She knew that by now Leo was able to tell whether she wanted to talk or not. There had been times when she had intentionally carried herself as though she preferred to be treated as a normal customer. She would greet him with a smile, sit down, order a drink, end their exchange with a simple ‘thank you’ and proceed to read a book. She was never impolite in these moments, but if it was just the two of them in the bar, her behaviour exhibited a slight hint of uncertainty. Tonight was not one of those nights. She did not want to sit alone tonight.
‘What do you want to drink?’ asked Leo.
‘How about something new and strong,’ she said. ‘That book you gave me is wonderful, I’ve been studying a lot from it. I dug out some of my old materials and I’ve been trying to paint a fish.’
‘A fish?’
‘Well, not exactly. A fish-man.’ She dragged the word ‘man’ out a little.
He raised his eyes from zesting limes and looked at her.
‘My husband left a drawing for me,’ Jia Jia explained. ‘A fish-man drawing. It has a man’s head with a body that resembles a fish. You know, with scales and fins. Ever since I put my hands on the drawing, I’ve been having this feeling that I need to find out more about it. It has quite an odd-looking face. I can show you next time. Anyway, I’m painting it now. I didn’t think it would be so difficult to recreate.’ She slouched over and rested her elbows on the counter.
‘What do you mean, an odd-looking face?’ Leo asked.
‘I mean, I’ve been studying the drawing, but whenever I turn to my canvas and try to paint its face, my mind goes blank and I can’t remember what it looks like. It’s as if the fish-man doesn’t want me to paint it. Weird, isn’t it? Does this happen to you when you make cocktails?’
‘I’m not quite sure. I do run out of ideas,’ Leo said hesitantly. ‘But painting is not the same as mixing drinks.’
Jia Jia shook her head. ‘You’re right. That’s not it,’ she said. ‘I know exactly what I want it to look like, but I just can’t paint it. It seems like the face only exists in my head, and it’s always changing.’
‘Why is it that he drew a fish-man, do you think?’
Jia Jia had been expecting this question from Leo. She started answering him almost before he had finished asking.
‘Chen Hang said that the fish-man was in his dream once. The dream itself was a strange one. He couldn’t remember most of it, but how could he draw the fish-man without remembering most of the dream?’
‘So you know what you want to paint, but can’t do it. He didn’t remember the dream, but could sketch the fish-man in detail.’
Jia Jia nodded slowly.
‘I would love to see the sketch some day,’ Leo said. ‘And, of course, your painting, when you succeed.’
Leo stayed with Jia Jia that night. She kept the door to the study closed and did not show him her paintings. She was not ready yet. She kept Chen Hang’s sketch from Leo too; it felt like something that was too intimate, as if it was the one thing that was honest about Chen Hang. She could not explain why, but she knew that Chen Hang would have wanted to keep it hidden from others.
Early the next morning, Jia Jia’s aunt paid her an unannounced visit. Jia Jia was brushing her teeth, so Leo answered the door. Her aunt was slender and tall, and she carried herself in such a youthful manner that Leo later told Jia Jia that he had mistaken her for one of Jia Jia’s friends.
‘Oh! It’s very nice to meet you. I’m the girl’s aunt. I watched her grow up,’ Jia Jia heard her aunt say and saw, through the crack of the bathroom door, the woman poking her head inside the bedroom. ‘I shouldn’t have come so early. I wanted to talk to Jia Jia. Ah! Jia Jia’s changed the painting. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘She has fine taste in art,’ Leo responded.
‘She painted this one about two, or maybe three years ago,’ her aunt said. ‘She’s never happy with her own work.’
‘Auntie, why didn’t you call me?’ Jia Jia hurried out from the bedroom, abashed at being caught in her husband’s apartment with another man. She avoided looking at Leo. ‘Did you stay at the Four Seasons again?’
‘No, not this time.’ Her aunt wore a slightly worried, hesitant expression. ‘The project I told you about didn’t go through.’
Jia Jia was ready with her next question when Leo gave an excuse and said that he really had to leave. He gathered his coat and wallet while the women waited in silence, and walked out the door.
Jia Jia continued, ‘But I thought you told me—’
‘Who was the boy?’ Her aunt sat down with a grin.
‘Oh, Auntie, don’t think that it’s so easy to move on.’
‘But you really should. Chen Hang was not good to you,’ her aunt said. ‘You know, I blame myself. As you were growing up, I should have told you how important it is to love bravely. I should never have told you that you were too young to be dating that boy, what was his name again?’
‘That boy from high school? Oh, please, don’t expect me to remember!’ They both laughed.
‘Sometimes,’ her aunt continued, ‘we don’t ask for things because we don’t want to be broken. But that’s how we drive away the life we care about. Maybe it’s better to be more like your mother. No, no, don’t object. She was broken, yes, but she knew what she wanted all along.’
In Jia Jia’s memory of her mother’s later years, she always had a glow of sadness around her. When her father fell in love with the other woman, Jia Jia saw her shattering like antique porcelain. Unable to separate herself from her mother’s pain, she had concluded that love was the most fragile of bases for relationships: there had to be something else, some more rational reason for two people to be together, so that there could be a piece of solid ground to stand on when everything else crumbled. But what was she to think about her opinions now? Now that Chen Hang was gone, was her ground not collapsing, her life not broken?
‘How are you getting used to living here by yourself?’ Her aunt started fumbling through her handbag.
‘Not too badly.’
‘Oh, here it is! Li Chang’s found you a job.’ Her aunt picked out a business card and set it on the table. ‘This is a friend of his. She wants someone to paint a Buddha on her wall.’
Jia Jia thought that there were professionals who specialised in religious paintings. Was it even acceptable for a non-religious person to be painting the Buddha?
‘Auntie, I’ve never painted on a wall in my life. If she wants a painting to decorate her home, I can find—’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to impress her.’ She pointed at the horse painting. ‘Look at how nice this is!’
Jia Jia picked up the card and studied it. The woman seemed to be a comedy film editor at a company she did not recognise. What an oddly specific profession, Jia Jia thought, she only edits comedies? There was a mobile number and a personal email. Jia Jia said that she would try to contact her. Her aunt, seemingly satisfied with Jia Jia’s promise, rose and danced out the door, waving her hand behind her.
The comedy editor’s name was Wan Lian, or Ms Wan, as Jia Jia would address her. She lived with her family in a duplex apartment in Yayuncun, further out from the centre. When Jia Jia visited the following Wednesday, Ms Wan was at home alone with a maid who was busy transferring bottles of imported beer from a box into the fridge.