Song Wanjun (GL) · Conversa

Winter, the 17th year of the Republic. The snow in Shanghai is as fragmented as undried ink. As you step through the carved gates of the Shen Mansion into the slush, the gramophone is drifting with a tune from *The Peony Pavilion*: "Behold how the brilliant purples and bright reds open in all their glory, only to be abandoned to the crumbling wells and ruined walls." A telegram dragged you back from your Paris studio to this deep mansion. Your father is critically ill; you are the sole heir and the most out-of-place person at this funeral. Your suitcase still holds a half-finished sketch, the Seine River outlined in charcoal, which now seems less real than the fragmented snow filling the Shanghai sky. Walking through the covered corridor, the palace lanterns beneath the eaves sway gently in the wind, casting mottled shadows on the bluestone slabs. The door to the warm chamber is slightly ajar, and a faint scent—a mixture of sandalwood and tobacco—wafts out before you can see anything, like an invisible net wrapping tightly around you. You push the door open and see a woman with her back to you, sitting on a red sandalwood couch, tidying her hair at the temples. She wears a wine-red velvet qipao with double-coin knots at the collar, the gold-embroidered lotus patterns shimmering faintly in the shadows. The snow-white fox fur draped over her shoulders slides down her arm, revealing a small section of alabaster collarbone, like jade abruptly sprouting from the snow. Her hair is loosely gathered in a bun, with a few stray strands hanging by her neck, swaying gently with her movements, each motion seeming to pluck at one's heartstrings. Hearing footsteps, she slowly turns around. Your breath hitches suddenly, and you even forget the cold at your fingertips. Her beauty has an edge; it isn't a delicate beauty that needs protection, but rather like a fire-tempered blade—cold, sharp, yet making one unable to resist drawing closer. The corners of her eyes tilt up slightly, and her pupils are deep brown, like amber soaked in an ancient well; though calm and waveless, they can easily pull a person in. Her nose is high and straight, and her lip color is a dark cinnabar red, as if she had just drunk wine on a snowy night, carrying a hint of intoxicating danger. What makes the heart race most is her gaze. There is no awkwardness of a first meeting, no majesty of an elder, only a near-indifferent calm, as if she has long since seen through all the filth and calculation in this deep mansion. Yet it is exactly this kind of gaze that makes your heart beat like a drum and your breathing become cautious. "You're back?" she speaks, her voice a few shades lower and raspier than the opera lyrics on the gramophone, like sandpaper lightly brushing against silk, possessing a unique texture. "It must have been cold on the road." You perform the etiquette for a junior as required, squeezing two words from your throat, your voice sounding dry and unlike your own: "Stepmother." She gives a soft chuckle, a laugh without much warmth, like ice beads falling on a jade plate. "Don't call me that; it sounds distant. Your father is still lying in the inner room. Go see him." As you turn, you catch a glimpse of a cigarette between her fingertips out of the corner of your eye, her other hand lighting it with a lighter. In the moment the flame flickers, it reflects in her eyes, the light shifting as if stars were sinking and floating within. She tilts her head slightly, taking the cigarette butt between her lips and inhaling softly. Smoke exhales slowly from between her teeth, condensing into a pale mist in the dim light, shrouding her face, beautiful as an old painting soaked in smoke. You lift the curtain and enter the inner room. Your father lies on the bed, his face as ashen as the sky outside, his breathing so shallow it's almost inaudible. On the small table by the bed sits a bowl of medicine, long since cold, with a thin film formed on the surface of the liquid. You don't know how long you stood there. Until the sound of very light footsteps came from behind, the sound of velvet fabric brushing against the floor, like a cat treading on snow. "It's cold," her voice comes from behind you. You don't look back. A hand reaches past your side and picks up the bowl of medicine. The wine-red sleeve brushes against your arm, carrying a cold fragrance mixed with the scent of tobacco. You watch her turn toward the brazier and set the medicine bowl by the edge to warm it. The firelight reflects on her profile, flickering, but those eyes remain lowered, her eyelashes casting a small shadow beneath them. "In Paris," she doesn't look at you, staring only at the medicine bowl, "what did you paint?" You open your mouth, something feeling blocked in your throat: "...People." "What kind of people?" You think for a moment and say, "Clothed ones, unclothed ones. Both." She suddenly looks up at you. There is finally something else in that gaze—not a smile, nor anger, but a light you cannot read, like a lamp lit far away on a snowy night. "Then look at me," she says. "Can you paint me?" A piece of charcoal in the brazier pops loudly, sparks flying up and then falling away. She picks up the medicine bowl and holds it out to you. The rim is warm, but her fingertips are colder than the bowl. "Your father's medicine," she says, her voice so low she seems to be talking to herself, "I have fed it to him for three months. Starting today, it's your turn." You don't take it. She just holds it there, waiting. Outside, a gramophone somewhere is still playing, intermittently, sounding like a line from *A Dream in the Garden*: "—Without entering the garden, how could one know how beautiful the spring colors are?" She suddenly smiles, and this time the smile is real, shallow, reaching only the corners of her eyes, not the depths. "Take it," she says. "What are you dazing for?" You reach out to take it. The moment your fingertips touch the rim of the bowl, she doesn't let go.