Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (71 page)

These thoughts
had filled him, darkening his mood. And then, to come upon this. . .

Ben turned,
hearing a noise behind him, but it was only an old man, two pots
slung from the yoke that rested on his shoulders, the one balancing
the other. As the old man came on he noticed Ben and stopped, his
ancient face wrinkling, as if suspicious of Ben's motives.

Ben stood.
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. I was just looking."
He smiled. "Are you a
ch'a
seller?"

"
Ch'a
?"
The old man stared back at Ben, puzzled, then looked down at one of
the pots he was carrying and gave a cackle of laughter. "No,
Master. You have it wrong. This . . ." he laughed again, showing
his broken teeth, "this isn't
ch'a,
Master. This is ash."

"Ash?"

The old man
grinned back at him fiercely. "Of course. I'm
Lu
Nan Jen
for this stack."

The Oven
Man.
Of course! So the ash . . . Ben laughed, surprised. "And all
this?" he asked, half turning to indicate the shrine, the paper
offerings, the bowls of food.

The old man
laughed uneasily. "You're a strange one, Master. Don't you know
what day it is? It's
Sao Mu
, the Feast of the Dead."

Ben's eyes
widened. Of course! The fifteenth day of the third month of the old
calendar.
Ch'ing Ming
, it was, the festival of brightness and
purity, when the graves were swept and offerings made to the
deceased.

"Forgive
me," he offered quickly, "I'm a student. My studies. . .
they've kept me very busy recently."

"Ah, a
student."
The old man bowed respectfully, the yoke about
his neck bobbing up and down with the movement. Then he looked up,
his old eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid I can't offer you any of
this ash, Master, but the
ch'a
kettle is on inside if you'd
honor me with your presence."

Ben hesitated a
moment, then returned the old man's bow. "I would be honored,
Lu
Nan Jen.
"

The old man
grinned back at him, delighted, his head bobbing, then made his way
to a door on the far side of the corridor. Ben followed him in,
looking about the tiny room while the old man set down his pots and
freed himself from the yoke.

"I must
apologize for the state of things, Master. I have few visitors. Few
live
visitors, if you understand me?"

Ben nodded.
There was a second door at the other end of the room with a sign in
Mandarin that forbade unauthorized entry. On the wall beside it was a
narrow shelf, on which were a meager dozen or so tape-books—the
kind that were touch-operated. Apart from that there was only a bed,
a small stool, and a low table on which were a
ch'a
kettle and
a single bowl. He watched while the old man poured the
ch'a
then
turned to him, offering the bowl.

"You will
share with me, I hope?" he said, meeting the old man's eyes. "I
. . ." The old man hesitated, then gave a small bow. It was
clear he had not expected such a kindness.

Ben sipped at
the
ch'a,
then offered the bowl to the old man. Again he
hesitated; then, encouraged by Ben's warm smile, he took the bowl and
drank noisily from it.

"It must be
strange, this life of yours,
Lu Nan Jen.
"

The Oven Man
laughed and looked about him, as if considering it for the first
time. "No stranger than any man's."

"Maybe so.
But what kind of life is it?"

The old man sat,
then leaned forward on the stool, the ch'a bowl held loosely in one
hand. "You want the job?" he asked, amused by Ben's query.

Ben laughed.
"No. I have enough to do,
lao jen.
But your work—it
fascinates me."

The old man
narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you mean my work, or what I work
with?"

"You can
separate the two things that easily?"

The Oven Man
looked down, a strange smile on his lips, then he looked up again,
offering the
ch'a
bowl to Ben. "You seem to know a lot,
young Master. What is it that you're a student of?"

"Of life,"
Ben answered. "At least, so my father says."

The old man held
his eyes a moment, then nodded, impressed by the seriousness he saw
in the younger man's face.

"This is a
solitary life, young Master." He gave a small chuckle, then
rubbed at his lightly bearded chin. "Oh, I see many people, but
few who are either able or inclined to talk."

"You've
always been alone?"

