The Painter of Shanghai

by Jennifer Cody Epstein

  ‘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.

  There are warm responses from Chinese attendees as well. When Lo Jialiang – Silas Hardoon’s wife and a well-known patron of Shanghai artists – stops by, Yuliang stands up a little straighter. The flicker in the older woman’s eye as she appraises Yuliang’s clothes and person evokes an uncomfortable recollection of Godmother. In the end, however, the famed socialite pronounces Yuliang (or perhaps her painting) ‘promising,’ a comment duly noted by the Shenbao reporter who is tailing her.

  The latter photographs Bathing Beauty, then inquires into Yuliang’s thoughts on women’s suffrage and free love. When she pronounces herself in favor of the former and against the latter, he smiles skeptically, and scribbles extensively. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing more of your work in the future,’ he says as he leaves. ‘I have a feeling Shanghai will want more of Madame Pan.’

  As hours pass and attention mounts, Yuliang’s anxiety softens into jittery excitement. The only thing dampening her mood, in fact, is Zanhua’s continuing absence.

  Her husband had telegraphed her to say he’d be coming in from Guangzhou, where Sun Yat-sen is being sworn in as provisional president. His train was supposed to have arrived at one. But it is now nearly four o’clock, and Yuliang is just wondering whether he will finally fail her when she spies a slight figure striding purposefully across the room.

  Joyfully, she turns to greet him, only to see not Zanhua but a dour-looking man of about his build. Three others follow forcefully in his steps.

  The men march through the crowded room, ignoring the other works and artists, stopping aggressively close to her station. ‘This is your painting?’ the leader demands.

  Yuliang scans the room for Liu Haisu. But the young principal is nowhere in sight. Neither are the Russian guards he’s hired for the occasion.

  ‘Answer me! You’re with the academy?’ the man barks.

  ‘What else would I be?’

  Turning his head, the man spits straight onto the polished wood floor. The mucus lands, green and glittering, by Yuliang’s shoetip. ‘You missed,’ she murmurs.

  ‘You, miss,’ he retorts, ‘are a disgrace to your sex, your ancestors, and your nation. And this’ – he waves at Bathing Beauty – ‘is a filthy excuse for art. You should be expelled, exiled and thrown into jail like a common whore. You should be beaten until you learn some respect.’

  The words, projected loudly enough to fill the room, have their desired impact: heads turn, eyebrows lift. The comprador’s daughter breaks into one of her smuggest smiles. Out of the corner of her eye, Yuliang sees Teachers Hong and Chin whispering. Come, she wills them. Come help me.

  But Teacher Hong turns on his heel and hurries off toward the gallery doors.

  ‘You’re a disgrace,’ her accuser continues. ‘You should be tried and beaten for pornography.’ His breath comes in short, sour bursts. Yuliang takes a step back, experiencing a chilling sense of déjà vu: she half expects Godmother to materialize by the man’s taut left shoulder. Instead, to her immense relief, she spies Teacher Hong again, this time hurrying toward her. Liu Haisu strides behind him. Pushing through the gathering crowd, the school’s young founder puts a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Today’s event is open to friends of art, progress, and the academy only, Master Jiang,’ he says crisply. ‘I don’t recall extending you an invitation.’

  ‘I’ve come as a friend of the city,’ the man retorts. ‘And the governor. And, hopefully, to see that you’ve come to your senses. Which, clearly, you have not.’ He jabs a finger at Bathing Beauty. ‘Instead I find that things are worse than last year. Now you’re corrupting young women.’

  ‘At least I’m not attacking them.’ Liu Haisu smiles thinly. ‘Does she seem such a threat to you, and your governor, that you need to bring his gangsters along?’ His voice drips with sarcasm: Chen Jiong-ming may call himself governor, but in reality he’s no more than the latest warlord strong enough to control the raucous city.

  ‘She’s a threat to public decency,’ the man continues. ‘So, yes. You should know we plan a full report. To Governor Chen, the Education Ministry, the provincial government authorities. If necessary, to the president as well.’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pamphlet. ‘This outlines our plans for a new law. One that will ban this filth for good.’

  Principal Liu scans the little paper before tossing it to the ground. ‘We will see,’ he says shortly. ‘To be honest, I don’t think your “law” stands much of a chance in Shanghai. Our true leaders are still more interested in modernizing than in backtracking.’ He turns pointedly to the door. ‘For now, though, I’ve a school to run. And you, sir, are officially unwelcome in it. As I believe I’ve made clear in the past.’

  The guards have mysteriously reappeared behind the young principal. They loom there with a comforting animosity. The interloper gives Yuliang’s painting one last glare. But it’s to Liu Haisu that he addresses his parting words. ‘Prepare yourself,’ he warns. ‘I will see you shut down.’

