Authors: David Wingrove
His name was Sergey Novacek and he was a Master’s student and a sculptor. His father, Lubos, was a well-to-do merchant who, at his wife’s behest, indulged his only son, buying him a place at Oxford. Not that Sergey was unintelligent. He could easily have won a scholarship. It was simply a matter of prestige. Of status. At the level on which Lubos Novacek had his interests, it was not done to accept State charity.
Just now Sergey was telling them of the ceremony he had attended the previous day; a ceremony at which six of his sculptures had been on display. He had not long been fulfilling such commissions, yet he spoke as if he had great experience in the matter. But that was his way, and his friends admired him for it, even if others found it somewhat arrogant.
‘It all went very well, at first,’ he said, his handsome features serious a moment. ‘Everyone was most respectful. They fed me and watered me and tried their best to be polite and hide from themselves the fact that I was neither family nor Han.’ He laughed. ‘None too successfully, I’m afraid. But, anyway... The tomb was magnificent. It stood in its own walled gardens next to the house. A massive thing, two storeys high, clad all over in white marble, and with a gate you could have driven a team of four horses through.’ Sergey sipped at his drink, then laughed. ‘In fact, the tomb was a damn sight bigger than the house!’
There was laughter.
‘That’s so typical of them,’ said the second young man, Wolf, lifting his glass to his lips. He was taller and more heavily built than his friend, his perfect North European features topped by a close-cropped growth of ash-blond hair. ‘They’re so
into
death.’
Sergey raised his glass. ‘And a good job too, neh?’
‘For you,’ one of the girls, Lotte, said teasingly, her blue eyes flashing. It was true. Most of Sergey’s commissions were funerary – tomb statues for the Minor Families.
Lotte was a pale-skinned, large-breasted girl, who wore her blonde hair unfashionably long and plaited, in defiance of fashion. These things aside she looked exactly what she was – the twin of her brother, Wolf. Beside her, silent, sat the fourth of their small group, Catherine. She was smaller than her friends, more delicately built; a slender redhead with Slavic features and green eyes.
Sergey smiled. ‘Anyway. As I was saying. It was all going well and then the ceremony proper began. You know how it is; a lot of New Confucian priests chanting for the souls of the departed. And then the eldest son comes to the front and lights a candle for the ancestors. Well... it had just got to that stage when, would you believe it, eldest son trips over his
pau
, stumbles forward and falls against the lines of paper charms.’
‘No!’ All three sat forward, Wolf amused, the two girls horrified.
‘Unfortunate, you might think, and embarrassing, but not disastrous. And so it might have been, except that in falling he dropped the lighted candle amongst the charms.’ Sergey laughed shortly and nodded to himself. ‘You should have seen it. There must have been two or three thousand charms hanging up on those lines, dry as bone, just waiting to go up in one great sheet of flame. And that’s exactly what they did. Eldest son was all right, of course. The servants pulled him away at once. But before anyone could do a thing, the flames set off the overhead sprinklers. Worse than that, no one knew the combination sequence to the cut-out and the key to the manual override was missing. It just poured and poured. We were all soaked. But the worst was to come. Because the garden was enclosed, the water couldn’t drain away. Much of it sank into the thin soil layer, but soon that became waterlogged, and when that happened the water began to pour down the steps into the tomb. Within minutes the water was up to the top step. That’s when it happened.’
He leaned forward and filled his glass, then looked about him, enjoying himself, knowing he had their full attention. ‘Well? What do you think?’
Wolf shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The eldest son fell in, perhaps?’
Sergey narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, that would have been good, wouldn’t it? But this was better. Much better. Imagine it. There we all are, still waiting for someone to switch the damn sprinklers off, our expensive clothes ruined, the ground a total bog beneath our feet, no one willing to show disrespect by leaving the gardens before the ceremony’s over, when what should happen but the unthinkable. Out floats the coffin!’
‘Kuan Yin preserve us!’ Wolf said, his eyes round as coins.
‘Poor man,’ murmured Catherine, looking down.
Sergey laughed. ‘Poor man, my arse! He was dead. No, but you should have seen the faces on those Han. It was as if they’d had hot irons poked up their backsides! There was a muttering and a spluttering and then – damn me if they didn’t try to shove the coffin back into the tomb against the current! You should have seen the eldest son, slipping about in the mud like a lunatic!’