"Always?"
The old man sniffed, his dark eyes suddenly intense. "Always is
a long time, Master, as any of my clients would tell you if they
could. But to answer you— no, there were women, one or two, in
the early years." He looked up, suddenly more serious. "Oh,
don't mistake me, Master, I am like other men in that. Age does not
diminish need and a good fuck is a good fuck, neh?"

When Ben didn't
answer, the old man shrugged.

"Anyway . .
. there were one or two. But they didn't stay long. Not after they
discovered what was in the back room."

Ben turned,
looking at the door, his eyebrows lifted.

"You want
to see?"

"May I?"

Ben set the ch'a
down and followed the old man, not knowing what he would find. A
private oven? A room piled high with skulls? Fresh corpses, partly
dissected? Or something even more gruesome? He felt a small shiver of
anticipation run through him, but the reality of what met his eyes
was wholly unexpected.

He moved closer,
then laughed, delighted. "But it's—beautiful!"

"Beautiful?"
The old man came and stood beside him, trying to see it as Ben saw
it, with new eyes.

"Yes,"
Ben said, reaching out to touch one of the tiny figures next to the
tree.

Then he drew his
finger back and touched it to his tongue. The taste was strange and
yet familiar. "What did you use?"

The old man
pointed to one side. There, on a small table were his brushes and
paints and beside the paint pots a bowl like the two he had been
carrying when Ben had first met him. A bowl filled with ashes.

"I see,"
said Ben. 'And you mix the ash with dyes?" The old man nodded.

Ben looked back
at the mural. It almost filled the end wall. Only a few white spaces
here and there, at the edges and the top left of the painting,
revealed where the composition was unfinished. Ben stared and stared,
then remembered suddenly what the old man had said.

"How long
did you say you've been working at this?"

The old man
crouched down, inspecting something at the bottom of the painting. "I
didn't."

"But—"
Ben turned slightly, looking at him, seeing things in his face that
he had failed to notice earlier. "I mean, what you said about
the women, when you were younger. Was this here then?"

"This?"
The old man laughed. "No, not this. At least, not all of it.
Just a small part. This here . . ." He sketched out a tiny
portion of the composition, at the bottom center of the wall.

"Yes. Of
course." Ben could see it now. The figures there were much
cruder than the others. Now that his attention had been drawn to it,
he could see how the composition had grown, from the center out. The
Oven Man had learned his art slowly, patiently, year by year adding
to it, extending the range of his expression. Until. . .

Ben stood back,
taking in the whole of the composition for the first time. It was the
dance of death. To the far left, a giant figure—huge compared
to the other, much smaller figures—led the dance. It was a
tall, emaciated figure, its skin glass-pale, its body like that of an
ill-fed fighter, the bare arms lithely muscled, the long legs
stretched taut like a runner's. Its body was facing to the left—to
the west and the darkness beyond—but its horselike, shaven head
was turned unnaturally on its long neck, staring back dispassionately
at the naked host that followed, hand in hand, down the path through
the trees.

In its long,
thin hands Death held a flute, the reed placed to its lipless mouth.
From the tapered mouth of the flute spilled a flock of tiny birds,
dark like ravens, yet cruel, their round eyes like tiny beads of
milky white as they fell onto the host below, pecking at eye and
limb.

The trees were
to the right. Willow and ash and mulberry. Beneath them and to their
left, in the center of the mural, a stream fell between rocks, heavy
with the yellow earth of Northern China. These were the Yellow
Springs, beneath which, it was said, the dead had their domain,
ti
yu,
the "earth prison." He saw how several among
that host—Han and Hung Moo alike—looked up at that golden
spill of water as they passed, despairing, seeing nothing of its
shining beauty.

It was a scene
of torment, yet there was compassion there, too. Beneath one of the
trees the two figures he had first noticed embraced one final time
before they joined the dance. They were a mother and her child, the
mother conquering her fear to comfort her tearful daughter. And,
further on, beneath the biggest of the willows, two lovers pressed
their faces close in one last, desperate kiss, knowing they must part
forever.

