Madame Pan,’ he says now, beaming. ‘You look very well indeed. Have you by any chance put on some weight?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ she replies (musing that in France this
would be the height of insults). ‘But thank you. I must say, by the way, that I noticed the marquee on my way in.’

‘New characters!’ he announces brightly. ‘Multicolored, as you doubtless observed. And a full six millimeters larger than the ones from last year.’

She nods. ‘But I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve done it again.’

His brow creases very slightly. ‘Done what?’

‘Called me a “famous woman painter.”’

He beams. ‘So you are.’

Yuliang stifles a sigh. ‘May I ask – again – why it’s necessary to insert “woman”? Does anyone honestly think at this point that I’m a man?’

He appears to ponder this, teeth still bared. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

‘Is it too late to remove it?’

‘Unfortunately, I’m afraid it is. You see, we’ve already printed it on the posters and programs.’ Reaching into his pocket, he hands one over. ‘I truly am sorry. I completely forgot our conversation on the topic. The unfortunate truth is, there have been a number of things on my plate recently.’

He is still smiling. But Yuliang also detects – or thinks she does – a note of uncertainty in his voice. She waits a moment. But when he doesn’t elaborate, she changes the subject. ‘Is that the hanging order I sent you?’ she asks, pointing to the list. ‘May I?’

She studies the hastily scribbled little chart, then turns back to study the wall. ‘I’m going to make some changes,’ she announces.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Of course.’ Well accustomed to Yuliang’s
obsessive involvement in her exhibitions, he normally gives her free rein. Today, though, is different. Still grinning staunchly, he trails after her, smoking with quick, fraught puffs. He wrings his hands as she unwraps
Strong Man
, taps his foot when she puts it on the central wall. But it isn’t until Yuliang has turned to leave that he makes his move.

‘Madame Pan.’

‘Yes?’

‘A word, please?’ Inevitably, he’s still smiling. Only a twitching eyelid betrays his agitation. ‘I was just wondering about the positioning of that – that one.’ He points at
Dreaming Nude.

Yuliang looks at the work. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No, no, of course not. It’s just, I wonder if it might work a bit better elsewhere. For instance, there.’ He points toward an alcove that is more or less hidden behind the western wall. It is where Yuliang has placed her recent
guohua
pieces, traditional watercolors she’s completed to strengthen her Chinese lines. She’s less happy with the results than she might have been – which, of course, is precisely why she put them there.

She frowns. ‘But it would have no visibility there.’

‘Well, yes. I merely think it… that is, that we perhaps…’ He chuckles mournfully. ‘It might be safer.’

‘Safer than what?’

He wrings his hands together. ‘I’m sure you’ve read of the NOVA show. The reaction was, shall we say, somewhat more volatile than we’d expected. The incident prompted the board to consider the need to adhere more firmly to certain… ah, standards.’

She tries to suppress her irritation. ‘Surely my work still meets your artistic standards.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, madame. You are, after all, China’s famous Western-style woman painter.’ He chuckles again.

Yuliang stares back, unamused. ‘What standards do I now not meet?’

‘Well – and this isn’t
my
thought, of course – but there are certain new breezes, that is to say, new moods in Shanghai. Even among its more modern gallery goers. In light of what happened, we are simply wondering whether we should make the more… ah, shall we say
forceful
pieces a little less, ah, salient…’

‘Wait.’ When she holds her hand up he actually flinches: the tabloids must be running that old story about her slapping the landscapes instructor again. Yuliang can’t help but take a small, spiteful satisfaction in his terror.

‘You realize,’ she says quietly, ‘that I’ve exhibited to fund the anti-Japanese movement. And that I’ve showed with the Silent Society.’

He nods, looking slightly uncomfortable. Yuliang’s anti Japan statements (and open scorn for those who do not take a stand) have been amply covered in the papers. As was the Silent Society show, a collection of modern, Western-style paintings held in defiance of the nation’s newfound conservatism.

‘So you must realize,’ Yuliang continues, ‘that I really have no interest in hiding my work. If people dislike it, they may leave.’

‘In principle I agree. Of course. It’s just –’ The curator hesitates, then lowers his voice. ‘It’s been suggested to
me that we highlight only the works that fall within the bounds of…’

To his credit, he can’t bring himself to say the word. Yuliang says it for him: ‘Decency.’

