Painting and the Sea
In the afternoon, I took the high-speed train back to Beijing. The shadows of buildings outside the window receded into the distance. Hu Li pulled her hat brim down low, her headphones off, listening only to the rhythm of the train tracks. She typed a few words into her memo: "Master Lian / White van / Child," and added at the end: "Just the facts."
When she arrived home, the wind in Beijing was a bit colder. The community security guard nodded to her, and she returned a simple smile. She went inside, changed her shoes, and hung her scarf back in the entryway. The living room was just the right temperature, with a warm yellow light casting a soft glow on the floor.
She leaned her luggage against the wall, went to the kitchen to boil water, and brought out two cups of hot tea. She knew he usually stopped drinking coffee before four o'clock in the afternoon, so it was good to have something hot at this time.
He had just come out of the study, his shirt collar unbuttoned, cuffs half-rolled up, and the coldness on his cheekbones still lingering. When he saw her, his gaze paused slightly, and as he approached, his hand gently cupped the back of her head and lightly touched it: "It's good to be back."
She handed him the tea, then leaned against his shoulder and teased him in a low voice, "Did you miss me?" He hummed in response, gently stroking the back of her neck with his hand. The two remained quietly close together for half a minute.
He turned to look at her: "Have you had any success these past few days of field research?"
She pulled a sketchbook out of her bag and handed it to her: "Here are a few for you to see, don't nitpick."
He flipped through two pages, his fingertip pausing on a line drawn at the horizon: "This one's a sure thing."
She smiled and said, "It's alright. Have you been busy at work these past few days?"
He hummed in agreement: "I'll be done soon. Let's have some tea first."
After circling around the usual topics, dusk settled in. The two snuggled together on the sofa. She carefully put away her sketchbook before looking up, smiling, and said, "I saw a painting at the cultural center with the signature 'Mu Tinglang,' which sounds a lot like your name… Do you know it?"
The living room fell silent for three seconds. He lowered his head, his fingertip tracing the rim of the glass, as if gathering some thought before speaking: "I know him."
She looked at him: "Who is he?"
He put down the cup, his voice steady: "My brother." He paused for half a second, then added: "He's gone."
She heard herself take a small breath, her hand unconsciously tightening around the teacup handle: "Would you like to tell me about him?"
He nodded, his gaze unwavering: "I'm willing. And I should say so."
He sat down next to her, leaning back on the sofa, as if searching through a folder older than time itself: "My brother and I are a few years apart. Our parents were always busy with social engagements and work, so my older brother was mostly the one who took care of me at home. My brother was very outstanding, while I was more mischievous; he was good at his studies and often watched me do my homework and practice calligraphy. There was a warm desk lamp in my mind, its light spreading from the edge of the table. That summer, our parents were busy with the resort, so they simply took both of us to the seaside resort. My brother said he wanted to paint a series called 'Place and Sea,' and I made a fuss, insisting on going with him. He painted very quickly, standing on the slope, and when the wind came, he would hold the easel in front of him to protect me from falling."
Was it windy that day?
"It wasn't small to begin with." He glanced at her for a second, "and then it got even bigger. The clouds got very low. There were fewer people on that side of the beach; the tourists were all at the other end, with only a few coming over to take pictures. There's a breakwater at the bottom of the slope, and I wanted to see the waves closer, so I took two steps forward..."
He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were trying to suppress a certain image. "After that, I don't remember anything. When I came to my senses again, I was outside the hospital emergency room. Later, I underwent some trauma treatment, but some fragments of memory are like pieces blown off by the wind, impossible to piece together."
She placed her hand on his knuckles and gently clasped it: "You don't have to say it all at once."
He shook his head: "I can tell."
He slowed his speech: "We were looking at the sea from the hillside. My brother stood in front of me, his back was very thin, but he blocked the wind. At that time, the purple chaste trees were in full bloom, and the petals clung to my wet sleeves and slid down. I remember he draped his coat over my shoulders and told me not to get too close. I was curious and always wanted to get closer."
"Then?"
"And then I don't remember." He looked directly at her, his tone flat, as flat as a sharpened knife. "My brother didn't come back."
She got straight to the point: "After that, did you ever go back to that beach?"
"No".
Her throat tightened, and she moved her fingertips forward to grip his hand more firmly: "You don't need to carry this alone."
He chuckled softly, the laugh almost imperceptible: "Hmm."
She reached out and put her arm around him, hugging him quietly for a while, as if soothing the wind from his body.
