Another waitress rushes past, wearing a similarly creased shirt of the same gunmetal grey. “How do they manage that?” says Toni.
They share the menu across the table and flip through the pages: two large pictures and four smaller pictures on each spread, with lists of the main ingredients alongside. They select four dishes that seem comparable to the dishes from Toni’s favourite takeaway in East Dulwich.
“I think we’ll be fine with that. No hens’ feet,” says her dad.
The waitress returns, and he places their order by pointing at the menu, then trots out his one and only sentence of Mandarin. Is it a man thing, Toni wonders, that her dad feels no embarrassment, at all, about his crap Mandarin? Or is it just him?
“So, how’s your coursework coming along?” he asks.
“I did some easy stuff. I still feel weird with the jet lag.”
“What about your history project?”
“I’m saving that. It’s the one interesting thing I’ve to do this holiday.”
“You’ll find it easier when you start dropping some subjects.”
“Can’t wait to drop French. It’s absolutely pointless.”
“It’s useful on holiday. Remember . . .” He has second thoughts about dredging up memories, even good ones.
“Anyway, I’ve got an app for French.”
“That’s no use for a conversation.”
“There’ll be an app for conversation before I finish school. You’ll see.”
The waitress delivers one dish of sweet cucumber—cut into sticks and coated in a clear sauce—with two sets of chopsticks and two bowls. She stands to attention and, without making eye contact, announces the dish. She makes a tick on the order list and departs. Toni and her dad wait for half a minute, but there’s no sign of any other food. “I think we’d better start,” says Toni.
“Tell me about this history project. Wars of the Roses?”
“No. Wrong one. Hundred Years’ War. Joan of Arc, et cetera. Anyway, we’ve finished all that. We’re doing, like, everyday history now. How the Black Death changed everybody’s life for the better.”
“If they survived?”
“Exactly.” She worries a piece of cucumber with her chopsticks. “I asked Mrs. O’Brien about that.”
“What?”
“Why some people survived and others didn’t.”
“And?”
“Some people were immune. She said there’s some research being done about the Spanish flu epidemic after World War I, to find out why so many young adults died—it was unusual. She said it might help our understanding of the Black Death and how it lasted for centuries.”
“More people died of Spanish flu than died fighting in the trenches.”
“But it looked worse, didn’t it? The trenches, I mean. All those dead soldiers in the mud.”
He looks blankly at her, as if she’s said something he can’t assimilate. But then, “Remember that Paul Nash exhibition I took you to? His war paintings?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve reminded me—he was sent to Ypres, and he brought back a bunch of work he called ‘fifty drawings of muddy places.’”
She pulls a face. “Is that some sick joke?”
“Classic British understatement.”
Another dish. Beef in a thick sauce. Toni pokes it with a chopstick.
“Anyway, Mrs. O’Brien said this thing that freaked us out. She said that everyone alive today is a survivor of the Black Death. Of plague. Our ancestors were immune, so we are. I keep thinking about it, so I’m going to do a project about that.”
The waitress returns to their table, and three male customers try to squeeze past. They laugh when they see the mountain of rice the waitress is carrying.
Toni’s eyes are saucers. “Did we order all that?”
“I have no idea.”
They return to the Bund, now that it’s dark, to see the full impact of Pudong reflected in the Huangpu. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” says her dad. “Can you see the tall black building with the gap at the top? They call that the Bottle Opener.”
“It’s . . . okay. But it’s all adverts for stuff, isn’t it? It’s nowhere near as good as the view of London from Tower Bridge. We stood on the bridge after our school visit. It was really, really strange.”
“What was?”
“Well, when you look from Tower Bridge, all the buildings look like paper cut-outs. The whole thing looks cut and pasted. It seems like too many amazing buildings are too close together; you can’t believe it. And the Bottle Opener wouldn’t look so special next to our Gherkin.”
“But this is completely modern. I feel like China’s the place.”
