An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES)

by David Wingrove

  ‘Kuan Yin preserve us!’ Wolf said, his eyes round as coins.

  ‘Poor man,’ murmured Catherine, looking down.

  Sergey laughed. ‘Poor man, my arse! He was dead. No, but you should have seen the faces on those Han. It was as if they’d had hot irons poked up their backsides! There was a muttering and a spluttering and then – damn me if they didn’t try to shove the coffin back into the tomb against the current! You should have seen the eldest son, slipping about in the mud like a lunatic!’

  ‘Gods preserve us!’ Wolf said. ‘And did they manage it?’

  ‘Third time they did. But by then the sprinklers were off and the servants were carrying the water away in anything they could find.’

  The two men laughed, sitting back in their chairs and baring their teeth. Across from Wolf, Lotte smiled broadly, enjoying her brother’s laughter. Only Catherine seemed detached from their enjoyment, as if preoccupied. Sergey noticed this and leaned towards her slightly. ‘What is it?’

  She looked up. ‘It’s nothing...’

  He raised an eyebrow, making her laugh.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, relenting. ‘I was just thinking about the painting I’m working on.’

  ‘You’re having trouble?’

  She nodded.

  Wolf leaned across to nudge Sergey. ‘I shouldn’t worry. She’s not a real artist.’

  Catherine glared at him, then looked away. Wolf was always mocking her for working on an oilboard, when, as he said, any artist worth their ricebowl worked in watercolours. But she discounted his opinion. She had seen his work. It was technically perfect, yet somehow lifeless. He could copy but he couldn’t create.

  She looked back at Sergey. ‘I was thinking I might go to the lecture this afternoon.’

  He lifted his chin slightly. ‘Lecture?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh... I forgot. You weren’t here when the College officials came round, were you?’ She searched in her bag for something, then set a small, hexagonal pad down on the table. She placed her palm against it momentarily, warming the surface, then moved her hand away. At once a tiny, three-dimensional image formed in the air and began to speak.

  ‘That’s Fan Liang-wei, isn’t it?’ said Wolf, leaning across to refill his glass.

  ‘Shhhh,’ Sergey said, touching his arm. ‘Let’s hear what the old bugger has to say.’

  Fan Liang-wei was one of the most respected shanshui artists in City Europe. His paintings hung in the homes of most of the Minor Families. The Great Man’s long white hair and triple-braided beard were familiar sights to those who tuned in to the ArtVid channel, and even to those whose tastes were less refined, Fan Liang-wei was the very personification of the wen ren, the scholar-artist.

  It was standard practice for professors of the College to advertise their lectures in this way, since their fees were paid according to attendance figures. Indeed, it was the practice for some of the less charismatic of them to bribe students to attend – filling the first few rows of the hall with sleepers. For the Great Man, however, such advertising was not strictly necessary. His fee was guaranteed whatever the attendance. Nonetheless, it was a matter of ego – a question of proving his supreme status to his fellow academicians.

  The tiny figure bowed to its unseen audience and began to talk of the lecture it was to give that afternoon, its internal timer updating its speech so that when it referred to the lecture it reminded the listeners that it was ‘less than two hours from now’. The lecture was to be on the two shanshui artists, Tung Ch’i-ch’ang and Cheng Ro, and was entitled ‘Spontaneity and Meticulousness’. Sergey watched it a moment longer, then smiled and reached out to put his hand over the pad, killing the image.

  ‘It could be amusing. I’ve heard the old man’s worth hearing.’

  ‘And Heng Chian-ye?’ Wolf asked. ‘You’ve not forgotten the card game?’

  Sergey looked across and saw how Catherine had looked away angrily. He knew how strongly she disapproved of this side of him – the gambling and the late-night drinking sessions – but it only spurred him on to greater excesses, as if to test her love.

  He smiled, then turned back to Wolf. ‘That’s all right. I told him I’d see him at four, but it’ll do the little yellow bastard good to wait a bit. It’ll make him more eager.’

  Wolf laughed. ‘Do you still intend to challenge him? They say he’s a good player.’