He just grins.

‘You are saying,’ Yuliang continues slowly, ‘that after profiting from my work these past five years, you have just now decided it’s pornographic?’

‘Not
pornographic
, of course. Only…’ Though still smiling, he throws a desperate glance at the door; quite possibly he is plotting escape. ‘Only one can’t argue with the fact that you – that your nude – shows all.’

Yuliang suppresses a sigh. How often must this discussion be had? ‘Isn’t that the
point
of nudes?’ she asks dully.

‘Perhaps in Paris.’

‘They do call Shanghai the “Paris of the East.”’

‘The
laowai
do, yes.’ Again, that apologetic little chuckle. As though Yuliang were a foreigner herself. ‘But, madame, that is just the point. Our audience is one under foreign attack. Not just its borders, but its very culture. Its way of life. It seems to me that our job now, as artists, is to make them feel safe. To remind them of the strength and purity of their own heritage.’

For a long moment Yuliang simply stares at the floor. When she looks up again, she speaks slowly. ‘Master Ma. You studied in Germany, didn’t you?’

‘That is where I first met Master Dean Xu.’

‘Then surely you, of all people, must understand that art isn’t about shutting down borders. It’s about expanding them. It’s about encouraging new techniques, fresh viewpoints. Not censoring them.’

The little man bridles. ‘I am not endorsing censorship. I am simply stressing the need for sensitivity. And not just for the sake of our viewers.’ His smile turns almost supplicating. ‘I have, as you also know, a wife and two small children. And you – you have a husband, of course –’

‘My husband supports me fully,’ she interjects. For some reason, it comes out sounding like a protest.

The curator smiles sympathetically. ‘I’m sure he does,’ he says. ‘But – and I don’t mean to be rude – have you considered whether you support your husband?
’

For a long moment there’s no sound but the scrape of a worker sweeping plaster from the floor. Yuliang crosses her arms and turns away. She gazes at
Dreaming Nude
, its calligraphic lines, its jewel-like colors. Mirror Girl gazes back, flushed and secretive.

She’d painted the self-portrait six months ago, when she suspected that at last she might be pregnant. For all her reservations, there’d been a small thrill in the thought. As the idea took hold, she’d even included subtle hints: a white cloth draped in the background that might be mistaken for a swaddling cloth; a bottle of wine for the post-birth celebration, festooned with childish ribbons; a Cézannesque peach, recalling the peach-wood arrows traditionally put by a cradle to keep away the demons. When she was done, Yuliang had even placed her red chop extra-gently. Like the lipsticked kiss a mother might place on the face of her newborn child.

Two days later, however, her cycle reasserted itself with a vengeance. Racked by cramps and nausea, Yuliang berated herself for allowing herself even to hope. In the days that followed, when the bleeding seemed to go on
and on, she even wondered whether she’d brought a curse upon herself. After all, Guanyin holds that saying the very word
baby
invites bad luck into a pregnancy. What must painting one – even a hidden one – do?

‘We might move
Negress
as well,’ Curator Ma is saying behind her now, cheerfully. ‘Actually, we could put some of the oil landscapes there too. The one of the Parthenon, for example. That’s old, isn’t it? Most people have seen it. And
Nursing Mother
, though lovely, does deserve a bit more privacy. I would love to see the watercolor of pigs moved more to center view.’

‘What about that one?’ Yuliang asks, indicating
Strong Man.
‘You can’t argue, at least, that he is dressed.’

He studies the canvas, chin in palm, oblivious to her sarcasm. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘half dressed.’

For an instant Yuliang really does want to hit him; her fingers actually curl into a fist. Digit by digit, she forces them to relax. ‘I don’t want them moved,’ she says tightly.

He swivels to face her. ‘Not even the nudes?’

She shakes her head.

‘But if you’ve understood me –’

‘All too well,’ she interrupts him. ‘It stays as I directed. In fact’ – she eyes the wall – ‘call the workmen back.’

He swallows. ‘May I ask –’

‘No. Just listen.’ She begins scribbling on her notepad – plans for a revamped display. ‘Put the European landscapes here, closer to the doorway. The watercolors –
Pigs, Lotus Lake
, and
Suzhou Bridge
– can be moved back here, to the alcove.’

