Fat Years - Chan Koonchung [45]
Every time I came to 798, I always took a look at what was on at the Dragon Gate Gallery. This gallery had an extensive collection of French Impressionist and Postimpressionist oil paintings, including some small works by famous masters and, more importantly, many works by lesser known figures of that period.
Their collection is really worth looking at, and it suits my increasingly conservative tastes, I pondered. China now matches Japan as a major collecting country for these French Impressionist and Postimpressionist oil paintings because there is a group of rich collectors who are fascinated by French painting of that age.
The Dragon Gate Gallery had real elegance. The chandelier hanging in the major salon was not made from Chinese materials—it was a genuine Baccarat-crystal chandelier.
As I was looking at that chandelier and ruminating on how the style and temperament of Impressionist and Postimpressionist oil paintings were not quite in sync with Baccarat crystal, a man and a woman came toward me, not exactly holding hands but shoulder to shoulder and talking and laughing. I tried unsuccessfully to avoid them. The man was Jian Lin, my movie-night friend. When he noticed me, he quickly said, “Lao Chen, let me introduce you to Professor Wen.”
“It’s been a long time, Wen Lan,” I said as we shook hands.
“Yes, a very long time, Master Chen,” said Wen Lan.
“You two know each other?” said Jian Lin, surprised.
“Master Chen is famous in Hong Kong cultural circles,” said Wen Lan.
Wen Lan had probably forgotten that I’m Taiwanese. She was dressed expensively but not vulgarly, rather elegantly glittering.
“Can I swap cards with you?” asked Wen Lan.
“I forgot to bring any,” I lied.
“I have his phone number,” offered Jian Lin.
Wen Lan didn’t give me her card.
“Lao Chen, this is a very nice gallery,” said Jian Lin, “but Professor Wen thinks the prices are even higher than in Paris.”
“The prices are unreasonably high,” Wen Lan said with an air of authority.
“Let me see,” I said, and abruptly walked away.
I no longer felt like looking at paintings, but I suddenly thought of three words to describe Wen Lan’s elegant manner—Baccarat-crystal chandelier.
Let me explain. There was a time when I was ready to marry Wen Lan. I had already bought an apartment in Hong Kong for us. Then I learned that she was going to marry someone else.
In the autumn of 1991, I went to the mainland to interview an old academic couple who were living under house arrest after the events of 1989. A number of their students from Beijing Normal University had come to visit them. These young people were not so selfishly concerned with their own futures as to avoid visiting their professors in their time of trouble.
The most striking one among them was Wen Lan, a senior-year student, pretty, easygoing, and cultured. She made me feel romantic.
She asked all the students to note down their phone numbers for me, and I knew she did it just so that I would be able to contact her.
I invited her out and we took a walk around Houhai Lake. Her mother was Shanghainese and her father a Beijinger. He edited a journal on theory and worked in the Central Propaganda Department in Shatan. Wen Lan loved Western literature, was concerned with national affairs, and was extremely beautiful—to me she was perfect.
“What is the meaning of existence?” she once asked me. I flailed around trying to think of something profound. Then, I remember, she quoted Jean-Paul Sartre: “We must take responsibility for our own lives.” I was in love.
I went back to Hong Kong for a few days and then contrived a reason to return to Beijing. She said she wanted to go abroad, and I screwed up my courage to ask her to marry me. She laughed and cried, and I thought she had agreed. I told her that we would have no problem living on my salary. I had permanent-resident status in Hong Kong, and she could