The Painter of Shanghai (45 page)

Zanhua is studying his hands. ‘There have been discussions,’ he says at length.

Yuliang’s finger stops circling. ‘About the list?’

‘There’s no list. At least, I don’t think so. But my superior has implied in past discussions that the Culture Ministry has been, ah,
aware
of your works.’

‘Aware,’ Yuliang repeats.

‘Of the nudes, in particular.’ He smiles wryly. ‘And of course, of your views on the Generalissimo’s appeasement policy toward Japan.’

‘That’s all they said? That they’re “aware”?’

‘There was some discussion as to whether I have any… influence. Over you.’

Yuliang drops her hands into her lap. It’s not the first time it’s occurred to her that she – her controversial work, her dubious background, her foreign connections and fashions – might hurt him. There are moments, in fact, when his bleak silences fill their little house. He’ll quietly turn from her in bed, turning their bond into a barrier. Yuliang is torn at these times between wanting to ask what is wrong, and wanting to stop her own ears against the answer. Now, though, she plows forward, prompted by a growing sense of unease. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘That I’d have more influence over an earthquake.’ He grins. And for just an instant, he’s the dashing young man who swept her to safety twenty years ago. But as the smile fades the image ages back into that of an older man. He looks paler, thinner. Less a victorious soldier of General Sun’s than an embattled bureaucrat. Almost, in fact, like someone who needs a cane. She can’t help wondering:
Have I done this to him?

Yuliang takes a deep breath. ‘Zanhua. Dean Xu has offered me a raise to take on a new seminar. If it’s just a matter of money, I could get an advance.’

He looks at her fiercely. ‘I’ve never stooped to that kind of corruption.’

‘I know you haven’t. But if it’s a question of honor…’

‘Don’t you see, it doesn’t
matter
.’ He almost shouts the words. ‘Even if we pay them a small fortune, it will just make me seem like a hypocrite. It won’t change the fact that they all laugh at me behind my back. The fact that
every report I write is stacked up somewhere, unread. The fact that –’ He catches himself, shakes his head.

‘The fact that what?’ Yuliang asks. ‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He tightens his lips.

After a moment, Yuliang sits back heavily in her chair. Nearby, a waiter drops a tray, unleashing exclamations from surrounding tables in French, Yiddish, and Cantonese.

Yuliang leans over again. ‘Zanhua,’ she says quietly, ‘I need to know the truth.’

He passes a hand across his eyes. ‘You always do. I never lie to you, Yuliang. I promised I wouldn’t.’ Another wan smile. ‘Just like I promised I’d never leave you.’

For a moment she’s so overwhelmed that she can’t do anything but blink. Seeing her face, he clasps her hand once more, and is about to speak when a smooth voice interjects from behind her: ‘I hope I’m not interrupting at a bad time.’

Startled, Yuliang looks up – straight into the amused gaze of Meng Qihua.

‘Qihua!’ She leaps to her feet.

Like Zanhua, the photographer is older, and thinner. But he’s still as dapper as ever, his hair combed back, his suit crisp and London-cut. He bows slightly. ‘A pleasure, as it always is.’ He indicates the young man standing by his side. ‘I don’t believe you know my colleague, Master Zhou.’

‘Ah. The famous Madame Pan,’ the latter says.

Meeting his gaze, Yuliang gasps again. Because she actually does know him – or at least she has seen him before. The slender figure in the drab suit is in fact none other than Xing Xudun’s friend the bushy-browed boy from the Café de Cluny.

‘You’re – you’re the minister of mimeography!’ she stutters, astonished.

‘So I was, in Paris.’ Zhou Enlai laughs. ‘My title is somewhat different now.’

For a moment she just gazes at him, the room spinning slightly. Then, for some reason she won’t later understand, she leans over and kisses him. French-style. On each cheek.

She’s just leaning back when there is a flash of light. Blinking, she turns to see yet another newcomer – this one in a newsman’s suit. ‘Madame Pan,’ he says, lowering his Kodak, ‘do you remember me? Tang Leiyi.’

Yuliang takes his card dazedly, afterflashes bobbing before her like tiny planets.

‘I heard you had a show here,’ the reporter’s saying. ‘What luck to find you.’

‘Thank you.’

Yuliang says it coldly; her warmth toward reporters has more or less dried up, along with her good reviews. She’s about to turn away when, somewhat to her surprise, Zanhua steps in front of her. ‘Why did you take that?’ he demands fiercely.

‘Social pages,’ the reporter says cheerfully. ‘You’re familiar with our “Seen in Town” section?’