She let go of his hand, and only then did he get up and go to the kitchen to refill the hot water. He then took out a small medicine box from the drawer. He dipped a cotton swab in alcohol and carefully wiped away the black marks on her wrist from the charcoal pencil marks. She flinched slightly: "Be gentle."
He said calmly, "Don't move." His hand was steady. After wiping her face, he folded her cuffs, ran his fingertips over her pulse point, and checked her temperature.
She laughed and said, "You take care of the order, and I'll take care of the paintings."
He pinched her earlobe: "Stop talking back."
She let out a soft "Hey," turned her head, and lightly bit his chin: "Okay."
He asked, "Are you hungry?"
She tilted her head and smiled, "They check quite frequently."
He glanced at her, as if in charge of maintaining order: "Disobedient."
She protested, nuzzling against his neck like a fox: "Now you're behaving yourself."
The timer in the kitchen chimed. He brought over the plates, smoothed out the sofa rug, and dimmed the light. Watching him put things back in their places, she felt the breeze in her heart subside a little. After this meal, she'd wash the dishes and then rest for a while.
Night fell. She changed into her pajamas, the cuffs still carrying a faint scent of laundry. Back in the living room, he casually closed the window tightly, draped a blanket over her lap, and smoothed her disheveled hair, as if comforting a little fox that had just run home.
She leaned closer, feigning seriousness: "I'm requesting a new rule."
He raised an eyebrow: "Speak."
"When you encounter difficult days in the future, read me three sentences until I fall asleep."
Which three sentences?
She reached out and wrote in his palm, stroke by stroke: First sentence—You're here. Second sentence—It's alright. Third sentence—Together.
His palm tightened, and he chuckled softly, "Just these three sentences?"
"Just these three sentences, I'll read them aloud tonight."
He did as she said, his voice close to her hair: "You're here. It's okay. Together." With each repetition, he held her tighter. By the fourth time, her breathing had slowed to a crescendo, but he still didn't stop, as if trying to calm the storm raging in her heart.
She suddenly looked up and whispered, adding, "There's one more clause."
He looked at her: "Hmm?"
"Come with me to the market downstairs tomorrow morning for some hot soy milk, and buy two pencils while we're at it."
He chuckled: "Okay."
A few days later, the weather grew even colder. She booked a ride back to her hometown; it was a forty-minute drive from Beijing, not far. As they approached the old street entrance, a light mist settled over them. The car turned into the old street, and the sycamore trees on both sides of the street had lost their leaves, resembling rows of thin hooks.
She sent her mother a message beforehand: "I'm going home today."
Soon, the mother replied, "Come home for dinner."
She left her luggage at the front desk of a small hotel on the corner and walked towards the old house with her sketchbook in hand. The paint on the iron gate at the entrance was peeling; a small patch of blue would flake off if you touched it with your fingertip.
The television in the living room was on, but the volume was low. Her mother sat at the end of the sofa, a thin blanket draped over her knees. Seeing her enter, she merely glanced up and said, "You're back?"
"Hmm." She hung up her coat and went to the kitchen to pour some water. "I might need to organize my old paintings and go through some old things in the next couple of days."
Her mother looked at her, her gaze sharp as needles: "Why are you looking through those things?"
She smiled and said, "It's a field trip. I wanted my new work to have a touch of childhood."
The mother raised an eyebrow but didn't reply. After a moment, she put down the remote control and said in a flat tone, "See for yourself."
She hummed in agreement and said nothing more.
She pushed open the door to her room. The curtains were half-drawn, and light seeped in through the gaps, falling on the edge of the desk. The smell of wood mingled with the scent of old books and paper, like something slowly fermenting.
She knelt down beside the bed and first dragged out the large cardboard box from under the bed. The box had writing on it in black ink, but it had faded and was no longer very clear. She tore the tape along the edge, revealing stacks of picture books and loose pages.
She flipped through the stacks one by one. Sure enough, it started with very small doodles, the lines crooked and uneven, gradually becoming steady. Then came the sketches from her middle school days.
Turning to the third book, she suddenly stopped: it was a page from a sketchbook she had when she was six years old—the pencil lines were very fine, and the edges of the paper were creased. The picture showed the sea, a section of railing, and a slope, with two boys drawn in very light lines; a few small purple flowers were also dotted in the corner. She wrote a word in pinyin next to it, "zi man jing".