‘And the nudes?’

‘On the center wall. All of them.
Dreaming Nude
in the middle. Move
Strong Man
over if you have to.’ She hesitates. ‘But not too far from the center. I want him to be one of the first three works people see.’

The curator takes off his glasses. He has finally stopped smiling. His face, stripped of its veneer of cheer, suddenly strikes Yuliang as almost menacing. ‘You truly want this.’

‘Yes,’ she says firmly. ‘I truly do.’

The little man parts his lips, then clamps them shut again. He rubs his bald head, his thin neck. When he looks up again, his smile is neatly back in place, as mechanical and meaningless as ever. ‘It shall be so,’ he says smoothly. ‘After all, you are the artist.’

‘The
woman
artist,’ Yuliang reminds him.

And smiling at last, she turns to leave.

39

‘You did the right thing,’ Zanhua says an hour later.

He reaches over, pats her hand. Yuliang clasps his fingers briefly, then sets them free to travel back to the plate of pastries that has just arrived. They are sitting windowside at La Maison de Patisserie, a favorite meeting place of theirs from the old days. ‘You don’t think I behaved badly?’

He plunges his fork into a mini-Napoleon. ‘The important thing is to hold on to your principles.’

It’s on the tip of Yuliang’s tongue to remind him that he doesn’t always approve of her principles, but she contents herself with dabbing sugar from her lips. The last thing she wants to do is to upset the careful balance they’ve worked so hard to maintain these past years.

And in truth, she reminds herself, reaching for a small, glossy ramekin of
crème brulée
, she doesn’t
know
that Zanhua disapproves of her principles. They don’t discuss her nude paintings. Just as they don’t discuss his slow fall from political grace, prompted – or so Yuliang thought until today – by his close friendships with known Communists like Chen Duxiu and Meng Qihua. Their respective careers have come to occupy the same silent space in conversation as does her history at the Hall. Yuliang still can’t help reflecting at times, however, on the role reversal that has transpired since the day she
was rescued from that place by Zanhua – a dashing young firebrand who seemed to know everyone and everything. Who had traveled abroad. Who was able to support her…

‘What’s in your head?’

‘It – it was an interesting morning.’ She smiles uneasily.

‘These are interesting times, as they say.’ He brushes his mustache free of lingering crumbs. ‘When a nation goes to war, even the most mundane things can seem threatening. Some might even see this, for example, as a weapon.’ He waves at the English cane he’d appeared with earlier, which now leans against the wall by his chair.

‘I meant to ask about that. Where on earth did you pick it up?’

‘I found it on the way over here from the train station. At the Shanghai Second Hand Shop on Nanjing Road.’

‘Are you becoming so lame in your old age?’ she teases.

‘I simply decided it’s high time I looked as smart and international as you do. So you see, I really bought it for you.’ He smiles. ‘You see how much I’ll sacrifice on your behalf.’

Yuliang laughs along with him, but there’s a strange density to her mood. She scrapes gold flakes from the top of the little cake. ‘I sometimes wonder if I should sacrifice more for you.’

He looks startled. ‘What does that mean?’

She hesitates. ‘Does my work… worry you?’

‘Only when you suggest painting me without my clothes on.’

Of course, this too is a joke. Yuliang has never
suggested painting Zanhua nude, although over the past years she has done some affectionate, clothed sketches of him and Weiyi. ‘No, really,’ she says. ‘Has it hurt you? At the ministry?’

‘No,’ Zanhua says firmly. ‘Other associations have, perhaps. And of course there is my well-known “arrogance,” as they call it. Which in truth is simply old-fashioned honor – a concept as alien to them as it ever was.’ He bites into an éclair. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve heard rumors. And after today’s exchange with Master Ma, I’m wondering whether there’s any truth to them.’ Yuliang traces a circle in the snowlike dusting of sugar on her plate. Blue porcelain shines through: a small, hard lake. ‘Some say there’s a blacklist of artists and writers. Those whose work is seen as reactionary.’

‘What does your Dean Xu say to this?’

‘That it’s just wind. But he’s said to be on it too. As is Liu Haisu.’ Yuliang forces a stiff smile. ‘It might just be the one society in which they’d have to agree to share membership.’