‘I’m not,’ says Zanhua. ‘Moreover, I find it rude to take a picture without asking permission. We were simply having coffee.’

‘Many famous people have coffee here.’ The journalist is already slinging his camera over his shoulder. ‘Yesterday I got Butterfly Hu, sitting right there.’ He points to a
corner table, occupied now not by the svelte starlet but by two Japanese businessmen.

‘It’s an invasion of our rights. I could take you to court.’

The reporter shrugs. ‘I’m no lawyer. I just shoot what my editor tells me to.’

‘Tell your editor you can’t put my wife in your paper.’

‘Why?’ Tang Leiyi asks, smirking. ‘It’s not as if people don’t know what she looks like.’

For an instant, Zanhua looks as though he’s been slapped. ‘How dare you,’ he hisses. And to Yuliang’s horror, he actually swings at the man’s camera with his cane.

‘Zanhua! Stop it!’ she shouts, reaching out to pull him back. Qihua, however, gets there first. ‘Easy, old friend,’ he murmurs.

Zanhua shakes them both off, breathing heavily. Tang Leiyi chuckles. ‘I was hoping for a brief interview. But I think I’ve gotten more than I needed.’ Straightening his fedora, he adds, ‘Good luck with your exhibit, Madame Pan. I’ll look forward to seeing you both tomorrow.’

As he saunters out, Yuliang turns again to Zanhua. ‘Why did you do that? He was just a photographer!’

‘Ah, but they’re a dirty bunch, those photographers.’ Qihua offers Zanhua his hand. ‘Please accept my apologies. For all of us.’

Yuliang glances at Zhou Enlai. Not surprisingly, he looks distinctly uncomfortable: he avoids her eyes, scanning the room. Then he brightens slightly. ‘There are some comrades I should catch up with. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll come right back…’ And off he hurries.

Mortified, Yuliang turns back to her husband. Qihua is addressing him earnestly. ‘Why so cold, old friend? Surely our different paths haven’t taken us so far apart.’

‘If they had, you wouldn’t be here. You, of all people, should know that.’ He turns to Yuliang. ‘We should go. You need to rest.’

Yuliang, still mystified by his behavior, brushes him off. ‘I’d like to catch up a little first.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Turning away, her husband picks up the bill. Yuliang gazes at him for a moment before turning back to Qihua. ‘Where have you been? We haven’t heard from you since I came back from Europe!’

‘I’m more or less settled up north now.’

‘Yan’an?’

He nods.

‘Did you go on the march?’ The CCP’s flight last year from its former base in Jiangsu is already almost legendary. Caught in a stranglehold by Chiang Kai-shek’s forces, the Communists initiated an almost impossible escape plan: a yearlong treck stretched through mountains, marshes, and hostile tribal and warlord territories, encompassing some nine thousand kilometers in total. By some accounts the Red Army forces, ninety thousand strong at the march’s start, were stripped down to a mere ten thousand over its course. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’ Yuliang asks, a little awed.

He just shrugs. ‘Against the odds, I am alive. Although since I want to stay that way, I’m in Shanghai just until morning.’ He glances at Zanhua, who is assiduously ignoring them both. ‘And you?’

Yuliang attempts a smile. ‘As the newsman said, I have a show tomorrow.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Qihua grins. ‘I’ve followed your rise to fame and fortune.’

Yuliang feels her cheeks heat. ‘It’s all just a lot of chatter. Are you still taking your pictures?’

‘That’s become a bit difficult.’ He lifts the same hand he’d used to restrain Zanhua. It’s only then that Yuliang registers the fact that it is withered and limp, a broken claw dangling at an odd angle off his wrist. ‘Oh, Qihua! What…?’

‘I ran into a few problems during the Generalissimo’s little surprise party here. The one they’re now calling the White Terror. Some thug wanted some information from me. He thought he’d get it more readily by tap-dancing on my fingers.’ He grins. ‘A small price to pay, really. Especially given what would have happened otherwise.’ He nods again, this time in Zanhua’s direction. ‘But for your husband.’

Zanhua shakes his head brusquely. ‘I did nothing.’ He is still visibly upset; a vein stands out over his left temple, pulsing. ‘And even so, I thought we’d agreed not to discuss it.’

‘It is hard to find heroes in times such as these,’ Qihua says quietly. ‘When we do, we should give them their due.’

‘I don’t want dues.’ Zanhua hooks his cane over his arm. ‘I simply want to have my coffee in peace.’ To Yuliang he says, ‘I’ll wait outside until you’re done.’