She stared at it for a long time, her fingertips lingering on the paper as if she were touching a hidden path.
She lifted the sheet and pulled out the flat box at the very back. Inside were more loose pages, their edges curled from the dampness. She spread them out on the floor, roughly arranging them by watermarks and pen pressure. Several looked like they were drawn at the same time: a white van parked by the roadside, the entrance and sign of the resort, the shadows of trees and the horizon flashing past the window, rocks on the shore, railings and slopes, and a distant sea; there were also a few drawings of her mother holding her hand as a child. What caught her attention even more was that several of the drawings depicted a thin boy—sometimes from behind, sometimes in profile, appearing in different scenes.
She suddenly remembered something, took a deep breath, sat back down on the ground, and pulled out the things that matched her memory one by one: Master Lian said summer, children, embankments, white vans; he said the purple vines were stuck to the wet sleeves, the petals sliding down; her mother said that she was also present at the accident that year—these words were like pieces of wood drifting in from different directions, piecing together an incomplete shape in front of her.
Dinner was quiet. My mother made two kinds of green vegetables, a bowl of soup, and steamed eggs with dried shrimp, her childhood favorite. Halfway through the meal, my mother suddenly asked, "How are things on your end?"
"I'm fine." She put down the soup spoon and smiled sweetly. "I'm taking good care of myself."
The mother didn't say anything, just nodded.
After finishing her meal, she took the bowl into the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up to her arms, the sound of water barely audible. Her mother stood in the doorway, her question seemingly casual yet also somewhat critical: "How long are you staying this time?"
"We'll see." She turned off the water, looked up, and said, "Mom, what you said on the phone the other day... are you really sure?"
The mother lowered her eyes, her fingertips slowly tracing the door frame: "I told you, I would tell you when the time was right."
"If it's just you who's angry," she said softly, staring at her mother's profile, "you can take it out on me. But don't put other people's lives at stake."
The mother raised her eyes and sneered, "Do as I say, and I'll tell you the truth about that year. If you don't, you'll never have a good life."
Hu Li turned off the water and whispered, "Mom, I'm your daughter, not your enemy."
She scoffed, "You're just like your father." Then she turned her head away and muttered to herself, "The same, the same..."
Hu Li sighed, his fingertips still damp. Since his father left home, his mother's mental state had been fluctuating.
At night, she rearranged the paintings on the ground, labeled each one with its approximate year, took photos for archiving, and noted them as "Sea/Breakwater/Bauhinia".
The next morning, she bought two breakfasts downstairs at the hotel and carried them back. Her mother stood in the corridor, frowning as if she wanted to say something. She put down the breakfasts and said, "I'm going back to Beijing later." Her mother just hummed in response and didn't say anything more. She knew it wouldn't be easy to get the truth out of her mother.
She put the transparent clip into her backpack, changed her shoes in the entryway, slung her bag over her shoulder, and opened the door. A cold wind swept in from the stairwell, like a thin thread pulling her from her ankles all the way to her heart.
It was already afternoon when she returned to Beijing. She first sent him a message: "I'm back."
The reply came quickly: "Arrived home at seven."
She put down her luggage, pressed the door lock, and the room smelled familiar; the painting paper she had dried before leaving was still on the shelf in the studio.
When he came home from work on time, he paused for a moment in the entryway when he saw her. She walked over without saying a word, and he didn't say anything either, but simply pulled her close and touched his forehead to hers.
He asked in a low voice, "How's your mother? Why did you come back so soon? Why didn't you stay a few more days?"
She nodded: "It's the same. I'll come back and sort out my work first, then go back to be with her another day."
He hummed in agreement: "Okay, take a rest first."
That night, in her studio, she folded the paintings, put them into a new transparent folder, and backed them up to the cloud. She wrote a few new names in her notebook: "Old Zheng / License Plate / Port City Security Outsourcing".
She turned off the light and went back to the living room. He was waiting for her on the sofa, his head slightly tilted to the side, his eyes closed as if he had just fallen asleep. She approached and placed a very light kiss on his brow bone.
He reached out and pulled her to sit beside him: "Are you hungry?"
I'm not hungry.
"Then let's hug."
She laughed out loud: "Okay."
She leaned on his shoulder, and after a while asked in a low voice, "Would you want to get that lost piece back?"
He paused for a moment, then said softly, "If the brain doesn't want me to remember, then leave it to time."
Her heart tightened, and she didn't say anything, only thinking to herself: Time, how much longer do we have?
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