An Inch of Ashes (Chung Kuo)(46)

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, quo to t that happeninstead 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.'

‘No!' Wolf said, his eyes wide with astonishment. Beside him, Catherine stared down into her glass.

‘Yes... he droned on for ages. A lot of nonsense about the artist and the object, and about there being two kinds of vision. Oh, a lot of high-sounding mumbo-jumbo.'

‘He didn't drone, Sergey. And he was good. Very good.'

Sergey laughed and leaned across the table, smiling at the red-haired girl who had been his lover for almost two years. ‘Who told you that? Lotte here?' He laughed. ‘Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. It's a pity you missed it, Catherine. Shepherd was quite impressive, in a bullshitting sort of way, but...' He shrugged, lifting his free hand, the fingers wide open. ‘Well, that's all it was, really. Bullshit.'

Catherine glanced up at him, as ever slightly intimidated by his manner. She picked up her glass and cradled it against her cheek, the chill red wine casting a roseate shadow across her face. ‘I didn't just hear about it. I was there. At the back of the hall. I got there late, that's all.'

‘Then you know it was crap.'

She hesitated, embarrassed. She didn't like to contradict him, but in this he was wrong. ‘I... I don't agree...'

He laughed. ‘You don't agree?'

She wanted to leave it at that, but he insisted.

‘What do you mean?'

She took a breath. ‘I mean that he was right. There is more to it than Fan Liang-wei claims. The Six Principles... they strangle art. Because it isn't simply a matter of selection and interpretation. As Shepherd said, it has to do with other factors  –  with things unseen.'

Sergey snorted.

She shivered, irritated by his manner. ‘I knew you'd do that. You're just like Fan Liang-wei, sneering at anything you disagree with. And both of you... well, you see only the material aspect of the art  –  its structure and its plastic elements, you don't see-'

Sergey had been shaking his head, a patient, condescending smile fixed on his lips, but now he interrupted her.

‘What else is there? There's only light and shadow, texture and colour. That's all you can put on a canvas. It's a two-dimensional thing. And all this business about things unseen, it's...' He waved it away lightly with his hand.

She shook her head violently, for once really angry with him. ‘No! What you're talking about is great design, not great art. Shepherd was right. That painting, for instance  –  the Tung Ch'i-ch'ang  –  it was crap.'

Sergey snorted again. ‘So you say. But it has nothing to do with art, really, has it?' He smiled, sitting back in his chair. ‘You fancy the fellow, don't you?'

She set her glass down angrily. Wine splashed and spilled across the dark green cloth. ‘Now you're talking bullshit!'

He shook his head, talking over her protestations. ‘My friend, Amandsun, tells me that the man's not even a member of the Arts Faculty. He really is a scientist of some kind. A technician.'

He emphasized each syllable of the final word, giving it a distinctly unwholesome flavour.

Cattin its onhe herine glared at him a moment, then turned away, facing the aviary and its colourful occupants. On one of the higher perches a great golden bird fluffed out its wings as if to stretch into flight. The long, silken under-feathers were as black as night. It opened its beak, then settled again, making no sound.

Sergey watched the girl a moment, his eyes half-lidded, then, sensing victory, pushed home with his taunts.

‘Yes, I bet our dear Catherine wouldn't mind him tinkering with her things unseen.'

That did it. She turned and took her glass, then threw its contents into his face. He swore and started to get up, wiping at his eyes, but Wolf leaned across, holding his arm firmly. ‘Too far, Sergey. Just a bit too far...' he said, looking across at Catherine as he spoke.

Catherine stood there a moment longer, her head held back, fierce, proud, her face lit with anger; then she took five coins from her purse and threw them down on to the table. ‘For the meal,' she said. Then she was gone; was walking out into the Mainway, ignoring the turned heads at other tables.

Sergey was wiping the wine from his eyes with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘It stings! It fucking well stings!'

‘It serves you right,' said Lotte, watching her friend go, her eyes uncharacteristically thoughtful. ‘You always have to push it beyond the limits, don't you?'

Sergey glared at her, then relented. The front of his hair was slick with wine, his collar stained. After a moment he laughed. ‘But I was right, wasn't I? It hit home. Dead centre!'

Beside him Wolf laughed, looking across at his sister and meeting her eyes. ‘Yes...' he said, smiling, seeing his smile mirrored back. ‘I've never seen her so angry. But who is this Shepherd? I mean, what's his background?'

Sergey shrugged. ‘No one seems to know. He's not from one of the known families. And he doesn't make friends, that's for sure.'

‘An upstart, do you think?' Lotte leaned across, collecting up the coins and stacking them in a neat pile.

‘I guess so.' Sergey wiped at his fringe with his fingers, then licked them. ‘Hmm. It might be interesting to find out, don't you think? To try to unearth something about him?'

Wolf laughed. ‘Unearth... I like that. Do you think... ?'

Sergey wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. ‘No. He's too big to have come from the Clay. You can spot those runts from ten li off. No, Mid-Levels, I'd say.'

Lotte looked up, smiling. ‘Well, wherever he comes from, he has nerve, I'll say that for him.'

Sergey considered, then grudgingly agreed. ‘Yes. He's impressive in a sort of gauche, unpolished way. No manners, though. I mean, poor old Fan was completely at a loss. You can be sure he won't rest until he's found a way of getting even with our friend.'

Wolf nodded. ‘That's the trouble with the lower levels,' he said, watching his sister's hands as they stacked and unstacked the coins. ‘They've no sense of what's right. No sense of li. Of propriety.'