She looks at her dad, and she can see Pudong flashing in his eyes. Maybe he thinks he’s going to get piles of work from rich Chinese, so he wants to think it’s a great place.
“I do like China,” he says.
She sighs. “We’ve only been here two days.”
“First impressions are lasting impressions.”
She cringes. She didn’t want to hear that. It reminds her of that total creep in Year 8. “You’re all right, you are.” That’s what he said, like a gawping idiot, and she thought he was going to follow up with some specific compliment—about the school newspaper and the cartoon she drew, or about how she’s friends with Mai Ling, who everyone fancies, boys and girls both. But instead: “When I first saw you on the school bus, I thought you looked dead frosty. Real unfriendly and stuck-up.” It was so, so unfair. He’d never spoken to her before, and he’d made up his mind she was a bitch. He didn’t say bitch, but she knows that’s what he meant. What cheek. He’s not exactly God’s gift.
Afterwards, she was mad at herself, because for a split second she’d anticipated a compliment and had waited to lap it up. She hates him because ever since that stupid nonconversation, she’s wondered if she does in fact send out a negative vibe. And so she smiles when she has nothing to smile about, just in case someone thinks she’s a bitch.
“So, depending on the urbane Mr. Lu—depending on the painting he wants me to copy—I’ll be going back to Florence or Paris, or staying in London. Fancy another trip to Florence? I can try to sway him.”
“When?”
“I could delay until the end of exams.”
“Can I bring a friend?”
“No way! You can look after yourself, but I can’t take responsibility for anyone else’s kid. Two thirteen-year-olds—you’d be sneaking out and getting lost in a foreign city.”
“Anyway, how long is the trip? I don’t want to miss anything important. And I don’t want to be on my own all day.”
“Come on. I’ll have my work finished by the time you get out of bed. By the time you’ve had breakfast, got dressed and read a book for an hour, I’ll be back. And then we can have the afternoon and evening together.”
“So I could bring a friend, if we did that. If we didn’t go out on our own.”
“I don’t know. I can’t promise to keep a proper eye on what you’re doing. Got to be honest about that.”
“Why not ask Auntie Natalie to come?”
“That’s a thought. I could ask. If we rented a small flat, and Natalie just pays for her flight . . .”
“Go on, then. Ask her.”
“Let me think about it. Anyway, Mr. Lu may choose the Uccello in London.”
Toni can see her dad is tired. He gets saggy cheeks and puffy eyes.
On cue, he says, “I’m bushed. Let’s turn in.”
She tugs at his arm. “What’s the name of the sea this river goes to?”
“The Pacific, eventually.”
“Oh. Not the Chinese Sea?”
“The Huangpu flows into the Yangtze, which then flows into the East China Sea. It’s not like you to ask a geography question . . .”
CHAPTER THREE
Florence, 1469
“Study the drawing carefully, Antonia. Study it until your eyes hurt, and then tell me what you se
e.” Paolo Uccello eases himself down onto the stone wall of his courtyard. A blackcap’s warbling, from deep within a honeysuckle vine, pierces the low-toned midmorning hubbub from Via della Scala.
Paolo rests his hands atop his walking stick, leans forward and arches as best he can to stretch his spine. His black robe absorbs the sunlight; his stiffened back slowly soaks up the warmth. He murmurs an invocation to the Blessed Virgin and ascribes the sweet easing of his pain to her saintly intercession. With his eyes closed, and with the heat now seeping into his old bones, he recalls himself as a younger man in the Green Cloister of Santa Maria Novella—stripped to the waist, ready to climb the scaffold, ready to paint into the fresh wet plaster, on the cusp of producing a masterpiece.
And the full-size preparatory drawing for that masterpiece is now fastened to the courtyard wall of his home, where he awaits the opinion of a twelve-year-old girl.
He prays she’ll see what he wants her to see. She rarely disappoints him, but he knows he’s pushing her, perhaps too fast. Time is not on his, or her, side.
