The Painter of Shanghai

by Jennifer Cody Epstein

  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.

  It’s a tradition Yuliang has developed these past years, taking one last little walk among her paintings. She doesn’t take notes, doesn’t repaint or change anything. She merely strolls, smokes, thinks. She adjusts one frame here, rubs a smudge from another with a tongue-moistened handkerchief. You will be fine, she tells her works, each and every one of them. You are beautiful. You make me proud. Strangely enough, it is this moment – not the awarding of prize or purse, nor the flash of the reporters’ cameras – to which she most looks forward. That bated-breath walk. That last quiet assessment. She and her artwork, alone.

  Today, however, as the rickshaw turns onto the tree-lined avenue, Yuliang is surprised to see a small crowd already gathered. What’s more, the doors are already open. Not neatly hooked back as they usually are, but swinging loosely on their hinges. Like two loose white teeth.

  ‘A good turnout,’ Zanhua says, either missing or discounting this detail. ‘Perhaps we’ll see a sale or two.’

  When Yuliang doesn’t answer, he touches her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘This will be your best one yet.’

  Yuliang forces a smile. It is both moving and inexplicable, his silent but unswerving support all of these years. ‘I’m not worried,’ she says.

  Despite herself, though, she pats her pocket. All she feels is the ribbed texture of her stockin
gs. She pats the other pocket: also empty.

  Frowning, Yuliang slips her hand from her husband’s arm. Turning in her seat, she probes the rickshaw cushions.

  ‘What is it?’ Zanhua asks.

  ‘My boar.’ She checks her skirt again, then her jacket. She distinctly remembers slipping it into the day’s planned outfit (a checked suit with puffed sleeves and a hemline a good inch or two above New Life standards). But again, it’s not in any of her tiny, pointless pockets. Her embroidered handbag contains only its usual contents: cigarettes, her lipstick. Notes for an upcoming lecture at school. The rickshaw floor proves just as barren.

  ‘Do you need to go back?’ Zanhua asks.

  And for a moment Yuliang actually considers it. After all, she carried the little sculpture with her to and from Europe, slept with it beneath her thin pillow in third class. She has taken it to almost every exhibit and major event ever since. It was even in her pocket when she first kowtowed to Guanyin. The thought of facing today, of all days, without it borders on terrifying. But she forces herself to sit up straight. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, stiffly.

  Still, as they draw even with the Exhibition Space, her anxiety hardens into a painful knot, slung low and tight in her stomach. The crowd isn’t the usual sort that gathers before an art opening. It is more like one that gathers at the scene of a murder. French Concession policemen in their small flat hats and silver buckles are talking sternly and scribbling notes. Newsmen cluster with their cameramen. Pedestrians pause. Gallery personnel smoke and fan themselves in tense clusters. And as her rickshaw pulls up, the reporters swarm over, their faces alert, intent. Faintly gleeful. ‘Do you have any idea who did this?’ one shouts. ‘Have you established what is missing?’

  ‘And do you have any sense of where those pieces might have gone?’

  Recognizing this last voice Yuliang whirls around quickly. Sure enough, it’s Tang Leiyi, from the Shenbao. With a cool smile, he insinuates himself between Yuliang and her husband. ‘I’ve heard,’ he says in a low voice, ‘that the Blue Shirt Society was involved. Any comment?’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Zanhua sputters, pushing him back. ‘And you have no right to bother us again.’ Taking Yuliang’s arm, he tries to hustle her into the building.

  Yuliang, however, remains rooted to the spot. She is suddenly aware of two somewhat hard-looking men across the street. When she stares at them, they stare right back. Expressionless. Smoking almost in unison.

  ‘Did you say Blue Shirts?’ she asks quietly. The society is well known in Nanjing, where it plays a key role in the eradication of Communists. Loosely modeled on Mussolini’s Blackshirts, the Blue Shirts have a stated mandate of ensuring absolute allegiance to their Generalissimo, Chiang Kai-shek, in government, military, and society. Some claim they control everything from public schools to publishing houses. Up until now, though, Yuliang has never heard of them turning their steely gazes to painting.

  ‘No one has confirmed it yet. But after what they’ve found here, there are whispers…’

  Fear spreads blue-black wings in her chest. ‘What? What have they found here?’

  ‘You mean to say they haven’t called you?’ He’s scribbling furiously. ‘Do you suppose, then, that the Exhibition Space was in on it as well?’

  ‘In on what?’ Yuliang begins. But she’s interrupted by a shrill exclamation: ‘Don’t write that. Don’t you write that!’

  Curator Ma hurries over, glasses askew. For once his face is stripped of its smile. ‘We called Madame Pan right away,’ he tells the reporter. It’s the angriest tone she’s heard him use. ‘The concierge will confirm this, if you check at the Cathay. Surely you don’t think that we had a hand –’

  Yuliang can stand it no longer. ‘Tell me!’ she shouts. ‘If someone doesn’t tell me now what is going on, I – I will never speak to your paper again. And I – I’ll take all my works somewhere else.’

  The curator blinks. The journalist’s face creases into another smile. He writes something down, then underlines it. Twice. ‘I’ll leave you to escort her inside, Master Ma.’ Turning to Yuliang, he adds ominously, ‘Madame. My condolences. We all know how hard you work.’ He saunters to the exhibition poster by the door.

