ONE
GYEN JEBI STROVE to keep their hand from shaking as they dipped their brush into the paint they’d mixed from pigments, a part of every artist’s training. Remember, they reminded themself, you’re good at art. There’s no reason to be nervous.
That didn’t do anything to soothe their nerves. They sat in a large room along with eleven other painters taking the Ministry of Art’s examination, light filtering in through paper-covered windows, which gave everything a dreamlike aspect. The other painters varied in age, but most of them looked like they were in their twenties. Jebi themself would turn twenty-six on the New Year, when everyone grew a year older.
They’d already completed the first three parts of the examination, which tested the artist’s ability to paint the most important subjects: first bamboo (easy), then landscape (mostly easy, unless you were ambitious and tried to outshine that famous painting of the Diamond Mountains), figure painting (a girl greeting a bird, in case the examiners were feeling sentimental). The last, hardest part of the exam was flower painting.
Jebi had mixed feelings about flowers. Even in past eras, choosing the wrong flower could indicate political opinions or innuendo; such games were even more dangerous now. The land of Hwaguk had been conquered and renamed Administrative Territory Fourteen by the Empire of Razan six years ago, although the Razanei presence went back years before that. And every flower had a meaning, and Razanei and Hwagugin associations were sometimes, but not always, the same.
I will be conventional, Jebi decided. Cowardly, but they needed this job. They were tired of eking out an existence painting crude tigers and frogs for collectors of folk art, even if it weren’t for the trifling matter of that debt. Jebi yearned for a chance to paint real art, to spend time with a community of like-minded artists—even if that meant working for the Razanei government.
Their sister Bongsunga wouldn’t understand, never had. Bongsunga had said that Jebi was welcome to stay with her as long as necessary. But Jebi knew what they made selling folk art, they knew what they owed the moneylender, and they knew what the Ministry of Art paid its staff artists. They didn’t understand why the Razanei were so eager to recruit Hwagugin artists, but they didn’t care. With any luck, they’d secure a comfortable position painting portraits of scowling officials, making them less scowly in the process. They could soothe their aching conscience by painting the moonscapes and native birds that called to them in their off hours.
If they dithered any longer, the paint would dry on the brush, and then where would they be? Jebi bit their lip, then settled on a peony, inoffensive in both Razanei and Hwagugin symbolism. Either way it represented romance and prosperity.
With deft strokes, Jebi finished the painting, depicting the peony with a single petal curled as though about to fly away. It was in the looser, impressionistic style that the Westerners had made popular among the Razanei. Jebi had mixed feelings about foreigners adulterating a tradition of art going back centuries, but even they had to concede that fashions changed, whether or not foreigners were involved.
Like everyone in the examination room, Jebi had come dressed in the modern clothes that the Razanei had introduced. For all her complaints, Bongsunga owned similar outfits. In parts of the former capital—now styled Administrative City Fourteen; at least the Razanei made things easy to remember—wearing native clothes wasn’t safe. Easier to put on shirts and slacks, also styles imported from the West, and fit in.
Jebi’s only concessions to Hwagugin tradition were two knotted mae-deup charms under their shirt, one bought from a charm-seller just yesterday. People had divided opinions on whether luck was like wine or flowers: that is, whether magic charms grew in power over time, or withered and had to be replaced. Jebi had split the difference by borrowing one from their sister and picking up a new one in the same style. One in red cord, one in blue, together suggesting the flow of yang and yin.
They didn’t wear the charms openly. Most Razanei scoffed at Hwagugin superstition, although charms were usually reliable as far as magic went. But the red and blue specifically evoked the yin-yang taegeuk symbol of old Hwaguk.
Besides waiting for the paint to dry—something it did rapidly on the absorbent hanji paper—they had to do one final thing before they could consider themself done with the exam. They’d done it three times before; they could do it once more, even if guilt pricked at their heart.
Jebi bit their lip, then dashed out a signature in Razanei script, making sure it was legible: Tesserao Tsennan.
It was a Razanei name, not a Hwagugin one. Tsennan meant bud, which appealed to Jebi’s sense of irony. Hwaguk meant flower land, which either referred to the spectacular springtime displays of azaleas and forsythias and plum blossoms or to the beauty (or seductiveness) of its people, depending on how bawdy you liked your poetry.
Like a growing proportion of Hwagugin, Jebi was fluent in Razanei. And like a small but significant number of their people, they sometimes found it convenient to go by a Razanei name. The two peoples resembled each other to a strong degree, after all: both black-haired and brown-eyed, with tawny skin, not too tall and slight of build. The Razanei administration encouraged the name changes and had set up a Registry of Names for Fourteeners, as they referred to their subjects. Jebi had lost no time in signing up, although they’d waited until their sister was at the market to get this done because they hadn’t fancied a quarrel, especially over the registration fee.
Tesserao Tsennan.
As the paint dried, Jebi thought wistfully that they wouldn’t mind signing their own name to their paintings. But if wishes were wings, all the world would fly. In the meantime, they needed the job.
They washed the brush out in the provided ceramic container, quotidian stoneware rather than the nicer white porcelain cup they used at home. The examiners did permit people to bring their own brushes. Privately, Jebi thought this was likelier to be a cost-cutting measure on the government’s part than a concession to artistic quirks.
The examiner at the head of the room sat with an open book, gazing imperturbably at all the examinees. Jebi stared frankly at him, wondering why he had brought the book if he wasn’t going to read it. Since nobody was allowed to leave early, Jebi entertained themself by imagining how they would draw a caricature of the man. Definitely exaggerate that unseemly beak of a nose, plus the gray hairs sprouting out of his ears. Maybe compare him to a tiger, cliché as it was? A balding white tiger, with a ferocious but comical roar.
With a start, Jebi realized that the man was staring back at them, with ill-concealed hostility. Hastily, Jebi jerked their gaze away and looked down at their four paintings, neatly arrayed on the table before them. Surreptitiously, they checked out the competition, cataloging faults, from sloppy brushstrokes to wobbly composition. Their confidence grew; their paintings were clearly among the best.
By the time the gong rang from outside, signaling an end to the examination, Jebi’s head was throbbing. They had eaten only a light breakfast of rice porridge with a few shreds of chicken in the morning. They couldn’t wait to get some food into themself.
“Please leave your paintings in place and exit the room single-file,” the examiner said in a gravelly voice. “The results of the exam will be posted on the Ministry of Art bulletin board in three days.”