The Painter from Shanghai by Jennifer Cody Epstein

Author:Jennifer Cody Epstein
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2008-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

TWO WEEKS LATER Ahying appears in the study, drying her chapped hands on her pants. “Madame, a gentleman has come to see you.”

Yuliang looks up from her sketchbook, surprised: apart from the occasional jewelry or fabric vendor, the only “gentleman” who visits her is Qihua. But he checked in on her just two days ago. “Who is it?”

Ahying shakes her head. “An older gentleman. With a funny hat.”

Yuliang frowns.

“Like a blackened pancake, sitting on his head,” the girl adds helpfully. “Shall I show him in?”

Yuliang hesitates, then puts her charcoal down. For all she knows, it might be one of Qihua’s friends. Or a courier from the Shanghai Customs Office—they were the ones who arrived with word that Zanhua’s last visit was postponed. “I’ll meet him in the courtyard. Please offer him some tea.”

A few moments later, apron off, she steps into the courtyard—and freezes. Her guest, who sits with his legs crossed on the courtyard’s one small stone bench, sipping tea, is none other than Teacher Hong.

The artist wears baggy trousers such as construction workers wear, although they’re spattered with paint instead of dust. These he’s paired with a blue work shirt like the ones Yuliang has seen on French foreign nationals. On his head, looking as though it might slide off at any moment, is the black beret he’d worn on the Bund.

“Good morning,” he says cheerfully, lowering his cup. “I trust I don’t arrive at a bad moment.”

“I wasn’t doing anything important.”

“Work isn’t important?”

Yuliang stares at him. Hong Ye grins. “Charcoal on your forehead.”

“Oh,” she says, and pats her brow helplessly. “It’s very kind of you to visit.”

“Not at all. I’m enjoying your very fine tea.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. My husband buys it from Hangzhou.”

“He’s not here now, I gather.” Yuliang shakes her head, uncertain as to how much to elaborate. Ocean Street, like most old neighborhoods, is an open harbor of information, filled with whispered cross-currents of other people’s business. The last thing she wants, for Zanhua’s sake, is more scandal.

Seeming to sense this, Teacher Hong clears his throat. “Autumn,” he announces, “is my favorite season. Easier to work once the fans are set aside and the humidity lifts. Don’t you think?”

Yuliang nods. “I do hope my rudeness the other day didn’t interfere very much with your work.”

Teacher Hong shakes his head. “Art is a lonely profession. In fact, it was your visit that encouraged me to intrude upon you at this early hour.” Setting his cup down, he reaches for the canvas she’s only just noticed leaning against his seat. “Words don’t paint a picture, as they say. I thought it might be helpful to illustrate a few of my points.”

He turns the canvas toward her, and she finds herself looking at the portrait he’d been working on in his studio. At least, she assumes it’s the same one. For the work is very different now. The painted Hong Ye has been infused with color, fleshed out with brilliance and depth. His trimmed beard and mustache glisten with gray and silver.

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