The Mystery of the Song Dynasty Painting (25 page)

When I ask my Baba about visiting the Iron Pagoda nunnery and becoming a nun, he thinks I’m joking, and tells me I won’t get good noodles in a Buddhist convent. After I convince him I’m serious, he’s furious and says that no daughter of his is going to shut herself away from all under Heaven. I suspect, however, that Niang is secretly on my side. I know I would be, if I were her.

After breakfast every morning, I go to Ah Zhao’s shed and sit at his large round table. I make myself a pot of hot tea and read my books. Then I pour water on the ink-stone, grind the ink-stick and make fresh ink. I moisten my brush, open my notebook and write my lyrics, stories and poems.

Sometimes, I hold imaginary conversations with Ah Zhao. I whisper to him that I miss him… but when I try to put down on paper these thoughts that are not for the eyes of strangers, I’m unable to do so. At those moments, my heart is full of inexpressible emotions that are felt but unspoken. I tell myself that, if he were here with me, we would not need to talk at all. We could pretend we were children again and go rambling in the woods along the ravine, forgetting the woes and cares burdening our minds.

Nothing interests me except my books and my writing. I read and write all day, and sorrow vanishes when I use that magic. I find it incredibly consoling to be able to turn to this activity any time I wish. Writing is my source of recreation as well as my salvation. It gives me enormous pleasure to think of the many unwritten poems I have inside me. That’s when I repeat to myself Ah Zhao’s favourite phrase, ‘
You he bu ke
(is anything impossible)?’

As the third Qing Ming Festival approaches, I start counting the days with the help of my wonderful book
Zhou Bi Suan Jing
(
Astronomy and Mathematics in Ancient China
), which Baba bought for me at the market. By reading this book, I’m starting to understand the relationship between astronomy, mathematics and the calendar.

In my notebook I draw a calendar, beginning with Dong Zhi. The second new moon following this festival is New Year’s Day. Fourteen days afterwards is
Yuan Xiao Jie
(the Feast of Lanterns) when homes and shops throughout our city are ablaze with lamps.

Every morning, I make tea in Ah Zhao’s shed and cross out another day on my calendar. Today is
Li Chun
(the Spring Equinox) and daytime is equal to night-time. The term ‘
Li Chun
’ means ‘spring is here’. For the next two months, the days will get progressively longer and longer until the
Xia Zhi
(Summer Solstice), which will have the longest day and shortest night of the year. Between the Summer Solstice and the Autumn Equinox, the days will gradually shorten. This continues until the arrival of the Winter Solstice, when the cycle of
Yin
and
Yang
begins all over again.

Ah Wang is busy organizing the annual
Li Chun
Ceremony of the Plough for Baba’s tenant-farmers. Since Baba is too busy to attend, Ah Wang dresses Gege in his official blue silk robe and cap, to take Baba’s place. Blue is the colour for entry-level mandarin officials such as Gege.

Accompanied by Ah Wang, Gege walks over to the farm next to our house where a new wooden plough, a water buffalo, and a crowd of colourfully dressed tenant-farmers are waiting, some carrying flowers. They have made a fake water buffalo out of a bamboo frame covered by five differently coloured pieces of paper representing the
Wu Xing
(Five Elements):

Black for metal

White for water

Red for fire

Green for wood

Yellow for earth

Gege and Ah Wang lead the farmers in a parade from Baba’s farm to the local Buddhist Temple where they burn the paper water buffalo. The altar is elegantly decorated with plum blossoms and five kinds of fruits. Everyone kneels and prays for a good harvest.

While Gege is telling me about his role in the Spring Equinox ceremony, all I can think of is my calendar. Fifteen more days and it will be Qing Ming. But there’s still no sign of Ah Zhao. Will he come? Does he remember his promise? Didn’t he say ‘
I’ll wait for you at our ravine, on or before the Qing Ming Festival, in three years’ time
’?

Most of Gege’s days are spent at Huizong’s various palaces, teaching students to paint and sign their work with the Emperor’s name. Huizong holds frequent dinner parties for His ministers, friends and clansmen. Eager to display His talents in the Three Excellences –
shi, shu, hua
(poetry, calligraphy and painting) – Huizong often entertains his guests by bestowing on them gifts of painting and calligraphy supposedly ‘done by His own hand’. In reality, many of these works are drawn and written for Huizong by Gege and his students.

