Warrior Gentlemen

Livelihood

In the winter of 1876, Alfred Weiss, a resident of Bow, spotted an Asian youth on Roman Road trying to hawk his ink paintings. The youth, clad in an ocean-blue kimono and pleated pants the colour of sky, sat behind a sign reading:

I have come from Japan

I need money to go back

Black-and-white studies of lakes, snow-capped mountains, and water lilies were displayed in his open suitcase, weighed down by smooth pebbles. Seated cross-legged on the curb, the young man waited. It was Christmas then, right around dinnertime. While others hurried off to warmer places, he sat there quietly, too proud or stupid to solicit customers for his paintings. If he went on sitting like this, it was only a matter of time before he got mugged by thieves or arrested for vagrancy. Since a fair stranger had nowhere to hurry to, it did him no harm to stop and observe such a peculiar specimen. 

"How old are you, little Jap?"

The boy stood up, bowed, and said:

"I am sixteen."

Weiss had seen a few Japanese at the Limehouse docks. On idle days, he stops by that area for sightseeing and pops into a public house or two. Pubs by the water were like human zoos, which one did not have to pay a penny to enter. Here were the Irish, there the Lascars, and in a smoky corner, a spattering of long-tailed Chinks. Jap sailors, an occasional species, were like any race of them: loud, swarthy, and given to the usual vices. But this kid was different. Asked to account for his uncanny presence, he pointed to a picture in his suitcase and explained:

"These are my lilies. Unlike those here, they flourish in murky ponds. Their flowers and seeds mature at the same time. Likewise, am I."

His English was fluent, his bearing refined. His short, tousled hair did not clash with his traditional attire, gracefully worn and handsome. Intrigued, Weiss did not allow this young painter to get mugged or arrested for vagrancy. The professional middleman took him in, fed him, and gave him a fresh set of clothes to change into. Once he was well-washed and generously fed, he was offered a 70-30 deal with the artist taking the smaller share. Whether or not 30% of the sales materialised in the envelopes traded for each work was a mystery. The artist, receiving less than what was promised, didn't feel shortchanged. His dealer was, in all other respects, a godsend. Paper and brushes he couldn't find, Weiss could find substitutes for. Clients he couldn't meet, Weiss met. Eight springs and seven autumns passed safely in his providence.

Who else could solicit buyers for his paintings? The ink wash style was alien to Western eyes, so accustomed to vibrant colours, single points of perspective, and realistic forms. Somehow or other, the dealer knew people interested in exotic oriental works that did not abide by occidental laws of good taste. His business involved buying low from clueless amateurs and selling high to the emerging bourgeoisie, who were no less clueless on the value of their art. Other than 'Mr Fujiwara' (for that was his proper name), he had an Irish impressionist working for him, an Indian embroiderer, and two Englishwomen. These artists couldn't approach customers easily, but their talents were no less evident. Through the connections and genius of an able man, their creative efforts found a paying audience.

Seeing this man for the first time, Kyung Hee reckoned him an angel. The middleman lived on the second floor of a shophouse. On the ground floor was a bakery selling ring-shaped breads with a tantalising aroma which wafted up to the second-floor landing. Here, there was but a single green-painted door labeled with a metallic plate: 'WEISS'. To ring the bell, you pulled on a metal cord. And 'riiing...' a shrill alarm would summon a beautiful young master from the dwelling inside.

"Who's this?"

Heaven blue eyes framed with gold sized up a second, unknown visitor with equal parts curiosity and irritation. A pristine white shirt, navy two-button waistcoat, and a pair of tailored trousers gave no indication as to whether the wearer had expected a visit. Flaxen curls, falling past the temples, reached the collar of his linen shirt and flattered a dashing face, neither soft-featured nor chiseled. Is it not possible that such a fair chap dresses even when no guests come? The younger guest did not think so, though he apprised at first glance that this pretty man was unlikely to be as angelic as he seemed. There are angels in heaven and men on earth -- as his teacher Shin used to say. An upturned lip and raised brows made the master's displeasure patently obvious. Like a familiar friend, Adam strolled into the entranceway and said he would explain later.