Nano Bytes

He looked at the painting now in the light. The light bleached the painting. He could see that the painting’s affect on him was enhanced when it was hanging in a dark place.

«Yes, I like it. I like it very much. But it looks better in shadow, not in the light.»

Although he had made up his mind to buy the painting, along with the other for his deceased father, he wasn’t prepared to leave the young girl. He quickly fished for questions to ask her and spoke:

«Are you from Shanghai?»

«Inner Mongolia …»

«When did you leave?»

«Three years ago …»

«Which do you like better, Shanghai or Beijing?»

«Shanghai …»

«Do you have brothers and sisters?»

«One younger sister …»

«What kind of paintings–or styles–do you prefer?»

«Impressionism …»

When he finally left the gallery he had bought a total of three paintings. The third was for his future wife, whoever she would be. It was a traditional, Chinese landscape painting with vibrant splashes of pink for the leaves of the cherry trees. Although it could have, the painting did not remind him of Japan in the spring.

And as he took the lift down to the first floor with the girl he felt the urge to ask her out for a drink when she finished work at the gallery. But ultimately he decided against it. He knew that in the immediate end everything that attracted him to her–her sweet voice, small movements, and smile–would loose their luster and appeal, and that he would find every reason why he did not like, or perhaps, could not stand her.

* * *

There was the painting on his bed. He leaned toward it from the chair; the floorboards creaked again. He took another sip of gin from the short glass in his hand savoring the taste upon his lips and pulled the painting closer toward him. Distant voices called to him. He could hear the men, their screams as gunfire hailed upon them. He gripped his drink. Dark, shadowy images of children clinging to their mothers appeared while cavalry stormed in to crush them. Swords in the gun smoke were raised to the sky reflecting the faint sun, and brought down in swift strokes to cut the innocent down. He clenched his jaw and stared. The darkly lit room began to fade, and to his dark eyes there was only the painting.

* * *

«Sir, would you like to come in and see some paper cuttings?»

«No, no thank you,” he said in the bazaar of the Chinese quarter of Shanghai.

She approached him. He was standing on the side of the street. «Where are you from?»

«From Canada,” he lied. «Toronto.»

«Oh, yes. I know it. We’ve had many customers from there. Would you like to come in?»

«No, no. I’ve already bought a few paintings today.»

«But, these are traditional Chinese paper cuttings–very cheap. For your girlfriend–do you have a girlfriend?»

«No,” he blushed as he walked further into the street.

«You should get a Shanghai girl. They are very nice. Very good for you.»

He did not reply. What does she mean I should get a Shanghai girl? Are they for sale too? he thought with a sarcastic grin.

«Why are you smiling?»

«No, nothing.»

«Please, come in. Just looking. You don’t have to buy anything.»

«Look, I’m wasting your time. I’m not going to buy anything.»

«Are you waiting for a rickshaw?» she asked finally noticing that he was standing in the street.

«No, I want to take a picture of this street,” he said as he pulled out a folding pocket Kodak camera.

«Oh, go ahead. I wait.»

He looked behind to make sure that no horses or horse drawn vehicles were approaching and then stepped toward the center of the street. He framed the street in a way he found pleasing to his eye, made an adjustment to the lens, took two pictures, and walked back onto the sidewalk.

«Now you can come in.» She took his hand and pulled gently; he enjoyed being touched by her. He looked at her and decided to go into her shop.

«These are all handmade and unique. No two are alike.»

He looked at the many works of paper cuttings that were framed on the walls. There were animals, images of Empress Dowager Cixi, as well as Chinese children in traditional dress. He could see the price tags on the pieces and agreed that the paintings were indeed cheap.

«Do you like this one?»

«Which one?»

«This one. I thought you were looking at this one?»

«Oh, no.»

«Do you know its meaning?»

«No, I don’t.» Obviously, he thought.

«It’s my favorite one; it was made by my mother. Most of these are hers. This is her shop.»

«Oh,” he was now intrigued.

«It is called, Love is like a Bird.»

He looked at the Love is like a Bird paper cuttings and tried to understand how that meaning could be derived from it. All he saw was a young woman with flowers all around her and a white dove flying above her head.

«Do you like it?»

«Yes,” he lied again.

«My mother says love is always on our minds. We may try to distract ourselves to not think about it. But in the end the thoughts of love keep coming back to us. Like a bird that we free but soon returns.»

«Oh,” he said. He liked the story, in fact he liked it more than the paper cuttings itself.

«Do you want to buy it?»