“My master is,” she said automatically. Then hastily added, “But I hope to be, someday.”
“A protege, then!” the young stall owner said. “Very well. I do have the color you’re looking for. A mixture of umber and cinnabar for a dimensional brown.” He procured a stick of pigment and set it before her.
Zhi Lan rummaged in her bag, taking out a square of paper. “May I test it?”
“By all means,” the stall owner said obligingly.
He scraped the surface of the stick with a knife, letting the pigment dust collect into a small porcelain dish. Then, he dripped in water until the powder became a dark brown liquid. He gave Zhi Lan a brush from his stand.
Zhi Lan accepted it gratefully. Her nerves calmed as she swirled the brush into the dish and dragged it over her paper, creating a rich, reddish brown stroke. The mark reminded Zhi Lan of a segment of bamboo. She continued with this idea, filling in the rest of the bamboo stalk and its branching leaves.
“The young miss is as talented as she is beautiful,” the stall owner observed. “Is the pigment to your liking?”
“It is, thank you,” Zhi Lan said. It was lovely and smooth, the quality on par with the pigments Master Dan liked to use. She rummaged for her coin purse. “How much?”
The stall owner told her the price. Zhi Lan counted her money, dismayed to find that she was only a few coins short.
“That seems a bit overpriced,” she finally said.
The stall owner’s eyes sparkled. “On the contrary. I only sell premium pigments. My price for something of this quality is quite low.”
This was the usual push and pull of marketplace haggling. Zhi Lan never had the zest for it like some aunties she knew, but she was competent.
“I’ve seen better prices in Zhu City.”
“Ah, but you’re in Yun City now, young miss.”
“Will you lower the price seeing as I’m a first-time customer?”
“Young miss seems to be traveling. I’m afraid you’ll be an only-time customer.”
Zhi Lan continued wheedling him, going from flattery to flirtation to borderline insult. The stall owner remained unmoved. She was starting to run out of cards to play.
At last, she drew in a slow breath. “I’ll paint for you.”
The stall owner raised a brow. “Oh?”
Zhi Lan pushed the bamboo painting she had done toward him. “You may keep this and display it as a demonstration of your product. I’m willing to do another, if you prefer.”
“A trade of service,” the stall owner mused. He took the painting with two fingers, holding it up to the light. “Yes. I am amenable to this proposal.”
Zhi Lan breathed out. “Perfect. I’ll—”
An arm reached past her and placed a smattering of copper coins on the stand. Zhi Lan turned around.
Shao Qing stood with a bundle of green fabric under his arm. Wordlessly, he took the cinnabar pigment stick and turned on his heel. Zhi Lan apologized profusely to the surprised stall owner, emptied the rest of her coin purse into his hand, and ran after Shao Qing before he disappeared into the crowd.
“He was willing to lower the price if I did a painting for him!” Zhi Lan said breathlessly when she made it to his side. She waved her empty coin purse before his face. “Now we have no money!”
Shao Qing barely flinched. He took the green onion pancake in her hand and began to eat. “He was willing to lower the price for a picture of bamboo?”
Zhi Lan didn’t appreciate his dismissive tone. “Yes.”
“Bamboo isn’t anything special.”
“Paintings make everything special. They’re interpretations of the world, not replicas,” she insisted. “An artist can coax the beauty out of the most common objects.”
Zhi Lan herself didn’t appreciate the stately, dignified lines of bamboo until she attempted to translate them into brushstrokes on paper. Nor the graceful fan of a sparrow’s wings. Nor the silly plumes on her own chicken, Pu’er. Paintings took the small, lovely things an artist observed and emphasized them for all the world to see.