  Sergey lifted his chin and looked away thoughtfully. ‘Yes. But Heng’s an arrogant young fool. He’s inflexible. Worse, he’s rash when put under pressure. Like all these Han, he’s more concerned with saving face than saving a fortune. And that will be his undoing, I promise you. So, yes, I’ll challenge him. It’s about time someone raised the stakes on young Heng.’

  Sergey leaned forward, looking across at Lotte. ‘And you, Lotte? Are you coming along?’

  Again his words, his action in leaning towards Lotte, were designed to upset the other girl. They all knew how much Lotte was besotted with the handsome young sculptor. It was a joke which even she, on occasions, shared. But that didn’t lessen the pangs of jealousy that affected Catherine.

  As ever, Lotte looked at her brother before she answered, a faint colour at her cheeks. ‘Well, I ought, I know, but...’

  ‘You must,’ Sergey said, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. ‘I insist. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t see the Great Man.’

  Wolf answered for her. ‘We were going to do some shopping. But I’m sure...’

  Wolf looked at Lotte, smiling encouragement, and she nodded. Wolf still had hopes that his sister might marry Novacek. Not that it affected his relationship with Catherine. Not significantly.

  ‘Good,’ said Sergey, leaning back and looking about the circle of his friends. ‘And afterwards I’ll treat you all to a meal.’

  The tiers of the lecture hall were packed to overflowing. Stewards scurried up and down the gangways, trying to find seats for the crowds pressing into the hall, clearly put out by the size of the attendance. Normally the hall seemed vast and echoing, but today it was like a hive, buzzing with expectation.

  At three precisely the lights dimmed and the hall fell silent. On a raised platform at the front of the hall a single spotlight picked out a lectern. For a while there was no movement on stage, then a figure stepped out of the darkness. A murmur of surprise rose from the watching tiers. It was Chu Ta Yun, the Minister of Education. He stood to one side of the lectern, his head slightly bowed, his hands folded at his waist.

  ‘Ch’un tzu,’ he began, his tone humble, ‘I have been given the great pleasure and honour of introducing one of the outstanding figures of our time; a man whose distinctions are too numerous to be listed here and whose accomplishments place him in the very first rank of painters. A man who, when the history of our culture is set down by future generations, will be seen as the epitome – the touchstone – of our art. Ch’un tzu, I ask you to welcome to our college the Honourable Fan Liang-wei, Painter to the court of His Most Serene Highness, Li Shai Tung.’

  As the Minister withdrew, head bowed, into the darkness, Fan Liang-wei came into the spotlight, resting his hands lightly on the edge of the lectern then bowing his head to his audience. There was a faint shuffling noise as, in unison, the packed tiers lowered their heads in respect to the Great Man.

  ‘Ch’un tzu,’ he began, in the same vein as the Minister, then, smiling, added, ‘Friends...’

  There was a small ripple of laughter from the tiers. The ice had been broken. But at once his face grew serious again, his chin lifting in an extravagant yet thoughtful gesture, his voice taking on an immediate tone of authority.

  ‘I have come here today to talk of art, and, in particular, of the art of shanshui painting, something of which I have, or so I delude myself, some small knowledge.’

  Again there was the faintest ripple of amusement, but, as before, it was tinged with the deepest respect. There was not one there who did not consider Fan Liang-wei Chung Kuo’s foremost expert
on the ancient art of shanshui.

  The Great Man looked about the tiers, as if noting friends there amongst the crowd, then spoke again. ‘As you may know, I have called today’s talk “Spontaneity and Meticulousness”, and it is upon these two extremes of expression that I wish to dwell, taking as my examples the works of two great exponents of the art of shanshui, the Ming painter Tung Ch’i-ch’ang and the Song painter Cheng Ro. But before I come to them and to specific examples of their work, I would like to take this opportunity of reminding you of the critic Hsieh Ho’s Six Principles, for it is to these that we shall, time and again, return during this lecture.’

