In its long, thin hands Death held a flute, the reed placed to its lipless mouth. From the tapered mouth of the flute spilled a flock of tiny birds, dark like ravens, yet cruel, their round eyes like tiny beads of milky white as they fell on to the host below, pecking at eye and limb.
The trees were to the right. Willow and ash and mulberry. Beneath them and to their left, in the centre of the mural, a stream fell between rocks, heavy with the yellow earth of northern China. These were the Yellow Springs, beneath which, it was said, the dead had their domain, ti yu, the ‘earth prison'. He saw how several among that host – Han and Hung Mao alike – looked up at that golden spill of water as they passed, despairing, seeing nothing of its shining beauty.
It was a scene of torment, yet there was compassion thered .
He looked and looked, drinking it in, then nodded, recognizing the style. It was shanshui – mountains and water. But this was nothing like the lifeless perfection Tung Ch'i-ch'ang had painted. These mountains were alive, in motion, the flow of water turbulent, disturbed by the fall of rock from above.
It was a vision of last things. Of the death not of a single man, but of a world. Of Chung Kuo itself.
He stood back, shivering. It was some while since he had been moved so profoundly by anything. The oven man was not a great painter – at least, not technically – yet what he lacked in skill he more than made up for in vision. For this was real. This had ch'i – vitality. Had it in excess.
‘I can see why they left you, Lu Nan Jen. Was this a dream?'
The old man turned, looking at Ben, his whole manner changed. There was no mistaking him now for a simple ch'a seller.
‘You understand, then?'
Ben met his eyes. ‘When did it come?'
‘When I was ten. My life...' He shrugged, then looked away. ‘I guess there was nothing I could be after that but Lu Nan Jen. There was no other school for me.'
‘Yes...' Ben turned, looking at it again, awed by its simple power. ‘All this... your work ... it must keep you busy.'
‘Busy?' The old man laughed. ‘There is no busier person in the Seven Cities than the oven man, unless it is the Midwife. They say eight hundred million die each year. Eight hundred million, and more each year. Always more. There is no room for such numbers in the earth. And so they come to my ovens.' He laughed, a strangely thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Does that disturb you, young Master?'
‘No,' Ben answered honestly, yet it made him think of his father. How long would it be before Hal too was dead – alive in memory alone? Yet he, at least, would lie at rest in the earth. Ben frowned. ‘Your vision is marvellous, Lu Nan Jen. And yet, when you talk, you make it all sound so... so prosaic. So meaningless.'
‘From nothing they come. To nothing they return.'
‘Is that what you believe?'
The old man shrugged, his eyes going to the darkness at the far left of the mural, beyond the figure of Death. ‘To believe in nothing, is that a belief? If so, I believe.'
Ben smiled. There was more sense, more wisdom, in this old man than in a thousand Fan Liang-weis. And himself? What did he believe? Did he believe in nothing? Was the darkness simply darkness? Or was there something there, within it? Just as there seemed to be a force behind the light, was there not also a force behind the dark? Maybe even the same force?
The old man sighed. ‘Forgive me, young Master, but I must leave you now. I have my ovens to attend. But, please, if you wish to stay here...'
Ben lowered his head. ‘I thank you, Lu Nan Jen. And I am honoured that you showed me your work. It is not every day that I come across something so real.'
The oven man bowed, then met Ben's eyes again. ‘I am glad you came, young Master. It is not every day that I meet someone who understands such things. The dream uses us, does it not?'
heet hoo maBen nodded, moved by the old man's humility. To create this and yet to know how little he had to do with its creating. That was true knowledge.
He bowed again and made to go, then stopped. ‘One last thing,' he said, turning back. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?'
The oven man laughed and looked about him at the air. ‘Ghosts? Why, there's nothing here but ghosts.'
‘Catherine? Are you in there?'
She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against the smooth, cool surface of the door, willing him to go and leave her in peace, but his voice returned, stronger, more insistent.
‘Catherine? You are there, aren't you? Let me in.'
‘Go away,' she said, hearing the tiredness in her voice. ‘You've a date with young Heng, haven't you? Why don't you just go to that and leave me be.'
