‘What about me? What about what I say?’ His face is honestly puzzled. ‘Yuliang,’ he says. ‘Do you really think that by doing this – by undressing for them all – you’ll finally win their respect?’
‘They do respect me.’
He snorts. ‘They do not.’
‘How do you know?’ She almost shouts it.
‘Because you’re a woman,’ Zanhua says. ‘Because, you’re an orphan, and a concubine. And your past…’ He waves a hand at her painting. ‘There are a thousand reasons why they’ll never respect you. This only gives them one more.’
‘This isn’t my past,’ she says furiously. ‘It’s my future.’
‘It’s my future too. You know they’ll use this against me. You do recall that your reputation nearly cost me my position in Wuhu.’
What she recalls is his arrogance – his ridiculously naive faith that he could parade her around town without consequence. But what she says is this: ‘Is it possible for you to recall that I, too, now have a position?’
He laughs. ‘Position? You’re a student. Of an art no one in China understands.’
‘I’m a painter,’ she counters stubbornly. ‘A painter of Shanghai. And this’ – she touches her canvas – ‘this is my painting.’
For a long moment he just stares at her. Then he drops his head. When he speaks again, his voice is flat, and very careful. ‘Very well. Here’s a choice for the painter of Shanghai. You can keep your picture. Your position.’ He takes a breath. ‘Or, you keep your position as my wife.’
For a moment, Yuliang isn’t sure that she’s heard correctly. But the look on his face leaves no doubt. He would, she thinks, thunderstruck. He’d abandon her to the streets, carrying his child. And not a court in Shanghai would deny him the right. After all, she is not even a wife. She’s a concubine. A slave, really. Nothing more.
For an instant the world stands still. Then, slowly, she turns to the door, tucking Bathing Beauty beneath her arm. He doesn’t move as she walks, then pauses, then walks again. At the threshold she stops again. He doesn’t even blink.
Out in the hallway she sets the canvas down long enough to lift her padded jacket from the hook. She listens again: still no sound. She feels as pale and empty as a cast corpse after Vesuvius. But she continues: past the Japanese maple in the courtyard, through the gate. Into the forgiving shadows of Ocean Street.
For almost two hours Yuliang wanders in the Old City, her breath forming cloudlike puffs against the evening chill. She’s barely cognizant of crossing Suzhou Creek, and of following the greening lines of Bubbling Well Road’s willows. She passes the deserted racecourse, St. John’s University. The Tudor homes of the taipans and compradors, Russian doormen standing staunchly at attention. Eventually she swings onto a northbound streetcar. Staring blankly out the window, she makes two, perhaps three runs before the conductor gently informs her that the tram is going out of service. When she alights, she has no idea at all where she is. Not, that is, until she sees the red lanterns of Fouzhou Road.
It’s early Tuesday evening in the brothel district, but the evening is already in full swing. Tipsy sailors pass, joking in Cantonese. Red-faced Japanese businessmen follow libidos and a young guide who lisps at them in pidgin: ‘Can do go topside that girly house, chop-chop, two, maybe three dollar? That b’long much better than street chicken.’
Yuliang finds a bench and sits down. A few of the men look Yuliang over speculatively as they pass. She ignores them, staring instead at the padded swell of her stomach. How well it’s hidden, this unwanted guest. She presses her hands there, half expecting to feel it. She can’t, of course. And yet the way her flesh gives – it’s just that, after all; just flesh, just skin – is strangely reassuring. She kneads herself absently, as though her abdomen were a lump of clay. After a few moments she becomes aware of a dull ache. Rather than stopping, though, she presses harder. Soon she is driving her elbows into her stomach.
Some French sailors pass in boyish striped and collared uniforms. ‘Hey, mademoiselle,’ one calls. ‘You lookee-see good time like that avec moi?’ But what is ringing in her head is her husband’s earlier command: Get rid of it. The words circle Yuliang’s mind as she escalates her attack: Get rid of it. Get rid of it…
Oblivious of the gathering crowd, Yuliang strips off her coat, then stands to slam herself against the bench’s back. She batters herself for a full five minutes, her mouth filling with bile. ‘She is mad,’ someone says. ‘Call the constable.’ The voice drifts to her, dreamlike.
And yet Yuliang has never felt more sane. Each lunge is a leap toward her future, each throb a harbinger of victory. Her belly’s on fire now, her ribs little more than bony bruises. She is as focused and determined as she’s ever been in her life. When strong hands land on her shoulders, she struggles wildly. ‘Leave me. Leave me be.’
When they don’t, she goes limp, just until they release her. Then she whirls back to the bench.
‘Aiya,’ one says, heaving her over his shoulder.
‘My painting!’ Yuliang cries.
‘How can they let them out on the street like this?’
‘Please,’ she sobs. ‘Get my painting!’
‘She doesn’t look like the others,’ says the other. ‘You sure she’s salt pork?’
‘They’ll know at the Hope Clinic,’ says the first. ‘Let’s just take her there. What’s that, miss? Paint? Your makeup? Oh. Your painting.’ He swings around. ‘She must mean that.’
His partner picks up Bathing Beauty gingerly. A slow smile spreads on his face. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘She’s salt pork, all right.’
27
The crowd swarms toward her like locusts to new crops. There are dozens of them, their eyes glittering, their lips moist. The women are heavily painted, the men burly and loud. They are not the sorts of viewers she normally sees at exhibitions. They are more like spectators at an execution. They are raucous, overwrought. Some are already drunk, on the atrocious wine Liu Haisu offers at these occasions. Standing by her painting, Yuliang can make out their condemnatory hum from across the room. ‘Shameless,’ she hears. ‘Pornography.’ ‘Disgraceful.’
Her first urge is to run. Instead, she smiles. (Smile, smile.) It is, after all, what Principal Liu would tell her to do. ‘Artists are sinners,’ he said, in one of his recent interviews. ‘We’re late, self-centered. We sleep with one another’s wives. But the one sin a true artist never commits is to apologize for his work.’
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.
The Painter of Shanghai Page 25