the flat. I thought it would be the Wai Ban checking up on me again, coming on some pretext or other to see what I was getting up to. But when I opened the door I saw a small wiry man with a broad grin. His hair was longer than usual for a Chinese man, and he was wearing the height of fashion, a polo-neck sweater.
‘How do you do, Miss Hutchings. I’m Liang, your painting teacher.’
He was at least six inches shorter than me and peered up like a confident child hoping to please a teacher. I almost expected him to hand me an apple.
‘Hello, Mr Liang. Come in. Would you like some tea?’
‘No thanks, no thanks,’ he protested, waving a hand.
He sat on the hard plastic sofa. His shoes were covered in mud and I noticed with dismay that he’d left a trail across my mats that I would have to sponge off.
‘The Wai Ban told me to come and teach you painting,’ he announced.
‘Well, Mr Liang, I just mentioned it. I thought it would be nice to have something to do on Political Study afternoon.’ I was free on Wednesday afternoons as foreigners weren’t invited to Political Study, though it seemed they were often the subject of discussion. Sometimes we were in favour, sometimes we weren’t. You could tell by the way they kept at a polite distance, courteous but not friendly. They usually tried to provide things we asked for and didn’t want complaints or any kind of controversy.
Liang’s real job, he explained, was to churn out numerous identical ‘works of art’ for ‘dignitaries’ and foreigners. He made me laugh. On Wednesdays he was to show me the fundamentals of Chinese watercolour painting.
‘We’ll go to the artists’ store to get your paper and brushes and paints next week.’ He paused and lit up a Phoenix, settling into the uncomfortable sofa. He slurped his flower tea and I wondered whether to offer him a piece of Cadbury’s chocolate, but decided I didn’t know him well enough yet.
So that was how it began. He used to pedal across town to my flat, where I would set up a table with newspaper, jars of water and my selection of paints, ink stick and stone and a row of brushes he had chosen for me, from the one like a feather duster to the wispy tiger-hair one. Sometimes he would talk about his studio and I hoped to be invited there one day. I imagined it. It would be romantic, arty. There would be paintings in various stages of completion and sunlight flooding in at a large window. He would be there working quietly with a few chosen friends. The little clique would have higher things on their minds than the price of oil and how to get something for nothing. It would be a haven from the turmoil of daily life.
‘Liang, what’s your studio like?’ I asked.
‘Just a big room. We all sit and get on with our work.’
‘Do you talk to each other? Do you discuss art?’
‘No. Not really. We chat about this and that, but it isn’t really necessary for us to talk about what we’re doing.’
The lessons were a bit of a disappointment as they consisted of copying various masters from a book of samplers. I spent hours trying to flick the brush into a bamboo leaf, whirl it into a rock, dab colour into peonies and lightly tease out hairs on the head of a dancer. He was a patient teacher – either that or he didn’t care that I wasn’t talented. He was just doing his job.
At last he said, ‘Next week you must come to the studio to watch.’
I was so looking forward to being introduced to the charmed circle of artists. I hoped perhaps these people would become my friends. Here was an opportunity to get to know people. The language barrier wouldn’t matter once we started painting pictures together. I felt quite privileged.
I cycled over an hour in the rain to get to the studio on the other side of the city. It was a large grey building with dirty cracked windows, and inside the main room, in light I would have thought inadequate for painting, there were rows of artists producing delicate watercolours for tourists and diplomats. Liang welcomed me with a large smile and looked straight into my eyes, which he had never done before. He was larger than life on his own territory. Complicity with foreigners was not on, so what was he trying to say? Then I realized he was beginning to treat me as a friend. I was glad I’d made the effort to come. With the weather being so foul and the prospect of cold wet clinging clothes all afternoon I’d nearly stayed in the flat, but indoors and outdoors were equally cold and dank, so what did it matter? Anyway I was curious to see him on his own ground, I wanted to know what made him tick and I wanted to meet his friends.
‘Mr Wu paints tigers. One of his pictures was presented to an African diplomat last month. We are all very proud of him.’
I smiled, slightly embarrassed. The idea of an art factory seemed so Chinese. Several artists beamed up at me as if I was visiting royalty. I still hadn’t made enough progress with my Chinese to say more than hello.
One man was painting carp from life. I was disturbed to see the fish darting around an enamel bowl, confused, their scales reflecting light from the neon strip lights above, their silly eyes staring as if in fright and their mouths mouthing a silent message. They swam aimlessly round and round, sometimes in a figure of eight. The artist had captured their movement and their fearful staring. They would be trapped in the enamel bowl until the picture was finished, then, their aesthetic purpose over, disposed of in a practical manner.
‘What will you do with them?’ I asked.
‘Eat them,’ said Liang, a mock serious look on his face.
‘But they’re pets, aren’t they?’
‘We don’t have pets here. Only rich people have pets. We like our animals best in the cooking pot.’
I was beginning to understand that my fatuous comment about a carp being a pet was very Western. The idea that eating carp was cruel suddenly struck me as silly in this context – it made more sense to eat them than to have these slithery cold creatures as pets. I had no choice but to start perceiving life around me in a more practical way. I started to see how much I was spoiled, prejudiced and set in my ways. I had recently started to dismiss the voice of Martin that often echoed around in my head pointing out various wickednesses and cruelties. He had started to irritate me. Who was he to impose his pampered views on people?
The visit to the studio was the first time I’d been interested in the real China as opposed to the fairytale version that lingered as a fantasy. I had enjoyed it in an unexpected way. It wasn’t how I’d imagined it at all, but better. It was as if the experience had taught me something, refreshed me. It was Liang who had gradually wrought the beginnings of change in me. I was at last starting to absorb those new experiences I so badly wanted and the catalyst was Liang. It was Liang who made it possible for me to open up. He too was beginning to change. No longer the distant and polite teacher. He began to be aware of me as a person. I was no longer just an awkward and large foreigner, but a source of information about outside, a companion and possibly even a woman. I reluctantly admitted to myself that I was beginning to feel a little excited in his presence. I found myself looking at the back of his neck, noticing his neat ears and his remarkable long eyelashes. I couldn’t stop myself looking at him, partly out of fascination and curiosity at his differentness and partly in the way one looks affectionately on an intelligent pet. He seemed so young. He was about the same age as me, but his cheeks looked boyishly smooth. I wondered if he shaved. His hair had the gloss of a child’s hair, which was a wonder considering the nasty sticky shampoo they used.
‘You know, Miss Alison,’ he said one day, ‘I’m really