‘Let me in,' he said, ignoring her comment. ‘Come on. We need to talk.'
She sighed then stepped back, reaching across to touch the lock. At once the door slid back.
Sergey had changed. He was wearing his gambling clothes – dark silks that lent him a hard, almost sinister air. She had never liked them, least of all now, when she was angry with him.
‘Still sulking?' he asked, making his way past her into the room.
She had thrown a sheet over the oilboard to conceal what she had been working on, but he went straight to it, throwing back the sheet.
‘Is this what's been causing all the difficulties?'
She punched the touch-pad irritably, closing the door, then turned to face him.
‘What do you want?'
He laughed, then came across to her. ‘Is that how you greet me?'
He made to embrace her, but she pushed him away.
‘You forget,' she said, moving past him and throwing the sheet back over the oilboard.
‘It was a joke...' he began, but she rounded on him angrily.
‘You're a child! Do you know that?'
He shrugged. ‘I thought that's what you liked about me? Besides, it wasn't you who had wine thrown in your face. That hurt.'
‘Good.'
She turned away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
‘Let go of me,' she said coldly, looking down at where he held her.
‘Not until you apologize.'
She laughed, astonished by him. ‘Me apologize? After what you said? You can go rot in hell before I apologize to you!'
He tightened his grip until she cried out, tearing her arm away from his grasp.
‘You bastard... You've no right...'
‘No right?' He came closer, his face leaning into hers threateningly. ‘After what we've been to each other these last two years, you have the nerve to say I've no right?' His voice was hard, harder than she had ever heard it before, and she found herself suddenly frightened by this aspect of him. Had it always been there, just below the surface of his charm? Yes. She'd always known it about him. Perhaps that was even what had first attracted her. But she was tired of it now. Tired of his thoughtless domination of her. Let him drink himself to death, or take his whores, or gamble away all his money – she would have no more of it.
‘Just go, Sergey. Now, before you make even more of a fool of yourself.'
She saw his eyes widen with anger and knew she had said the wrone cr fa wais mg thing. He reached out and grabbed her neck roughly, pulling her closer to him. ‘A fool?'
Through her fear she recognized the strange parallel of the words with those Fan Liang-wei had used to Shepherd. Then she was fighting to get away from him, hitting his arms and back as he pulled her chin round forcibly and pressed his mouth against her own. Only then did he release her, pushing her back away from him, as if he had done with her.
‘And now I'll go see Heng.'
She shivered, one hand wiping at her mouth unconsciously. ‘You bastard...' she said, her voice small. ‘You obnoxious bastard...' She was close to tears now, her anger displaced suddenly by the hurt she felt. How dare he do that to her? How dare he treat her like his thing?
But he only shook his head. ‘Grow up, Catherine. For the gods' sake, grow up.'
‘Me... ?' But her indignation was wasted on him. He had turned away. Slamming his fist against the lock, he pushed out through the door, barely waiting for it to open. Then he was gone.
She stood there a while, staring at the open doorway, fear and hurt and anger coursing through her. Then, as the automatic lock came on and the door hissed closed, she turned and went out into the kitchen. She reached up and pulled down the bottle of peach brandy and poured herself a large glass, her hands trembling. Then, using both hands to steady the glass, she took a long, deep swig of it, closing her eyes, the rich, dark liquid burning her throat.
She shuddered. The bastard! How dare he?
Back in the other room, she set the glass down on the floor, then threw the sheet back from the oilboard, looking at the painting. It was meant to be a joint portrait. Of her and Sergey. Something she had meant to give him for their second anniversary, two weeks away. But now...
She looked at it, seeing it with new eyes. It was shit. Lifeless shit. As bad as the Tung Ch'i-ch'ang landscape. She pressed to erase then stood back, watching as the faces faded and the coloured, contoured screen became a simple, silk smooth rectangle of uncreated whiteness.
For a moment she felt nothing, then, kneeling, she picked up her glass, cradling it against her cheek momentarily before she put it to her lips and drank.