  Fan Liang-wei paused, looking about him. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door to his right swung open and a young man strode into the hall, ignoring the hushed remonstrances of a steward. The steward followed him two or three paces into the hall, then backed away, head bowed, glancing up at the platform apologetically before drawing the door closed behind him. The young man, meanwhile, moved unselfconsciously along the gangway in front of the platform and began to climb the stairs. He was halfway up when the Great Man cleared his throat.

  ‘Forgive me, young Master, but am I interrupting something?’

  The young man half turned, looking back at the speaker, then, without a word, climbed the rest of the steps and sat down at their head.

  There was a murmur of astonishment from the surrounding tiers and even a few harshly whispered words of criticism, but the young man seemed oblivious. He sat there, staring down at the platform, a strange intensity in his manner making him seem brooding, almost malicious in intent.

  ‘Are we comfortable?’ the Great Man asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice.

  The young man gave the barest nod.

  ‘Good. Then perhaps we might continue. As I was saying... Hsieh Ho, in his classic fifth-century work, the Ku Hua-p’in-lu, set down for all time the Six Principles by which the great artist might be recognized. In reiterating these, we might remember that, while Hsieh Ho intended that all six should be present in a great work of art, they do, nonetheless, form a kind of hierarchy, the First Principle, that of spirit-consonance, of harmony of spirit to the motion of life – that sense we have of the painting coming alive through the harmonizing of the vital force, the ch’i, of the painter with the ch’i of his subject matter – forming the first rank, the First Level, if you like.’

  There was a mild ripple of laughter at the Great Man’s play of words. He continued quickly, his anger at the rudeness of the young man’s interruption set aside momentarily.

  ‘Bearing this in mind, we see how the Second Principle, the bone-structure of the brushwork – and its strength in conveying the ch’i or vital energy – stems from the First and is, indeed, dependent upon it, as a Minister is dependent upon the favour of his T’ang. Likewise, the Third Principle, the fidelity or faithfulness of the artistic representation to the subject, is dependent upon these first two. And so forth...’

  He hesitated, then looked directly at the young man seated at the head of the stairs. ‘You understand me, young Master?’

  Again the young man nodded.

  ‘Good. Then let me move on quickly. Fourth of the Six great Principles is likeness in colour. Fifth is the proper placing of the various elements within the scheme of the painting. And Sixth, and last in our great hierarchy, is the preservation of the experience of the past through making pictorial reference to the great classical paintings.’

  Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, then moved to one side, half turning as the screen behind him lit up, showing an ancient painting.

  ‘There is, of course, one further quality that Hsieh Ho demanded from the great artist – a quality which, because it is intrinsic to art, is enshrined in each of those six great Principles – that of ching. Of precision or minuteness of detail.’

  He indicated the painting. ‘This, as you may recognize, is Tung Ch’i-ch’ang’s Shaded Dwelling among Streams and Mountains, one of the great works of Ming art. This hanging scroll...’

  The Great Man had turned, looking back at his audience, but now he stopped, his mouth open, for the young man had stood and was making his way slowly down the steps again.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said tartly, his patience snapping, ‘but have I to suffer more of your interruptions?’

  The young man stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘No. I’ve heard enough.’

  ‘Heard enough...’ For the briefest moment Fan’s face was contorted with anger. Then, controlling himself, he came to the edge of the platform, confronting the young man. ‘What do you mean, heard enough?’

  The young man stared back at Fan Liang-wei, unperturbed, it seemed, by the hardness in his voice, undaunted by his reputation.

  ‘I mean what I said. I’ve heard enough. I don’t have to wait to hear what you have to say – you’ve said it all already.’

  Fan laughed, astonished. ‘I see...’

  The young man lifted his arm, pointing beyond Fan at the screen. ‘That, for instance. It’s crap.’

  There was a gasp of astonishment from the tiers, followed by a low murmur of voices. Fan Liang-wei, however, was smiling now.

  ‘Crap, eh? That’s your considered opinion, is it, Shih...?’

  The young man ignored the request for his name, just as he ignored the ripple of laughter that issued from the benches on all sides. ‘Yes,’ he answered, taking two slow steps closer to the platform. ‘It’s dead. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. But you...’ He shook his head. ‘Well, to call this lifeless piece of junk one of the great works of Ming art is an insult to the intelligence.’