Meanwhile, in Huizong’s Palace of Divine Inspiration, hundreds of talented eunuch-artists and calligraphers are at work producing thousands of images of birds, flowers and other small animals in the stilted style favoured by the Emperor. These paintings are exquisite and decorative, but appear ‘empty’ and devoid of feeling or personality.

I complain to Gege that the pictures look as though they’ve been mass-produced by a mechanical brush that has been taught to paint, but he’s not in the mood to listen. He’s often in a bad mood these days as, despite all his hard work and unquestioning support for the Emperor, he’s unable to achieve his main ambition – which is to be
Han Lin Hua Yuan Shang Shu
(Director of the Royal Academy of Art). He has started to visit me some evenings, in Ah Zhao’s hut, since I’m the only one he can trust to complain to.

Tonight, Gege comes home earlier than usual because the weather is bad. He enters Ah Zhao’s shed without knocking and finds me sitting by myself in front of my notebook.

‘Written any new lyrics lately?’

‘No,’ I reply as I ask myself whether I dare to return to the ravine again tonight. I have visited it three times already: the first time early this morning, and then twice more after I crossed out today’s date (Qing Ming) on my calendar. Each time, the ravine was deserted. But today is the last day for Ah Zhao to keep his promise.

Outside the rain is pouring down. I’m sorely tempted to take another look at the ravine, but worry that Ah Wang will report my odd behaviour to Niang. I imagine him telling her that I’ve made a total of four trips by myself to the ravine today. The last visit in the midst of a thunderstorm. And in the dark, no less.

Better not risk it again. Instead, I heat water and make a pot of tea.

Gege and I sit side by side at the big round table, painting, writing and talking, the way it used to be with Ah Zhao.

‘It’s just not fair, Little Sister! I slave for years, learning the right way to do things and please everyone before myself. But I still can’t get the one job I want more than anything in the world.’

‘Ah Zhao always said that life is not fair, but if I could give it to you it would be yours in the blink of an eye,’ I say. Despite himself, Gege laughs.

‘It’s something nobody can give me, Little Sister,’ he says. ‘To become Director, I need to create one distinctive painting. A painting that will elevate me above all the other artists without arousing the envy and resentment of the Emperor. The trouble is that I’ve been trying to paint like everyone else for so long, my paintings have lost their
qi
(energy). I can only paint birds, trees and flowers that look exactly like everyone else’s. I’m no longer able to stand out like
he li ji qun
(a crane among hens).’

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure that you ever could.’

Gege sighs. ‘No, you’re probably right. I am a good copyist, which is why the Emperor likes me.’

He looks down with disgust at the image of a white cat he just painted on a piece of silk.

‘It’s very pretty,’ I say.

‘Come on, Little Sister – you don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t like it, and I know you think I’ve sold myself by allowing the Emperor to claim all my work. I’d only say this to you, but the Emperor is welcome to the credit for most of the rubbish I paint these days, anyway.’

‘Remember the dragon Ah Zhao painted for Baba’s birthday?’

‘Of course. What an impressive piece of work that was! Not like this awful cat here, produced and reproduced a thousand times over. Huizong has gathered the talents of His Empire and turned them all into little Huizongs to paint pictures and write calligraphy just like His.’

‘What happens to all these paintings?’

‘He gives them away. It’s customary for an Emperor to give presents to His guests at the end of an imperial feast. During last night’s dinner at the Imperial Archives, Huizong gave each guest three hanging scrolls of painting and calligraphy. There were seventy-five ministers at the dinner, so He dispensed over two hundred paintings in one evening.’

‘Did the guests like them?’

‘Like them? They were fighting among themselves to be first in line! Their hats were askew and their belts and pendants were all twisted and broken. The spectacle was quite undignified!’

‘If Ah Zhao had accepted Tong Guan’s offer, I suppose he would have become one of the anonymous painters in the Palace of Divine Inspiration, never to be heard of again.’