The past three years, going back and forth between Florence and Urbino, have left him physically drained. He accepted a commission from the Confraternity of Corpus Domini to paint the predella of a new altar, and although the work was modest in size, it was too tempting to turn down. He’d already had long-standing offers of work in the homes of two wealthy families in the city, and he decided he could easily flit between the various sites. And the deal was agreed when the confraternity graciously offered to pay for his son’s lodgings. Thus, Paolo and Donato embarked on a demanding series of commissions—a last exertion before Paolo’s retirement and a good opportunity for Donato to gain experience.
The master painter now pursues his private studies—some say obsessions. With his savings and the rents from his land in Ugnano—bought piece by piece during the most lucrative years of his art making—he has no need to take on new work. Peace, if not solitude, at last.
The girl sits on the floor, hugs her knees and continues her inspection.
“I want you to tell me the story, Antonia, and I want you to . . . read the picture.”
Does she understand? God certainly gave her the talent to draw, more so than her brother. But can she take that next step? If she proves herself, here, now, he will spend more time with her while he can, even at the expense of his own studies. She has a true eye for composition, which is difficult to teach, but does she have an instinct for storytelling, which any great painter must possess?
She twists around, her face flushed red. “Is this a test, Father?”
“Just study the drawing and tell me what you see.”
“It’s the story of Noah and the flood.”
“That’s a title for a picture. Tell me the whole story, as I’ve taught you before. Remember my painting of Saint George and the Dragon and how I explained it to you? It wasn’t only the story of a knight slaying a beast, was it? There were hills in the background, neatly tended with straight furrows. Remember?” She nods. “So, just as George slew the dragon, the farmers tamed nature.”
“Ah! I understand. I’ll try again.”
How he wishes he could take her to the cloister to see the frescoes, to see how he translated this drawing into an understated yet powerful depiction of the flood. The understatement was achieved through colour, by using terre-verte as the dominant hue. If she could see the cloistered walls, she might understand why his name—her name, after all—was revered in Florence, despite, as many saw it, the oddity of his work.
She points. “On the left, there’s a strong wooden box. That’s supposed to be the ark, and it’s in the sea, by the shore.” He cringes at her plain speaking. Supposed to be. A child’s candour. “It’s a huge box, without windows, and it reaches as far as the eye can see, towards a stormy horizon. Bits of broken branches and leaves are swirling in the air.” She indicates the storm with her flailing arms.
“Never mind the dramatics.”
“Sorry . . . Well, there are two men fighting in the foreground. I think they’re fighting to get into the ark before it sets off into the storm. And there’s a man trying to climb up the ark. But you know, Father,” she says, twisting around again, “I don’t think he’ll keep his grip. And there’s a boy in the water, blowing water out of his mouth. He must be drowning . . . but he looks quite calm.” Another rebuke.
She continues, “A naked man is climbing into a barrel, but that won’t save him, I don’t think, unless God admires his spirit and decides he will live. Father, there are people on the shore weeping. There’s a drowned infant, a drowned child and a drowned dog. Oh, it’s such a sad picture.”
“Go on.”
“It’s so strange. On the right-hand side of the drawing, there’s another ark. It must be the same ark, because Noah only built one. This second ark has landed on dry ground. The flood has ended. There’s a man—Noah—leaning out of a window halfway up the ark. A dove with an olive branch in its beak is about to land in his palm. Father, he survived. And all the beautiful animals of God’s kingdom—”
“Do you think a cockroach is beautiful?”
She laughs. “Not to my eyes. But every creature is beautiful to its mother and father, surely, and to Jesus. Anyway, all the creatures must be inside the ark. Noah will let them out, and they will multiply until the land is filled again with all God’s beauty.”
“Don’t race ahead, Antonia. I asked you to describe the picture, but you’re telling me what you see with your mind’s eye. So, tell me more. You haven’t finished, have you?”