  Fan straightened, bristling, then gave a short laugh. ‘You’re a student of painting, then, young Master?’

  The young man shook his head.

  ‘Ah, I see. Then what are you precisely? You are a member of the college, I assume?’

  There was more laughter from the tiers; a harder, crueller laughter as the students warmed to the exchange. The young man had stepped out of line. Now the Great Man would humiliate him.

  ‘I’m a scientist...’

  ‘A scientist? Ah, I see.’

  The laughter was like a great wave this time, rolling from end to end of the great lecture hall. Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, sensing victory.

  ‘Then you know about things like painting?’

  The young man stood there, the laughter in the hall washing over him, waiting for it to subside. When it did he answered the Great Man.

  ‘Enough to know that Tung Ch’i-ch’ang was the dead-end of a process of slow emasculation of a once-vital art form.’

  The Great Man nodded. ‘I see. And Cheng Ro... I suppose he was a great painter... in your estimation?’

  There was more laughter, but it was tenser now. The atmosphere had changed, become electric with anticipation. They sensed blood.

  The young man looked down. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘You know your trouble, Fan Liang-wei?’ He looked up at the older man challengingly. ‘You’re a slave to convention. To an art that’s not a real art at all, just an unimaginative and imitative craft.’

  There was a low murmur of disapproval from the tiers at that. As for Fan himself, he was still smiling, but it was a tight, tense mask of a smile, behind which he seethed.

  ‘But to answer your question,’ the young man continued. ‘Yes, Cheng Ro was a great painter. He had lueh, that invaluable quality of being able to produce something casually, almost uncaringly. His ink drawing of dragons...’

  ‘Enough!’ Fan roared, shivering with indignation. ‘How dare you lecture me about art, you know-nothing! How dare you stand there and insult me with your garbled nonsense!’

  The young man stared back defiantly at Fan. ‘I dare because I’m right. Because I know when I’m listening to a fool.’

  The hall had gone deathly silent. Fan, standing there at the edge of the platform, was very still. The smile had drained from his face.


  ‘A fool?’ he said finally, his voice chill. ‘And you think you can do better?’

  For a moment the young man hesitated. Then, astonishingly, he nodded and, his eyes never leaving Fan Liang-wei’s face, began to make his way down to the platform.

  The Café Burgundy was alive with news of what had happened.

  At a table near the edge of The Green, the four friends leaned in close, talking. Wolf had missed the lecture, but Sergey had been there with Lotte and had seen the young man mount the platform.

  ‘You should have seen him,’ Sergey said, his eyes glinting. ‘As cool as anything, he got up there and stood at the lectern, as if he’d been meaning to speak all along.’

  Wolf shook his head. ‘And what did Fan say?’

  ‘What could he say? For a moment he was so dumbfounded that he stood there with his mouth hanging open, like a fish. Then he went a brilliant red and began to shout at Shepherd to sit down. Oh, it was marvellous. “It’s my lecture,” the old boy kept saying, over and over. And Shepherd, bold as brass, turns to him and says, “Then you could do us all the courtesy of talking sense.”’

  They all roared at that; all but Catherine, who looked down. ‘I’ve seen him, I think,’ she said, ‘in here.’

  Sergey nodded. ‘You can’t really miss him. He’s an ostentatious little sod. Do you know what he does?’ He looked about the table, then leaned back, lifting his glass. ‘He comes in at the busiest time of day and has a table to himself. He actually pays for all five places. And then he sits there, drinking coffee, not touching a bite of food, a pocket comset on the table in front of him.’ Sergey lifted his nose in a gesture of disdain, then drained his glass.

  Wolf leaned forward. ‘Yes, but what happened? What did Fan say?’

  Sergey gave a sharp little laugh. ‘Well, it was strange. It was as if Shepherd had challenged him. I don’t know. I suppose it had become a matter of face... Anyway, instead of just sending for the stewards and having him thrown out, Fan told him to go ahead.’

  ‘I bet that shut him up!’

  ‘No. And that’s the most amazing part of it. You see, Shepherd actually began to lecture us.’