  Hands trembling, Curator Ma attempts to straighten his tie. ‘We rang your hotel three times, no less,’ he says helplessly. ‘Three times!’

  ‘We had breakfast out,’ Yuliang tells him. ‘But I still –’ She breaks off abruptly as her gaze lands again on Tang Leiyi, now positioned with his camera before the entrance. He’s preparing to photograph a poster for the show, with the same wording Yuliang had asked to have changed. With a jolt, she suddenly sees that it has been changed – but not as she requested. Now not just woman but painter has been slashed out with red paint. Above are characters carrying a completely different meaning: .

  Whore.

  Yuliang shuts her eyes. It’s a dream, she tells herself. It’s just another one of my dreams.

  But when she opens her eyes, the poster is still there. So are the two men, crushing out their cigarettes. One catches her eye. He grins – a hard, tight smile.

  Stomach churning, Yuliang turns back to the curator. ‘Tell me what has happened.’

  Curator Ma attempts a smile that’s so completely far from the mark that in other circumstances it might have made her laugh. ‘I – I think perhaps it’s better if you see for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll go with her,’ Zanhua says, stepping protectively in front of her.

  But Yuliang shakes her head. ‘Let me go in first.’ She holds her hand out to the curator. ‘Please give me the key to the gallery.’

  For an instant the ghost of his old smile hovers at his lips. ‘Actually, madame,’ he says ‘you won’t need it.’

  As she enters the building she sees the posters inside, pulled from frames, ripped and hanging in shreds, and the doors slightly ajar. One doorknob is broken. Glass from several shattered panes lies in gleaming piles on the floor. Yuliang stares at the shards with a sense, as elusive as scent, that she has somehow lived through this moment before. But if she has, she can’t recall it. And even if she could, she knows already, somehow, that it won’t help to prepare her for what’s to come. Wordlessly, she pushes her way through the battered door.

  What strikes her first is the whiteness – the startling absence of color. It is almost what she imagines crossing over into the afterworld might be like. It takes a moment for her to realize that she is seeing only sunlight, bouncing blankly off the empty walls.

  For the walls are empty, almost all of them: other than in the alcove, every single painting she’d ordered hung in the gallery has been yanked or knocked from its mounting. The ones the vandals left still litter the floor. Others are missing: They’re simply not there.

  Stunned, Yuliang scans the room, cataloguing the lost. She counts five: Negress, Boy, Paris Nude, Dreaming Nude, Nursing Mother. She sees it at once: All the nudes. It is only the nudes they’ve taken. For a split second she is baffled. Why take the very paintings they’ve decried the most?

  The answer comes coldly: They’ve stolen them to sell them.

  Behind her, a whisper. A pencil hitting a notebook. She feels Zanhua behind her, his hand firm on her shoulder. She shrugs him off sharply and walks around the room, continuing with her numb inventory: Lotuses, Chrysanthemums, Still Life with Vase and Paper. All of these have been left alone. But her cityscapes – from Rome and Venice, her Paris street scenes – have been scrawled on or slashed. And The Bridge of Great Loyalty has been almost completely destroyed: it’s now little more than a row of gray-and-black-painted ribbons.

  But worst of all is Strong Man. When Yuliang first leans over to inspect it, she gasps and quickly averts her face. It’s as though she’s identifying a body, but one that bears almost no resemblance to the strong, fluid form she’s devoted herself to these past months.

  They’ve embellished his lean form with cartoonish obscenities; breasts, a limp organ of imposs
ible size. Little is left below the nose but poster paint. Even more chillingly, the eyes are gone – they’ve literally been cut out. They’re blank and white, the eyes of a ghost. Across the top is scrawled, in the same meticulous hand she saw on the poster, ‘A Whore’s Tribute to Her Client.’

  Her hands shaking, Yuliang lifts up the frame. ‘How did they do this?’

  ‘We – we don’t precisely know yet, madame,’ the curator says. ‘But it appears someone came through the western window.’

  He points. The window is open but, unlike the door, intact: no broken glass, no signs of damage or forced entry. ‘Are you saying it wasn’t locked?’

  ‘We’ve never thought,’ he begins. ‘That is, there has never been the need –’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ she shouts. ‘You yourself warned me yesterday that there was danger!’

  Behind them is a whispered chorus of pens. Zanhua takes her arm again as the first flare goes off. In the afterstink of the sulfur he attempts to comfort her: ‘Yuliang. We’ll make them pay. We’ll call my solicitor.’

  She laughs hoarsely. ‘Why? Can he paint?’ Her eyes welling, she waves an arm at the decimated room. ‘It’s gone. All gone. Half a lifetime of work.’

  As more flashes go off she holds her hands to her eyes, blocking it out – the explosions, the wreckage. That awful, blinding nullity. And yet even through her trembling fingers she still sees it – what they’ll see when the papers come out tomorrow. Not a painter. Not even a victim. They’ll see a weeping whore in the ruins of her career. For in the end, she suddenly realizes, the vandals’ knives simply cut to the truth of what everyone already thinks of her.