We Under the Wutong Tree
One afternoon in my senior year, I was curled up on my bed in the dormitory, scrolling through my phone, when an insignificant piece of news popped up in the local art news.
"Young painter Lu Xingye's 'Homecoming' themed charity exhibition opens this Saturday at the Hanchuan Cultural Center."
The fingers paused.
Lu Xingye.
The accompanying picture is a partial picture of a warm-toned oil painting, in which the mottled light and shadow of the sycamore leaves can be vaguely seen.
My heart felt like being gently bumped by something.
"This guy really does what he says." I muttered to myself, with the corners of my mouth rising unconsciously.
I remember what he said when he turned around at the railway station gate, "When my art exhibition is held in Hanchuan, you all must come."
I didn't click on the push details, silently saved the address and time of the exhibition, and turned off the push.
Some agreements may only belong to specific times and specific people.
Times have changed, and I don't want to disturb his life, which may have become completely different.
On Saturday morning, I took the early bus back to Hanchuan.
The exhibition is small in scale and the theme is "Homecoming".
There were even fewer visitors in the side hall of the cultural center, and not many works on display.
I looked at them one by one.
Lu Xingye's painting style has changed a lot. The imaginative blue space battleships in the early days are gone, replaced by more calm and introspective tones, and there is a kind of settled power in the brushstrokes.
Some depict the tranquility of old houses in the countryside, while others depict the bustling atmosphere of city corners.
There are also several abstract works with tangled and surging colors.
I walked slowly, feeling a little emotional.
The little bully who used to speak with his fists really turned his paintbrush into his way of communicating with the world.
Then I stopped in front of the innermost wall of the exhibition hall.
It was a large oil painting.
In the picture, the June sunshine shines through the lush leaves of the sycamore trees, casting dappled light and shadows.
A girl with pigtails and mud on the hem of her skirt was bending over to pick up camphor fruits on the ground.
The girl with short and neat hair held up a net bag and pointed excitedly into the distance.
The delicate little boy squatted quietly beside the sandpit, his long eyelashes drooping;
The boy in overalls was holding a small wooden stick in his hand, looking very proud.
Standing quietly aside in a pink dance costume.
In the center of the picture, the boy with flying eyebrows and throwing sand high up is laughing heartily.
The background is the familiar red brick wall of the Hanshi family compound, and the wild roses in the corner are in full bloom.
The light and shadow are handled very well, as if you can feel the temperature of that summer afternoon, hear the cicadas chirping and our crisp laughter.
The title of the painting is very simple, it is called "We Under the Wutong Tree"
The introduction is just a few words: "Dedicated to the friends who have been separated in time, and the summer that can never come back."
I stood in front of the painting for a long time, unable to move.
Those memory boxes sealed by the dust of time suddenly opened, and what came to the face was the youth mixed with the smell of sunshine, sweat and tears.
"I knew you might come."
A deep voice sounded behind him.
I looked back.
Lu Xingye was standing a few steps behind me.
His sleeves were casually rolled up to his elbows, and there was no trace of paint on his body. He looked much thinner and his temperament was much more stable. Only his eyes, when he looked at me, still had the same flickering light as before.
"Lu Xingye? You...why are you here?"
"My art exhibition, shouldn't I be here?"
He raised an eyebrow, still looking at me like I was stupid. "Just now, when I was watching the surveillance camera over there, I saw a figure from behind that looked a lot like you. I didn't expect it to be true."
"It's a great drawing," I said sincerely, "It really brought our silly childhood moments to life."
"Really?" He chuckled. "It's mainly because you guys have unique looks, so it's easier to draw."
Still asking for a beating.
I couldn't help but glare at him, then laughed too.
The strange feeling in the air seemed to be dissipated a lot by this glare and smile.
"I didn't expect you to hold a charity art exhibition." I changed the subject and looked at the few people stopping in the exhibition hall.
"Well, most of the works on display will be sold for charity, and the proceeds will be donated to the local left-behind children foundation." He put his hands in his pockets and spoke calmly.
"Is Aunt Shen okay?" I asked.
"It's pretty good. I'm growing flowers and raising chickens in the countryside. I feel much better than when I was in the city."
We chatted a little more about our recent situation, and he asked me how college was going. His tone was so familiar, as if we had just met yesterday, rather than four long years apart.
"How about you?" I asked. "Are you doing well in Beijing? You've become a great painter."
"What's the point of being a great painter? I just make a living." He shook his head, his tone lacking emotion. "I just paint. My life is pretty simple."
"Has anyone...come to see them?" I hesitated for a moment, but still asked.
Lu Xingye shook his head silently, “Is there any news about Lulu?”
"No." I paused. "But no news is good news, right?"
He smiled and nodded.
Yes, for Lulu, peace may be the best ending.
"Where is Jiang Yuanzhou? I heard he is doing very well in Beijing." I asked. They are both in Beijing and should have met each other a few times.
"Yeah, I've met him a few times, he's pretty good."
Lu Xingye's answer was concise and to the point, without any unnecessary comments.
We fell silent again.
"Would you like to go out for dinner together?" Lu Xingye suddenly suggested, "I know a shop nearby that has pretty good pot stickers. They taste a bit like the one in front of our school when we were kids."
I looked at him, then at the boy in the painting with a flamboyant smile, and nodded, "Okay."
At this time, a staff member came over to him and whispered something.
He gave me an apologetic look and said, "I have to go take care of it."
"Go ahead and get busy," I said, quickly expressing my understanding. "We'll get together next time."
He looked at me with a complicated expression, then smiled with relief, "Okay"
We all know that this casually mentioned "next time" may be in some distant future.
"Lin Nian," he took a small package from the side and handed it to me, "This is a souvenir of the exhibition."
"Thank you," I took it and waved at him, "then... take care."
"You too." He nodded, his eyes lingering on my face for a moment, "Goodbye."
I watched his hurriedly leaving figure, and once again cast my gaze on the painting "We Under the Wutong Tree".
In the painting, we are forever frozen under the shade of the sycamore tree, carefree, as if we can run and laugh forever.
Outside the painting, we have already gone our separate ways, scattered in different corners of the vast world, experiencing our own joys and sorrows, and having lives that no longer involve each other.
I took out my cell phone and took a careful photo of the painting.
Then he turned and walked out of the exhibition hall.
The sun is shining outside, and the autumn breeze blows across my cheeks, bringing with it the faint scent of osmanthus.
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