The Mandate of Heaven (41 page)

The extent of her distress surprised him. As did the realisation he was absurdly jealous.

‘Will you ever stop taunting me?’ she cried. ‘Once I hoped you would be a sensible friend. The Elder Brother I lack! I have so much need of kindly advice!’

This cut his next witticism short. ‘I apologise, Yun Shu,’ he said. ‘Of course your charity is worthwhile. A hundred hungry families will sleep better for your work.’

Lady Lu Si emerged from the library. She examined the Abbess’s flushed, animated face.

‘Thank you for your assistance today, Honourable Deng Teng,’ said Yun Shu in a brittle voice that strove for detachment.

Teng watched as she marched off to the gatehouse, her shoulders slightly hunched, pursued by a curious Lady Lu Si.

That night, a hot wind ruffled the lake, blowing from the lustful south. Teng found himself in Ying-ge’s boudoir in a large merchant’s house and compound turned over to peach-red women. Her suite of rooms overlooked a small inner courtyard with a pond of water lilies and indolent carp.

The door had been slid open to let in the night breeze and he lounged on a wide, low bed, looking at the pond. Though he had hoped for gaiety and pleasure, his union with Ying-ge had disappointed them both. She lay naked beside him, watching his expression. Then she yawned and rolled over, revealing smooth breasts and skin, the fragrant moss beneath her flat stomach. Still he did not notice her. Now she rolled onto her front, propping her chin in cupped hands.

‘You usually have pretty things to say to me,’ she complained.

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Do I?’

‘Yes. And you usually love to hear
me
talk.’

‘But I still do.’

She pursed her lips and yawned again. Once more they were silent. When it became uncomfortable he said: ‘What is it you want to talk about?’

Now Ying-ge was less sure. They had already gossiped about the theatre, already praised her new silk dress, a present from another admirer, and one she clearly expected him to match, if not surpass.

‘You seem to have so much
cash
these days,’ she said, wistfully. ‘Where do you get it all?’

That was one topic of conversation he was reluctant to explore, though she pressed him for an answer by remarking how clever he must be and then how everyone was curious. Finally her eyes widened at a novel idea.

‘You scholars are all poets,’ she said. ‘Well then, praise my beauty!’

She rolled over and rested her cheek on one hand, the other playfully adjusting a lock of her hair.

‘Your beauty?’ he said, in a distant voice, distracted by recollections of Yun Shu’s foolish bravery that morning. Ying-ge’s coquettish expression hardened.

‘You don’t notice me,’ she said, pouting.

‘Not at all!’ protested Teng, reaching out to touch her hand. She sullenly pulled it away. ‘It’s just that I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘that the valley between your jade mountains would entice any traveller.’

She considered this for a moment, examining her own chest.

‘What of my face?’ she demanded, angling it towards him.

‘Oh, oval as a phoenix egg.’

The compliment seemed to mollify her slightly.

‘And my eyebrows?’

‘I see willow leaves … and your mouth is as small as a fish’s’

‘What kind of fish?’

‘Oh, a carp, for you are always seeking profit wherever you can find it.’

‘Ah!’ Now she tapped him playfully on the arm. ‘I like that!’

‘I thought you would.’

‘And my lips?’

‘Cherries – and as for your teeth, pomegranate seeds.’

Here he was lying, as no doubt a woman possessing as many bronze mirrors as Ying-ge knew well. Her teeth were small, pointed and uneven.

‘I like you now,’ she said, invitingly.

But Teng had risen. Pulling a dressing gown over his naked body he went over to the wine flasks and poured a bowl. Behind him Ying-ge’s willow eyebrows rose in scorn: pouring wine was her work. But he had ceased to consider Ying-ge. Her vanity, though natural in a woman, bored him. Again he thought of Yun Shu and wondered if the curtained carriage had called for her tonight.

‘A strange thing happened at the foot of Monkey Hat Hill today,’ he said.

‘Horrid, overgrown place full of ghosts!’ she retorted, for Ying-ge didn’t like her lover living in an unfashionable part of town in case it reflected badly on herself.

He told the tale of the cauldrons and starving people, concluding with his fears that a hungry crowd would mob Abbess Yun Shu if she was not careful.

‘It is disgraceful,’ he continued. ‘Merchants manipulate the market for grain so their profits are bloated. They bribe officials to turn a blind eye who, in turn, bribe princes and court nobles. Thus the price of rice doubles and millet trebles!’

A loud yawn interrupted him.

‘Who cares what happens to miserable poor people and their ugly old Aunty,’ said Ying-ge. Suddenly she became suspicious. ‘Of course! I have heard of this Abbess. She is young and pretty!’

Now Teng felt uncomfortable and wished he hadn’t mentioned Yun Shu. Another bowl of wine went down quickly.

‘I knew her when we were both children, that is all,’ he said. ‘She was a kind of sister to me for a while. Then there was a great misunderstanding between us.’

Ying-ge’s icy laugh tinkled.

‘Just a sister?’ she asked, archly. ‘I didn’t think that was your style.’

‘Actually, I honour that lady a great deal. Though, at times, she is the most vexing creature in the world.’

He poured and downed another cup. It was strong rice wine and his head span a little. Then he chuckled. ‘She is the most quick-witted woman of my acquaintance – not that the sharpness of her tongue isn’t provoking.’