  ‘I’ll see you on a steamship sinking down to hell first,’ the young artist calls after him affably.

  After the man is safely through the doors, he stoops and picks up the leaflet from the ground. Crumpling it neatly, he hands it to a guard. ‘Burn that.’ He turns to Yuliang. ‘They didn’t hurt anything, did they?’

  She shakes her head, although her legs are still quivering. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Self-righteous thugs. It’s not the first time they’ve put on a show like this.’ He nods toward Teacher Hong, who has drifted off to the judges’ table. ‘At least they didn’t break
things. Last year they picked on Teacher Yang – made a stink over Young Girl by a Mirror. Smashed a few of the sculpting students’ busts as well. Don’t you remember?’

  Yuliang nods, although in truth she’d all but forgotten. At the time she’d assumed that the protesters were just drunks. Now, shaking her head, she glances again at the double doors, hoping to see Zanhua. Instead she sees Tang Leiyi, the Shenbao reporter, raptly writing in his notebook. She blanches. ‘Aiya. It will be in the papers now!’

  Principal Liu follows her gaze. ‘Of course,’ he says cheerily. ‘This is wonderful.’ And off he scurries again, hand outstretched.

  Yuliang stares after him a moment, then presses her fingertips against her eyelids. Perhaps, she thinks tiredly, it’s best Zanhua doesn’t come. The last thing he would want would be to be a part of all this. And even she must admit that any wife who puts her husband through what she has is just what that man called her: a disgrace.

  ‘Madame Pan?’

  Yuliang blinks up, registering the warm gaze of Xing Xudun, her neighbor and fellow artist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says distractedly. ‘I didn’t see you come in.’

  ‘Apparently I’m too late for the fireworks.’ He grins.

  She smiles back sheepishly. ‘I made a spectacle of myself. In front of my superiors, no less.’

  ‘Les grands ne nous paraissent grands que parce que nous sommes à genoux. Levons-nous!’ he declares. ‘“Our superiors only appear powerful because we are on our knees. Let us get up!”’ He grins. ‘It’s what the Bonapartists said while storming the Bastille.’ He has, she knows, been studying French, mathematics, history, and rudimentary factory skills at the new Sino-French Educational Association school in the French Concession.

  ‘You must be earning high marks,’ she tells him.

  ‘I do well only at the things that interest me.’

  ‘Such as French?’

  ‘Such as revolution.’

  Yuliang blinks at him, wondering if he is joking. But he just grins again. ‘Did you hear that I received my visa?’

  ‘No! You’re going, then?’

  ‘In August.’ He scuffs the floor with his foot. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet in France.’

  He says it tentatively, which for some reason she finds touching. ‘I doubt they’ll want me after today,’ she says, fingering the little jade boar in her pocket. ‘You’ll be in Montargis, won’t you? That’s far from Lyon… or is it? You see how little I know.’

  ‘I hope to be in Lyon as well. I’m hearing the Montargis work-study program is now too full for us. A student from my province wrote me that there’s hardly any work – or even beds – for the students still there. Apparently he and dozens of others are sleeping in the administration office. Some are even in tents on its grounds.’

  ‘Why on earth do they keep sending students?’

  Xudun laughs. ‘The problem would be if they tried to keep us from going. The chance to live in France is worth more than a few nights’ bad sleep.’ Looking into her eyes, he adds, ‘Especially if the company is good.’

  Yuliang turns away from him, feeling her face flush slightly. Her eyes land on Baithing Beauty, and on impulse, she gestures. ‘But you still haven’t told me what you think of my painting.’

  His eyes sweep the work without a hint of embarrassment. When he turns to her, his smile has disappeared from his face. ‘It’s almost the most beautiful thing here,’ he says quietly.

  For a moment neither speaks. Then he glances at the clock. ‘I must go. Metal-working class.’ His grin reappears. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to see you win.’

  ‘I won’t win,’ she says breathlessly.

  ‘Yes, you will. I can feel it. And we’ll have coffee. Un café, s’il vous plaît.’

  Turning smartly, he doffs an imaginary bowler in a gesture taken from the latest Chaplin moving picture. As he strides out, she sees him loping across some green and Cézannesque campus. The image sparks a mild amusement – that is, until Yuliang recalls her former train of thought.

  Her smile fading, she scans the room for Zanhua again. Please come, she prays, with a strange desperation, as though his arrival were some sort of celestial sign.

  And then, just like that, he is there.

  Zanhua stands in the doorway, his travel satchel in hand. Looking flustered, he nods and starts toward her. As he approaches, there’s an odd urge to step in front of Bathing Beauty. To block it from his harried gaze. Yuliang doesn’t do this, of course. She waits for him, as still as stone. And in the end he keeps his eyes on her anyway, looking neither left nor right, but directly into her eyes.