‘Gods preserve us!’ Wolf said. ‘And did they manage it?’
‘Third time they did. But by then the sprinklers were off and the servants were carrying the water away in anything they could find.’
The two men laughed, sitting back in their chairs and baring their teeth. Across from Wolf, Lotte smiled broadly, enjoying her brother’s laughter. Only Catherine seemed detached from their enjoyment, as if preoccupied. Sergey noticed this and leaned towards her slightly. ‘What is it?’
She looked up. ‘It’s nothing...’
He raised an eyebrow, making her laugh.
‘Okay,’ she said, relenting. ‘I was just thinking about the painting I’m working on.’
‘You’re having trouble?’
She nodded.
Wolf leaned across to nudge Sergey. ‘I shouldn’t worry. She’s not a real artist.’
Catherine glared at him, then looked away. Wolf was always mocking her for working on an oilboard, when, as he said, any artist worth their ricebowl worked in watercolours. But she discounted his opinion. She had seen his work. It was technically perfect, yet somehow lifeless. He could copy but he couldn’t create.
She looked back at Sergey. ‘I was thinking I might go to the lecture this afternoon.’
He lifted his chin slightly. ‘Lecture?’
She smiled. ‘Oh... I forgot. You weren’t here when the College officials came round, were you?’ She searched in her bag for something, then set a small, hexagonal pad down on the table. She placed her palm against it momentarily, warming the surface, then moved her hand away. At once a tiny, three-dimensional image formed in the air and began to speak.
‘That’s Fan Liang-wei, isn’t it?’ said Wolf, leaning across to refill his glass.
‘Shhhh,’ Sergey said, touching his arm. ‘Let’s hear what the old bugger has to say.’
Fan Liang-wei was one of the most respected
shanshui
artists in City Europe. His paintings hung in the homes of most of the Minor Families. The Great Man’s long white hair and triple-braided beard were familiar sights to those who tuned in to the ArtVid channel, and even to those whose tastes were less refined, Fan Liang-wei was the very personification of the
wen ren
, the scholar-artist.
It was standard practice for professors of the College to advertise their lectures in this way, since their fees were paid according to attendance figures. Indeed, it was the practice for some of the less charismatic of them to bribe students to attend – filling the first few rows of the hall with sleepers. For the Great Man, however, such advertising was not strictly necessary. His fee was guaranteed whatever the attendance. Nonetheless, it was a matter of ego – a question of proving his supreme status to his fellow academicians.
The tiny figure bowed to its unseen audience and began to talk of the lecture it was to give that afternoon, its internal timer updating its speech so that when it referred to the lecture it reminded the listeners that it was ‘less than two hours from now’. The lecture was to be on the two
shanshui
artists, Tung Ch’i-ch’ang and Cheng Ro, and was entitled ‘Spontaneity and Meticulousness’. Sergey watched it a moment longer, then smiled and reached out to put his hand over the pad, killing the image.
‘It could be amusing. I’ve heard the old man’s worth hearing.’
‘And Heng Chian-ye?’ Wolf asked. ‘You’ve not forgotten the card game?’
Sergey looked across and saw how Catherine had looked away angrily. He knew how strongly she disapproved of this side of him – the gambling and the late-night drinking sessions – but it only spurred him on to greater excesses, as if to test her love.
He smiled, then turned back to Wolf. ‘That’s all right. I told him I’d see him at four, but it’ll do the little yellow bastard good to wait a bit. It’ll make him more eager.’
Wolf laughed. ‘Do you still intend to challenge him? They say he’s a good player.’
Sergey lifted his chin and looked away thoughtfully. ‘Yes. But Heng’s an arrogant young fool. He’s inflexible. Worse, he’s rash when put under pressure. Like all these Han, he’s more concerned with saving face than saving a fortune. And that will be his undoing, I promise you. So, yes, I’ll challenge him. It’s about time someone raised the stakes on young Heng.’
Sergey leaned forward, looking across at Lotte. ‘And you, Lotte? Are you coming along?’
