He indicated the painting. "This, as you may recognize, is Tung Ch'i-ch'ang's Shaded Dwelling among Streams and Mountains, one of the great works of Ming art. This hanging scroll. . ."
The Great Man had turned, looking back at his audience; but now he stopped, his mouth open, for the young man had stood and was making his way slowly down the steps again.
"Forgive me," he said tartly, his patience snapping, "but have I to suffer more of your interruptions?"
The young man stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. "No. I've heard enough."
"Heard enough . . ." For the briefest moment Fan's face was contorted with anger. Then, controlling himself, he came to the edge of the platform, confronting the young man. "What do you mean, heard enough?"
The young man stared back at Fan Liang-wei, unperturbed, it seemed, by the hardness in his voice, undaunted by his reputation.
"I mean what I said. I've heard enough. I don't have to wait to hear what you have to say—you've said it all already."
Fan laughed, astonished. "I see—"
The young man lifted his arm, pointing beyond Fan at the screen. "That, for instance. It's crap."
There was a gasp of astonishment from the tiers, followed by a low murmur of voices. Fan Liang-wei, however, was smiling now.
"Crap, eh? That's your considered opinion, is it, Shih . . . ?"
The young man ignored the request for his name, just as he ignored the ripple of laughter that issued from the benches on all sides. "Yes," he answered, taking two slow steps closer to the platform. "It's dead. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. But you . . ." He shook his head. "Well, to call this lifeless piece of junk one of the great works of Ming art is an insult to the intelligence."
Fan straightened, bristling, then gave a short laugh. "You're a student of painting, then, young Master?"
The young man shook his head.
"Ah, I see. Then what are you precisely? You are a member of the College, I assume?"
There was more laughter from the tiers, a harder, crueler laughter as the students warmed to the exchange. The young man had stepped out of line. Now the Great Man would humiliate him.
"I'm a scientist."
"A scientist? Ah, I see."
The laughter was like a great wave this time, rolling from end to end of the great lecture hall. Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, sensing victory.
"Then you know about things like painting?"
The young man stood there, the laughter in the hall washing over him, waiting for it to subside. When it did he answered the Great Man.
"Enough to know that Tung Ch'i-ch'ang was the dead end of a process of slow emasculation of a once-vital art form."
The Great Man nodded. "I see. And Cheng Ro . . . I suppose he was a great painter ... in your estimation?"
There was more laughter, but it was tenser now. The atmosphere had changed, become electric with anticipation. They sensed blood.
The young man looked down. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. "You know your trouble, Fan Liang-wei?" He looked up at the older man challengingly. "You're a slave to convention. To an art that's not a real art at all, just an unimaginative and imitative craft."
There was a low murmur of disapproval from the tiers at that. As for Fan himself, he was still smiling; but it was a tight, tense mask of a smile, behind which he seethed.
"But to answer your question," the young man continued. "Yes, Cheng Ro was a great painter. He had lueh, that invaluable quality of being able to produce something casually, almost uncaringly. His ink drawing of dragons—"
"Enough!" Fan roared, shivering with indignation. "How dare you lecture me about art, you know-nothing! How dare you stand there and insult me with your garbled nonsense!"
The young man stared back defiantly at Fan. "I dare because I'm right. Because I know when I'm listening to a fool."
The hall had gone deathly silent. Fan, standing there at the edge of the platform, was very still. The smile had drained from his face.
"A fool?" he said finally, his voice chill. "And you think you can do better?" For a moment the young man hesitated. Then, astonishingly, he nodded, and his eyes never leaving Fan Liang-wei's face, began to make his way down to the platform.
THE cafe BURGUNDY was alive with news of what had happened.
At a table near the edge of the Green, the four friends leaned in close, talking. Wolf had missed the lecture, but Sergey had been there with Lotte and had seen the young man mount the platform.
"You should have seen him," Sergey said, his eyes glinting. "As cool as anything, he got up and stood at the lectern, as if he'd been meaning to speak all along."
Wolf shook his head. "And what did Fan say?"
"What could he say? For a moment he was so dumbfounded that he stood there with his mouth hanging open, like a fish. Then he went a brilliant red and began to shout at Shepherd to sit down. Oh, it was marvelous. 'It's my lecture,' the old boy kept saying, over and over. And Shepherd, bold as brass, turns to him and says, 'Then you could do us all the courtesy of talking sense.' "
They all roared at that; all but Catherine, who looked down. "I've seen him, I think," she said, "in here."
Sergey nodded. "You can't really miss him. He's an ostentatious little sod. Do you know what he does?" He looked about the table, then leaned back, lifting his glass. "He comes in at the busiest time of day and has a table to himself. He actually pays for all five places. And then he sits there, drinking coffee, not touching a bite of food, a pocket comset on the table in front of him." Sergey lifted his nose in a gesture of disdain, then drained his glass.
Wolf leaned forward. "Yes, but what happened? What did Fan say?"
Sergey gave a sharp little laugh. "Well, it was strange. It was as if Shepherd had challenged him. I don't know. I suppose it had become a matter of face . . . Anyway, instead of just sending for the stewards and having him thrown out, Fan told him to go ahead." "I bet that shut him up!"
"No. And that's the most amazing part of it. You see, Shepherd actually began to lecture us."
"No!" Wolf said, his eyes wide with astonishment. Beside him, Catherine stared down into her glass.
"Yes... he droned on for ages. A lot of nonsense about the artist and the object, and about there being two kinds of vision. Oh, a lot of high-sounding mumbo-jumbo."
"He didn't drone, Sergey. And he was good. Very good."
Sergey laughed and leaned across the table, smiling at the red-haired girl who had been his lover for almost two years. "Who told you that? Lotte here?" He laughed. "Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. It's a pity you missed it, Catherine. Shepherd was quite impressive, in a bullshitting sort of way, but . . ." He shrugged, lifting his free hand, the fingers wide open. "Well, that's all it was, really.
Bullshit."
Catherine glanced up at him, as ever slightly intimidated by his manner. She picked up her glass and cradled it against her cheek, the chill red wine casting a roseate shadow across her face. "I didn't just hear about it. I was there. At the back of the hall. I got there late, that's all." "Then you know it was crap."
She hesitated, embarrassed. She didn't like to contradict him, but in this he was wrong. "I ... I don't agree . . ." He laughed. "You don't agree?" She wanted to leave it at that, but he insisted. "What do you mean?"
She took a breath. "I mean that he was right. There is more to it than Fan Liang-wei claims. The Six Principles . . . they strangle art. Because it isn't simply a matter of selection and interpretation. As Shepherd said, it has to do with other factors, with things unseen." Sergey snorted.
She shivered, irritated by his manner. "I knew you'd do that. You're just like Fan Liang-wei, sneering at anything you disagree with. And both of you . . . well, you see only the material aspect of the art, its structure and its plastic elements. You don't see—"