As he makes his way toward the door Yuliang watches him go, now completely confused. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says at last. ‘He’s… unpredictable these days.’

‘Nothing’s predictable these days,’ Qihua says grimly. ‘Although I’ll admit, I had hoped…’ He sighs. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. I suppose we had a sort of agreement.’

‘Agreement?’

‘He used his influence to secure my release from prison.’

She sucks her breath in. ‘He never told me!’

‘I’m not surprised. He has made it clear for years that he’d prefer we keep a safe distance apart. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Not so long ago, even being seen with an old troublemaker like me could land you on the wrong side of the firing brigade. And you know our friend Chen Duxiu is still behind bars.’

Yuliang nods slowly. ‘Still, I thought things were easier. They say the Generalissimo is making amends with the CCP now.’

‘Oh, we’ve patched things up for the duration of the war. Still, trusting the KMT is like trying to ride a tiger. Sooner or later, it’s sure to bite us.’

Yuliang bites her own lip, suddenly remembering Xing Xudun’s comment to her more than a decade ago:
If anything, it’s a marriage of convenience. And one I doubt will last
.’ With a twinge of guilt she looks after her husband.

‘He has changed,’ she says softly.

‘Everyone changes,’ Qihua answers. ‘Why, look at you! Who would have thought, in the days of Ocean Street, that you were on your way to being China’s “famous Western-style woman painter”?
’

‘Only thanks to you. If you hadn’t convinced him to let me paint, I’d be little more than an official’s concubine.’

He grins wryly. ‘I wish I could take credit. But that, too, goes to your husband.’

Yuliang frowns. ‘But you were the one who went after him that night.’

‘I did, yes. But by the time I found him he’d already decided to support you.’

Yuliang blinks at him, dumbfounded.

‘To be truthful, madame, I don’t think he’s ever really wanted much more. You are a very lucky woman.’

For a moment, Yuliang is incapable of meeting his eyes. The morning’s exchange with Curator Ma comes back to her, full-force:
Have you considered whether you support your husband?

‘I am,’ she says, touching the little boar in her pocket. ‘Far luckier than I deserve to be.’

They stand together, sunk in separate thoughts. Then Qihua’s face brightens. ‘Ah, Lao Zhou. How was your visit?’ Zhou Enlai has returned.

‘Reassuring,’ he says. ‘I hadn’t seen those two since the march. I was half afraid they’d joined the ranks of the permanently missing.’ He smiles at Yuliang. ‘Has your esteemed husband left?’

Both the comment and its tone are nothing if not polite. And yet once more, Yuliang again finds herself speechless.

‘He went outside to get some air,’ Qihua says for her, smoothly. ‘Actually, if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go join him for a moment. There is one last thing I’d like to communicate.’

Nodding at them both, he makes his way to the door. Yuliang watches him leave, a knot forming in her throat.

Zhou Enlai lights a cigarette, then offers her the pack. ‘You – you were close,’ she says as he lights it for her. For some reason, she speaks in French.

‘To Master Meng?’

‘To Xudun.’

‘
Oui.
’ He says it without a trace of emotion.

Lifting the cigarette, her hand trembles. ‘Were you there, then, that night?’

‘
Helas, oui.
It’s a miracle I escaped.’

‘And… he really did die.’

‘
Je l’ai enterré
,’ he answers simply.
I buried him.

A lone small hope that Yuliang hadn’t even realized she’d harbored flickers briefly, then extinguishes. Yet the question flows from her, just as easily as Xudun’s face did: ‘He told you about me?’

‘Not in detail. But we all knew.
’

Outside, Meng Qihua is talking earnestly to Zanhua, who keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. It dawns on Yuliang suddenly: if Zhou Enlai knew, then did Qihua? Did Duxiu? Is it possible, even, that Zanhua…? Her heart suddenly seems to turn over.

‘You must think I’m a terrible woman,’ she manages at last. It takes effort to meet Zhou Enlai’s bright gaze. When she does, she’s surprised to see that it is filled with respect.

‘Madame Pan,’ he says softly, ‘he couldn’t have felt as he did if you were.’

Stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, he turns to go. Then he turns back again. ‘Keep fighting them,’ he adds quietly. ‘Whatever else you do. It would have made him even prouder.’

40

The doors to the Exhibition Space don’t open until eleven, which is about the earliest Shanghai’s art elite can appear on a Saturday, pressed, dressed, and driven out by their chauffeurs. Still, Yuliang and Zanhua’s carriage reaches Yan’an Road well before nine. Only in part so she can look over the new hanging order.