don’t let that be “You’re kidding” as in, “You’re kidding, that’s what I did my thesis on.”
“No.”
“That’s hopelessly remote.”
“People often say the same thing about me.”
“How did you come to be interested in something so obscure?”
“I revel in the obscure.”
Which is true, he thought. My real thesis is on the themes of social alienation in Smollett’s novels. So feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner.
“Listen,” Olivia said, “tonight really is a private sort of evening. But I’m sure Lan will come in tomorrow to help close the show down. Could you come back then? Maybe we could have lunch.”
Yeah, and maybe you’ll tell Li Lan and Dr. Bob about the interesting visitor you had in the shop and they’ll take off. Maybe you’ve already seen through my act.
“I’m going home tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry,” she said. Then, as if offering a consolation prize, she warbled, “Did I give you a brochure? It has photos of the paintings.”
She reached over to one of the pedestals and handed him one of the slick, four-color catalogs.
“Thank you. Do you think you could ask Li Lan to sign this for me?”
“You can ask her yourself. Here she is.”
I didn’t even hear the door, I’m so out of shape, Neal thought.
Then he stopped thinking altogether and fell in love and it was just like falling off the edge of a cliff into the clouds. Falling toward Li Lan in the mists.
Olivia said, “Li Lan, Neal Carey. Neal Carey, Li Lan. Neal is a big fan of your work.”
It took her a moment to work out the slang, then she flushed slightly, struggling to set down the two grocery bags she was holding. She put them down on the floor and then bowed her head ever so slightly to Neal. “Thank you.”
Neal was surprised to feel himself also blushing, and more surprised to notice that he bowed back. “Your paintings are beautiful.”
She was small, and a little thinner than he would have thought from her pictures. She was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and black jeans, and still looked elegant. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Those gentle brown eyes sparkled like sunshine on autumn leaves.
“I went to the city,” she told Olivia, “to do some special shopping for dinner tonight.”
“You should have had Tom or Bob bring you. I’ll call Tom to come pick you up.”
“I can walk,” she said. “It is a beautiful day. And they are busy speaking about garden.”
“I’m calling them.”
Li Lan nodded her head. “According to your thought.”
“Neal is a student of Chinese art history,” Olivia said.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit.
“Truly?” asked Li Lan.
Well, no.
“He is doing research on Qing Dynasty painting. Something political.”
Had he been alert, had he been in true working shape, he might have noticed Li’s slight wince on the word political. She turned those eyes to him as she said, “Ah, yes … Chinese paintings can mean many different things at same time. Picture of single flower is picture of single flower but also picture about loneliness. Qing picture of—what is word?—goldfish … shows just fish, not fish in water. Perhaps is about Chinese people with no country. Perhaps is about just goldfish.”
“Do your paintings mean many different things?” Neal asked. His voice sounded funny to him, thin and hollow.
She laughed. “No, they are merely pictures.”
“Of real places?”
“To me.” She smiled shyly and then turned stone-serious and looked down at the floor.
No wonder he loves her, Neal thought. Run away, Doctor Bob, run away. Take her with you or follow her where she goes, but don’t let her go.
Suddenly he was desperate to keep the conversation going. “Are you speaking about the reality of the mind?”
She looked up at him and said, “It is the only reality, truly.”
“You two have so much to discuss,” Olivia said. It was one of those unspoken questions women are so good
“No.”
“That’s hopelessly remote.”
“People often say the same thing about me.”
“How did you come to be interested in something so obscure?”
“I revel in the obscure.”
Which is true, he thought. My real thesis is on the themes of social alienation in Smollett’s novels. So feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner.
“Listen,” Olivia said, “tonight really is a private sort of evening. But I’m sure Lan will come in tomorrow to help close the show down. Could you come back then? Maybe we could have lunch.”
Yeah, and maybe you’ll tell Li Lan and Dr. Bob about the interesting visitor you had in the shop and they’ll take off. Maybe you’ve already seen through my act.
“I’m going home tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry,” she said. Then, as if offering a consolation prize, she warbled, “Did I give you a brochure? It has photos of the paintings.”
She reached over to one of the pedestals and handed him one of the slick, four-color catalogs.
“Thank you. Do you think you could ask Li Lan to sign this for me?”
“You can ask her yourself. Here she is.”
I didn’t even hear the door, I’m so out of shape, Neal thought.
Then he stopped thinking altogether and fell in love and it was just like falling off the edge of a cliff into the clouds. Falling toward Li Lan in the mists.
Olivia said, “Li Lan, Neal Carey. Neal Carey, Li Lan. Neal is a big fan of your work.”
It took her a moment to work out the slang, then she flushed slightly, struggling to set down the two grocery bags she was holding. She put them down on the floor and then bowed her head ever so slightly to Neal. “Thank you.”
Neal was surprised to feel himself also blushing, and more surprised to notice that he bowed back. “Your paintings are beautiful.”
She was small, and a little thinner than he would have thought from her pictures. She was wearing a paint-stained T-shirt and black jeans, and still looked elegant. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Those gentle brown eyes sparkled like sunshine on autumn leaves.
“I went to the city,” she told Olivia, “to do some special shopping for dinner tonight.”
“You should have had Tom or Bob bring you. I’ll call Tom to come pick you up.”
“I can walk,” she said. “It is a beautiful day. And they are busy speaking about garden.”
“I’m calling them.”
Li Lan nodded her head. “According to your thought.”
“Neal is a student of Chinese art history,” Olivia said.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit.
“Truly?” asked Li Lan.
Well, no.
“He is doing research on Qing Dynasty painting. Something political.”
Had he been alert, had he been in true working shape, he might have noticed Li’s slight wince on the word political. She turned those eyes to him as she said, “Ah, yes … Chinese paintings can mean many different things at same time. Picture of single flower is picture of single flower but also picture about loneliness. Qing picture of—what is word?—goldfish … shows just fish, not fish in water. Perhaps is about Chinese people with no country. Perhaps is about just goldfish.”
“Do your paintings mean many different things?” Neal asked. His voice sounded funny to him, thin and hollow.
She laughed. “No, they are merely pictures.”
“Of real places?”
“To me.” She smiled shyly and then turned stone-serious and looked down at the floor.
No wonder he loves her, Neal thought. Run away, Doctor Bob, run away. Take her with you or follow her where she goes, but don’t let her go.
Suddenly he was desperate to keep the conversation going. “Are you speaking about the reality of the mind?”
She looked up at him and said, “It is the only reality, truly.”
“You two have so much to discuss,” Olivia said. It was one of those unspoken questions women are so good
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