He watches her as she looks to and fro across the surface of the drawing, and his thoughts slip back to the time long before he left for Urbino, when Antonia was six years old, or was she seven by then? He encouraged and helped her to draw. Though it was a game to her, she took to it so easily. He drew animals—hounds, horses and dragons; yes, dragons were always her favourites. She rested her hand on his as he dragged the charcoal across the paper. With gentleness, he also taught her how to hold a stick of charcoal, and with his hand enclosing hers, he’d make sweeping gestures. He always instructed her, “Pretend your arm is asleep.” And she would laugh at the very idea. But by relaxing, she would feel the drawing, experience the performance—so much more than a mere movement or twitch of the hand, it’s a gestural movement that demands effort from the whole arm and shoulder and the muscles of the chest.
All these years later, he can still hear her say, “Another dragon, Papa.”
Paolo straightens his back, bracing himself for more criticism.
“You made a clever picture, Father. It has two stories—one from the past and one in the future. You want to show the happy ending. An artist who wasn’t as clever as you”—she twists around again and grins—“he would paint two separate pictures and place them side by side.” The little monkey, he thinks; she already knows how to flatter. “But you found a way to tell the whole story.”
She stretches her arms and clumsily climbs to her feet. “But I’m confused about this well-dressed man in the foreground. He can’t be Noah, because he has no beard. He’s looking to the right, at something beyond the edge of the paper, and he looks amazed, as if he’s seeing the Garden of Eden. But he isn’t smiling; he looks so serious. Maybe he’s seeing the difficulties lying ahead of them. But then . . . the way you shaded the drawing . . . it seems the sun is shining on his face.”
“Why do you think I’ve done that?”
She takes her time, for she wants to please him. “I think . . . it’s your way of saying that the future is sunny, that everyone will prosper in this new land. Maybe this man is Noah, and you’re showing him as a young man.”
She has caught him out again. He recognizes his failing—the identity of the man is far too ambiguous. With hindsight, he knows he should have included the man’s wife.
“That’s an interesting supposition, Antonia, but you’re incorrect. Noah has taken one human couple on the ark, and this white-robed man is the h
usband. However, you are accurate in deciphering his expression. He’s filled with trepidation. His faith is wavering, even though he knows Noah has saved him for God’s divine purpose. So he is trying to control his fear. Now, look again!”
She hesitates, her eyes wide, unblinking, as though she were trying to absorb the image whole. “I know it’s a drawing, and it’s made with charcoal. But I feel I’m looking at the real ark with my own eyes. It’s as though I’m standing there on the shore.”
“Bravo! And how have I achieved that?”
“I think I remember—you said something before, talking about another picture . . . your battle picture of San Romano. You make everything shrink, don’t you? There are invisible lines that tell you the size of things in the distance. So, in this drawing, people who are standing at the far end of the shore are drawn much smaller than the ones standing close to us.”
“Who do you mean when you say us?”
She pauses, grabs her arm behind her back and makes a half courtesy, and then jumps twice. She’s struggling for the correct words. Paolo holds his breath, and then she turns and announces, “I don’t mean us. I mean the painter. You, Maestro.”
Excellent. “So, Antonia, when you stand in front of the picture, what do you see?”
“I see what you saw. But, you weren’t really there, were you?”
He laughs. “No, of course not. I had to imagine the entire drama and then draw as though I were stood in front of all these figures and the two arks. As though I were on the shore.”
“So clever,” she murmurs.
“And in the coming weeks, you will learn to apply your own imagination. I’ll instruct you.”
“Are you sure, Paolo?” says the woman sitting on the shaded side of the courtyard. Her voice is so thin, Paolo is surprised her words reach him. He hauls himself to his feet and turns to face her. She holds a needle and thread in one hand and a half-finished piece of embroidery in the other. He wonders if these are props, part of a pretence that she’s feeling well enough today for some handiwork. She has dark circles around her eyes. “What about her studies, her Bible?” the woman says.
Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind Page 3