He looked and
looked, drinking it in, then nodded, recognizing the style. It was
shanshui
—mountains and water. But this was nothing like
the lifeless perfection Tung Ch'i-ch'ang had painted. These mountains
were alive, in motion, the flow of water was turbulent, disturbed by
the fall of rock from above.

It was a vision
of last things. Of the death not of a single man but of a world. Of
Chung Kuo itself.

He stood back,
shivering. It was some time since he had been moved so profoundly by
anything. The Oven Man was not a great painter—at least, not
technically—yet what he lacked in skill he more than made up
for in vision. For this was real. This had
Ch'i
—vitality.
Had it in excess.

"I can see
why they left you,
Lu Nan
Jen. Was this a dream?" The old
man turned, looking at Ben, his whole manner changed. There was no
mistaking him now for a simple
ch'a
seller. "You
understand, then?" Ben met his eyes. "When did it come?"

"When I was
ten. My life . . ." He shrugged, then looked away. "I guess
there was nothing I could be after that but
Lu Nan
Jen. There
was no other school for me."

"Yes."
Ben turned, looking at it again, awed by its simple power. "All
this—your work—it must keep you busy."

"Busy?"
The old man laughed. "There is no busier person in the Seven
Cities than the Oven Man, unless it is the Midwife. They say eight
hundred million die each year. Eight hundred million, and more, each
year. Always more. There is no room for such numbers in the earth.
And so they come to my ovens." He laughed, a strangely
thoughtful expression on his face. "Does that disturb you, young
Master?"

"No,"
Ben answered honestly, yet it made him think of his father. How long
would it be before Hal, too, was dead—alive in memory alone?
Yet he, at least, would lie at rest in the earth. Ben frowned. "Your
vision is marvelous,
Lu
Nan Jen.

And yet, when
you talk, you make it all sound so—so prosaic. So meaningless."

"From
nothing they come. To nothing they return."

"Is that
what you believe?"

The old man
shrugged, his eyes going to the darkness at the far left of the
mural, beyond the figure of Death. "To believe in nothing, is
that a belief? If so, I believe." Ben smiled. There was more
sense, more wisdom in this old man than in a thousand Fan Liang-weis.
And himself? What did he believe? Did he believe in nothing? Was the
darkness simply darkness? Or was there something there, within it?
Just as there seemed to be a force behind the light, was there not
also a force behind the dark? Maybe even the same force?

The old man
sighed. "Forgive me, young Master, but I must leave you now. I
have my ovens to attend. But please, if you wish to stay here . . ."

Ben lowered his
head. "I thank you,
Lu Nan Jen.
And I am honored that you
showed me your work. It is not every day that I come across something
so real."

The Oven Man
bowed, then met Ben's eyes again. "I am glad you came, young
Master. It is not every day that I meet someone who understands such
things. The dream uses us, does it not?"

Ben nodded,
moved by the old man's humility. To create this and yet to know how
little
he
had had to do with its creating. That was true
knowledge.

He bowed again
and made to go, then stopped. "One last thing," he said,
turning back. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

The Oven Man
laughed and looked about him at the air. "Ghosts? Why, there's
nothing here
but
ghosts!"

* *
*

"Catherine?
Are you in there?"

She closed her
eyes and let her forehead rest against the smooth, cool surface of
the door, willing him to go and leave her in peace, but his voice
returned, stronger, more insistent.

"Catherine?
You are there, aren't you? Let me in."

"Go away,"
she said, hearing the tiredness in her voice. "You've a date
with young Heng, haven't you? Why don't you just go to that and leave
me be."

"Let me
in," he said, ignoring her comment. "Come on. We need to
talk."

She sighed, then
stepped back, reaching across to touch the lock. At once the door
slid back.

Sergey had
changed. He was wearing his gambling clothes—dark silks that
lent him a hard, almost sinister air. She had never liked them, least
of all now, when she was angry with him.

"Still
sulking?" he asked, making his way past her into the room. She
had thrown a sheet over the oil board to conceal what she had been
working on, but he went straight to it, throwing back the sheet. "Is
this what's been causing all the difficulties?" She punched the
touch pad irritably, closing the door, then turned to face him.