Even in his drunken state Teng became aware Ying-ge was sobbing. Or appeared to be.

‘I can see you do not love me at all!’ said the girl, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘It is this ugly Aunty you love!’

Teng suddenly wished himself back in Deng Mansions. Her words disturbed him in a way he blamed on the wine. What nonsense filled women’s heads! Sitting down heavily beside Ying-ge, he took her hands and kissed them.

‘You fill my eyes!’ he protested.

‘I don’t,’ she sniffed, ‘it’s her, that horrid Nun who fills your eyes.’

Eventually he soothed her. Between them the cock phoenix danced and the hen flew loudly for a long while.

Teng was woken at dawn by a persistent tapping on the door. A maid finally gained his attention and led him to Ying-ge’s tiny reception room where a male visitor waited on a low, padded chair. He examined Teng’s half-dressed state and grunted.

‘Chasing quails who sell their feathers again,’ remarked Shensi.

Teng sat down opposite his friend.

‘What is it, Shensi? Has Father’s illness worsened?’

The tomb-finder pursed his lips. ‘Good news for a change.’

He told an interesting story. First he reminded Teng that their chief customer, Salt Minister Gui, believed he was acting as a broker for an old, impoverished noble family, so desperate they were parting with their greatest treasures. Abruptly, Shensi went quiet and looked round the small room.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Teng, ‘it’s safe to talk freely. Ying-ge can’t hear.’

‘Then I will. Last night our friend Gui summoned me with an offer. It seems he has customers at the court who will pay a fortune for paintings of horses. And he needs lots of
cash
to send to his sons in the capital. The Mongol princes are vying for the best horse paintings, especially by Han Kan and Li Lung-mien. Of course I told him we could provide both.’

‘Was that wise?’ asked Teng. ‘Gui isn’t a complete fool.’

‘Ah, but he’s greedy, said Shensi, ‘that can make the cleverest man foolish.’

Still Teng doubted. The same might be said of themselves.

‘So I’m to produce a painting by Han Kun – not too hard, by the way – and one by Li Lung-mien, which is a far greater challenge. When by?’

‘I said a week.’

‘A week!’

‘Maybe two.’

Teng scratched his legs through the bed robe, picturing prints and copies of Han Kun in the Deng library. They were in poor condition but usable.

‘Very well, but these are the last forgeries I will undertake. Never ask me again. This time I mean it.’

Was it Father’s willingness to risk anything for the public good, as he had yesterday? Or did Yun Shu’s purity lurk behind his vow? Teng could not be sure, but the decision brought an inner calm that had eluded him for months.

‘You won’t need to do it again,’ said Shensi, wolfishly. ‘Our good friend the Salt Minister is offering thousands, which can only mean he stands to make thousands more by selling them.’

When Teng returned to Ying-ge’s boudoir he found her yawning extravagantly as though she had woken that very moment. Yet he caught an oddly alert glitter in her eyes and wondered, quite unworthily, whether she had spied on his conversation with Shensi.

As Teng commenced his work he realised any art – music, words, brush strokes – was a story of stages …

First the flow of an inspired hand, copying ancient models in accordance to the Sixth Principle of Hsieh Ho. One must learn by example, revere the Great Masters …

Mid-morning light pooled in the centre of Teng’s shabby studio, illuminating examples by Han Kun studied and rehearsed in small parts – that flying hoof twenty times over and flaring nostril a dozen times. So often he no longer referred to them. He became Han Kun, revelling in the master’s glory, always mourning his own inferiority …

Even as he executed the boldest strokes, Teng sensed
ch’i
energy running as ink-sap through his hand, breathing out forms on paper …

Standing back, examining the painting for its adherence to Hsieh Ho’s Third Principle. But if the horse lacked fidelity then surely he, Teng, could not be blamed when the depiction so closely – no, he could flatter himself,
exactly
– mirrored Han Kun’s own.

With Li Lung-mien’s horse the transformation required a great letting go of self, a drive to nullity. Teng remembered how a Daoist told the painter that if he continued painting so many horses he would become one himself. Teng spent days watching horses in the city and dreaming about the quiver of their sweating flanks, twitching tails, wind-stirred manes, the expressive emptiness of their eyes …

False starts and trials! Always Li Lung-mien’s genius fled before him like a ghost, held momentarily then slipping through the hairs of his brush. Hsieh Ho’s Second Principle spoke of a painter’s bone, the strength of his brush stroke, and through this Teng gained the key. As afternoon light glowed and faded he painted a dappled tribute horse on faded brown paper, exactly matching Li Lung-mien’s precisely broad style. Finally, tentatively, almost fearfully lest he mar so perfect a replica, Teng applied the seals and colophons in red ink he had created by carving on wax. Each was exact. How fine a mimic he had become!

A flask of wine. More pacing round his mockery of Li Lung-mien. In disgust at his persistent dishonesty, Teng altered the final seal of ownership so it attested the painting once belonged to the rebel hero Yueh Fei, aware such an ownership clashed with dates set out in the other seals. No matter. The Mongols were too stupid to notice subtleties. All they would see was a horse.

Chuckling at his petty act of protest, Teng sent one of Father’s pupils to buy another jug of double-brewed rice wine.