«Are you an artist?» he asked.
«Yes, I am–well, I only do calligraphy.»
«Oh, do you have some of your calligraphies here?»
«Yes, just over here.»
She led him to the opposite side of a wall partition in the room. He then saw several hanging calligraphy paintings.
«Can you read any of them?» she asked.
«No, only bits and pieces. Like that kanji–I mean character. That means school, does it not?»
«To study. That is the meaning.»
«School–to study. I was almost right.»
«Yes, perhaps.» She pointed to one of her paintings and explained, «This means plum and this is tea. These two characters give a peaceful sense. This calligraphy is meant to relax. Rest the mind. Do you know what this means?» she asked pointing to a large, single calligraphy that he had never seen before.
«No, I don’t know what it means,” he said enjoying her sweet voice and small movements.
«It means love.»
«Oh,” he said slightly taken aback. He then thought of the Japanese character for great liking, which was far different in appearance than the Chinese character for love. He took a good look at the individual parts that composed the character and said, «That means heart and that means friend.»
«Yes,” she said impressed that he could identify the individual characters that composed the entire character for love.
«But, I don’t know that character.»
«It means house or home.»
He wanted to impress her by drawing the Japanese character for great liking and to then explain to her that it was composed of the Japanese characters for woman and child. He rehearsed in his mind what he would say; there is no greater, and more pure a form of love than that between a mother and her child. But he said and did nothing.
«Where did you learn to read characters?» she asked.
«In Chicago, and later in Japan.»
«In Japan?» she said with dislike in her eyes.
«I used to live there.»
«Really?»
«Yes, and while I was there I learned quite a few Japanese characters.»
«Chinese,” she said sharply. «The Japanese stole this from us.»
He had nothing to say in reply.
«Over here we have more paintings. These are more traditional,” she pointed to four paintings framed on silk scrolls hanging on the wall. «Each one represents one of the four seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter. In China we often liken the seasons to our lives. Spring is for the child; summer is youth and strength–vitality; fall for settling down, having a family; and winter, for rest in the old age.»
«Interesting.»
«Yes, and here we have another four seasons, but this is more modern. The colors are more vibrant in these paintings.»
«Yes, I like these very much.» He took a long moment to admire the summer painting that was composed of a lively, green color. «How much is this one?»
«The summer one? Well, it is part of a set. I can’t sell you only one. For all four it is 1,200 yuan.»
«Oh,” he said disappointed.
He then looked to a series of paintings of warriors armed with tightly pulled bows riding on horses. «I like these. Particularly this one.»
«This is by a more famous painter. They are Mongolian riders hunting.»
«How much is this one?»
«400 yuan.»
«Oh,” he said, «that isn’t so bad.»
«You should buy it. It’s meaning is success.»
He instantly thought of his deceased father and decided that he would buy it. But before declaring his decision he decided to continue looking for he wanted to spend more time with the girl. Then he saw it. It was a painting that was far different from all the others. He took a closer look and saw that the painting was of what appeared to be an enormous, cloudy sky hovering above the tiniest tree at the edge of a thin and bare cliff. It was a sad painting that was full of loneliness. «This is a tree,” he said.
«No, it is of a famous Chinese poet. That crashing down above him is a waterfall–from the Yangtze River. He is walking along the edge of a sandy floor. Those tiny curved lines are birds. The poet wrote about the insignificance of himself in all the vast space of the universe. That is why he is so small and insignificant in the painting.»
He was now more drawn to the painting. The story behind it was tragic. But he loved it, this painting of vast nothingness. He took a few steps away from the painting to admire it some more. He then noticed that half of it was in shadow. «Can you move it? I want to see it in the light.»
«Yes,” she answered as she grabbed a pole to lift the painting to then place it on a wall with more light.
He looked at the painting now in the light. The light bleached the painting. He could see that the painting’s affect on him was enhanced when it was hanging in a dark place.
«Yes, I like it. I like it very much. But it looks better in shadow, not in the light.»
Although he had made up his mind to buy the painting, along with the other for his deceased father, he wasn’t prepared to leave the young girl. He quickly fished for questions to ask her and spoke:
«Are you from Shanghai?»
«Inner Mongolia …»
«When did you leave?»
«Three years ago …»
«Which do you like better, Shanghai or Beijing?»
«Shanghai …»
«Do you have brothers and sisters?»
«One younger sister …»
«What kind of paintings–or styles–do you prefer?»
«Impressionism …»
When he finally left the gallery he had bought a total of three paintings. The third was for his future wife, whoever she would be. It was a traditional, Chinese landscape painting with vibrant splashes of pink for the leaves of the cherry trees. Although it could have, the painting did not remind him of Japan in the spring.
And as he took the lift down to the first floor with the girl he felt the urge to ask her out for a drink when she finished work at the gallery. But ultimately he decided against it. He knew that in the immediate end everything that attracted him to her–her sweet voice, small movements, and smile–would loose their luster and appeal, and that he would find every reason why he did not like, or perhaps, could not stand her.
There was the painting on his bed. He leaned toward it from the chair; the floorboards creaked again. He took another sip of gin from the short glass in his hand savoring the taste upon his lips and pulled the painting closer toward him. Distant voices called to him. He could hear the men, their screams as gunfire hailed upon them. He gripped his drink. Dark, shadowy images of children clinging to their mothers appeared while cavalry stormed in to crush them. Swords in the gun smoke were raised to the sky reflecting the faint sun, and brought down in swift strokes to cut the innocent down. He clenched his jaw and stared. The darkly lit room began to fade, and to his dark eyes there was only the painting.
«Sir, would you like to come in and see some paper cuttings?»
«No, no thank you,” he said in the bazaar of the Chinese quarter of Shanghai.
She approached him. He was standing on the side of the street. «Where are you from?»
«From Canada,” he lied. «Toronto.»
«Oh, yes. I know it. We’ve had many customers from there. Would you like to come in?»
«No, no. I’ve already bought a few paintings today.»
«But, these are traditional Chinese paper cuttings–very cheap. For your girlfriend–do you have a girlfriend?»
«No,” he blushed as he walked further into the street.
«You should get a Shanghai girl. They are very nice. Very good for you.»
He did not reply. What does she mean I should get a Shanghai girl? Are they for sale too? he thought with a sarcastic grin.
«Why are you smiling?»
«No, nothing.»
«Please, come in. Just looking. You don’t have to buy anything.»