Again his words, his action in leaning towards Lotte, were designed to upset the other girl. They all knew how much Lotte was besotted with the handsome young sculptor. It was a joke which even she, on occasions, shared. But that didn’t lessen the pangs of jealousy that affected Catherine.
As ever, Lotte looked at her brother before she answered, a faint colour at her cheeks. ‘Well, I ought, I know, but...’
‘You
must
,’ Sergey said, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. ‘I insist. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t see the Great Man.’
Wolf answered for her. ‘We were going to do some shopping. But I’m sure...’
Wolf looked at Lotte, smiling encouragement, and she nodded. Wolf still had hopes that his sister might marry Novacek. Not that it affected his relationship with Catherine. Not significantly.
‘Good,’ said Sergey, leaning back and looking about the circle of his friends. ‘And afterwards I’ll treat you all to a meal.’
The tiers of the lecture hall were packed to overflowing. Stewards scurried up and down the gangways, trying to find seats for the crowds pressing into the hall, clearly put out by the size of the attendance. Normally the hall seemed vast and echoing, but today it was like a hive, buzzing with expectation.
At three precisely the lights dimmed and the hall fell silent. On a raised platform at the front of the hall a single spotlight picked out a lectern. For a while there was no movement on stage, then a figure stepped out of the darkness. A murmur of surprise rose from the watching tiers. It was Chu Ta Yun, the Minister of Education. He stood to one side of the lectern, his head slightly bowed, his hands folded at his waist.
‘
Ch’un tzu
,’ he began, his tone humble, ‘I have been given the great pleasure and honour of introducing one of the outstanding figures of our time; a man whose distinctions are too numerous to be listed here and whose accomplishments place him in the very first rank of painters. A man who, when the history of our culture is set down by future generations, will be seen as the epitome – the touchstone – of our art.
Ch’un tzu
, I ask you to welcome to our college the Honourable Fan Liang-wei, Painter to the court of His Most Serene Highness, Li Shai Tung.’
As the Minister withdrew, head bowed, into the darkness, Fan Liang-wei came into the spotlight, resting his hands lightly on the edge of the lectern then bowing his head to his audience. There was a faint shuffling noise as, in unison, the packed tiers lowered their heads in respect to the Great Man.
‘
Ch’un tzu
,’ he began, in the same vein as the Minister, then, smiling, added, ‘Friends...’
There was a small ripple of laughter from the tiers. The ice had been broken. But at once his face grew serious again, his chin lifting in an extravagant yet thoughtful gesture, his voice taking on an immediate tone of authority.
‘I have come here today to talk of art, and, in particular, of the art of
shanshui
painting, something of which I have, or so I delude myself, some small knowledge.’
Again there was the faintest ripple of amusement, but, as before, it was tinged with the deepest respect. There was not one there who did not consider Fan Liang-wei Chung Kuo’s foremost expert on the ancient art of
shanshui.
The Great Man looked about the tiers, as if noting friends there amongst the crowd, then spoke again. ‘As you may know, I have called today’s talk “Spontaneity and Meticulousness”, and it is upon these two extremes of expression that I wish to dwell, taking as my examples the works of two great exponents of the art of
shanshui
, the Ming painter Tung Ch’i-ch’ang and the Song painter Cheng Ro. But before I come to them and to specific examples of their work, I would like to take this opportunity of reminding you of the critic Hsieh Ho’s Six Principles, for it is to these that we shall, time and again, return during this lecture.’
Fan Liang-wei paused, looking about him. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door to his right swung open and a young man strode into the hall, ignoring the hushed remonstrances of a steward. The steward followed him two or three paces into the hall, then backed away, head bowed, glancing up at the platform apologetically before drawing the door closed behind him. The young man, meanwhile, moved unselfconsciously along the gangway in front of the platform and began to climb the stairs. He was halfway up when the Great Man cleared his throat.
‘Forgive me, young Master, but am I interrupting something?’
The young man half turned, looking back at the speaker, then, without a word, climbed the rest of the steps and sat down at their head.
There was a murmur of astonishment from the surrounding tiers and even a few harshly whispered words of criticism, but the young man seemed oblivious. He sat there, staring down at the platform, a strange intensity in his manner making him seem brooding, almost malicious in intent.