  ‘I almost didn’t make it,’ he says, giving her hand a hurried clasp. ‘The trains to Shanghai were packed after the celebrations. They had to put half of us on a later one.’

  He looks tense, tired. She can’t tell if he’s heard about the protesters. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she tells him. ‘They’re about to say whether we have won.’

  Yuliang doesn’t know why she says we instead of I. Nor does she know why she then turns, and points to her painting. It’s a different urge from the one that made her turn Xudun’s attention to her image, and her emotions are also different at this moment: her heart beats as though Zanhua were not merely her husband, but one of the day’s judges. And when his eyes don’t – or won’t – leave her face, a small part of her suddenly feels as though she has already lost.

  Thankfully, though, the feeling lasts just a moment. Then Liu Haisu’s clear voice rings out across the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Mesdames et messieurs!’ He is looking right at her, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘May I please have your attention,’ the principal continues. ‘We’re delighted to announce today’s results.’

  Across the room, faces turn to stare – not in contempt or avarice but in anticipation and encouragement.

  I can’t do it, Yuliang thinks giddily, in sheer terror. I will never move again. It’s as though iron nails pin her feet to the floor.

  But then Zanhua is beside her, taking her arm. ‘Come,’ he murmurs. ‘Walk with me.’ And, step by step, he helps her walk across the room. Away from Beauty. Toward the judges’ decision.

  PART SEVEN

  L’École

  The waters are blue, the plants pink;

  the evening is sweet to look on;

  One goes for a walk; the grandes dames go for a walk;

  behind them stroll the petites dames.

  Nguyen Trong Hiep, Paris, Capitale de la France:

  Recueil de Vers (Hanoi, 1897)

  29. France, 1923

  In July she leaves Lyon and its staid streets of finance and industry and boards a northbound train for the capital. She answers the conductor’s queries politely, in her stillstilted French, and ignores the offended gaze of her carriagemate, an elderly matron with buttercream hair. One of the things Yuliang has learned over these past two years is to use unwanted notice as an excuse to cocoon herself in her own thoughts. Pulling her book from her purse, she opens it, screening herself from view and taking some satisfaction in the thought of the title (which, unlike herself, is clearly French).

  The book is Tolstoy’s What Is Art?, a new edition sent back to her by Xing Xudun after he arrived here. Though Yuliang’s French has improved vastly reading it is still laborious, and in the end she rarely gets past the Chinese inscription: I thought of our first conversation when I found this, and am overjoyed at the thought of you holding it in your beautiful artist’s hands. I look forward, still, to that long-awaited cup of coffee. S’il vous plaît.

  What Yuliang is looking for, however, isn’t this somewhat audacious note, or even the book itself. It’s what lies sandwiched between the pages: a letter, postmarked Paris but written in Chinese. Yuliang slides it out, appreciatively eyeing the graceful characters. Apart from Liu Haisu’s characterization of him as an overdressed windbag, she doesn’t know much about Xu Beihong. But if the old proverb about painting and calligraphy flow
ing from the same brush is true, his work must be truly impressive.

  She scans the note again, double-checking the details for the meeting the young artist has proposed for tomorrow. It’s at eleven-thirty; if she’s lucky, she thinks, perhaps he will buy her some lunch. Her mouth waters at the thought of croque-monsieur: since the Anhui government cut her stipend six months ago, she’s had meat only a handful of times.

  Sliding the note back between the uncut pages of What Is Art?, Yuliang gazes hungrily at the cover for a moment. Then, sensing the old woman’s eyes again, she turns her attention to the scenery outside.

  It’s the kind of vista so loved by Millet: green pines forming the darkest point of summer’s spectrum; the bright, blurred forms of peasants working the wheat-brown fields; houses of toasted crimson flashing past in chortling rhythm, beneath clouds as clean and white as combed cotton. The landscape is as lovely as any ever imagined from a cramped, smoky classroom in Shanghai. Nearly three years after she arrived here, though, it also strikes her as ordinary. Uninterpreted by paint, it’s not a landscape – just land. Far more interesting is her own reflection against it: a sober-eyed young woman, her image melting into tracks that lead steadily westwards.

  Xu Beihong is nearly a full hour late for their appointment the next day, but he makes no pretense of apology. Instead, in a regal motion (oddly in keeping with his red velvet coat) he waves down a passing waiter. He requests café noisette for himself and adds half a pitcher of milk to the coffee. He plunks in several sugar cubes. Observing him, Yuliang notes his soft chin and full lips, both at odds with a broad, strong nose. Jinling, she thinks, would have liked this man’s face. She would have said his nose predicted strength in finance, his lips and chin a weakness for pleasure. A fortuitous combination, at the Hall.

  ‘So,’ the artist says, sipping his milky beverage. ‘You want to study here. But your letter implied a complication.’