Gift
I was staring at the wet canvas when the doorbell rang.
The smell of paint was so strong that it was almost suffocating. That fragile lemon yellow flickered in the gray-black chaos, like the last bubble exhaled by a drowning person.
The ringing of the phone was very persistent, ringing over and over again, and finally pulled me out of the almost meditative state of rigidity. I moved slowly, crossed the silent living room, and opened the door.
It was Qiu Aiming. He was clutching a bulging grocery bag. His hair was damp from the drizzle outside, a few strands clinging to his forehead. He saw me and said nothing, simply looking me up and down, his brows furrowed slightly.
I probably looked scary, with my paint-stained clothes, sunken eyes, and a mess of shoulder-length hair. I reeked of turpentine and a dejected air that he later described as "just crawling out of a grave."
"Come in." My voice was hoarse.
He didn't move, but handed me the food bag: "Change your clothes and go out for a walk."
“I didn’t…”
"You have," he interrupted, his tone unyielding. "Five minutes. Or I'll throw a party outside your door with this bag of food and make you scream."
I looked at him, and he looked back without flinching.
Qiu Aiming is an old friend of mine, a photographer who is best at using his lens to reveal the cruelty and tenderness of the world to you at the same time.
He knows when to keep quiet and when to push you.
I finally gave in and took the bag, which contained still-warm buns and soy milk.
Five minutes later, I changed into clothes barely suitable for going out and followed him into the wet light outside the building.
The rain had almost stopped, leaving only a very fine mist suspended in the air, bringing a clean coolness to the lungs when inhaled. The world was washed clean, and the colors became clearer and deeper, the greens greener, the grays grayer.
My painter's instinct subconsciously began to analyze the color levels and light and shadow in front of me. This is an almost pathological professional habit. It seems that as long as I translate everything into visual language, I can gain a sense of control.
We walked without a destination.
Walking through the familiar streets, the shops on the street were lit with warm yellow lights, and the bakery was emitting the sweet aroma that he liked. Pedestrians were hurrying, holding umbrellas or wearing hoods.
All these everyday scenes are now separated from my eyes by an invisible, cold glass.
Their lives go on, but mine seemed to be paused the moment Zhou Yu fell into darkness.
Qiu Aiming didn't say anything about "I'm sorry".
He just walked beside me, occasionally nudging me with his shoulder to push me away from a telephone pole or curb I was about to hit.
"Look over there." He suddenly pointed to the street corner with his chin.
An elderly woman was squatting on the ground, carefully pulling rice grains from a plastic bag and scattering them to a few stray cats that had gathered around her. Her movements were patient and focused, and she was mumbling something.
The cats rubbed against her trouser legs and made little meowing noises.
A very common scene.
But on this morning when I had just lost my lover, this scene was like a fine needle, accurately piercing the softest part of my heart.
I remembered that Zhou Yu often saved some food to feed the stray cats in the neighborhood. He always said, "They have no home, so pitiful. Can you give me one for my birthday this year?"
My throat tightened, my vision blurred for a moment, and I turned my head sharply, pretending to look in the window of a nearby store.
Qiu Aiming seemed oblivious to my loss of composure. He simply pulled out a cigarette and handed it to me. Because of Zhou Yu, I could count the number of times I'd smoked in the past few years on one hand.
I took it, and he protected the lighter with his hand and came over to light it for me.
The pungent smoke inhaled into the lungs brought a slight dizziness, temporarily suppressing the surging bitterness.
We smoked in silence, watching the old woman feed the cat, slowly stand up, and hobble away.
The cats also scattered and hid back into the cracks of the city.
"Sometimes," he exhaled a puff of cigarette and watched it dissipate in the rain and mist, "the most painful moments aren't when I'm crying. It's when I see a familiar scene, hear a phrase he often said, or even just smell the scent of his shampoo... that string, 'snap', breaks."
I didn't respond, just took a long drag on my cigarette. He was right. The huge abstract painting titled "Sadness" was made up of countless tiny, sudden moments like this.
It wasn't one continuous emotion, but a thousand sudden stabs of pain.
We walked on, through the wet park, its benches empty and glistening with water.
Walking through the bustling market, the sounds of hawkers and bargaining filled the air with a vibrant yet piercing energy. Occasionally, Qiu Aiming would pause, raise his old film camera, and snap a photo of the sky reflected in a pool of water, or of a child smiling brightly under their mother's raincoat. The clicks were especially clear in the humid air.
He didn't try to comfort me, but just walked with me silently in his own way, measuring this new and helpless loneliness.
Until we reached the river. The water had become muddy and turbulent due to the rain, rushing off into the distance. We lay on the damp, cold stone railings, watching the river rush by, carrying fallen leaves and bits of garbage.
"I drew a picture." I said suddenly, my voice a little blurred by the sound of water.
"Yeah." He responded to show that he was listening.
"It's about Xiaoyu." I paused, trying to organize my words, "but it doesn't seem to be. It's about... a kind of 'reluctance'."
Qiu Aiming turned his head to look at me. His eyes seemed unusually bright in the light after the rain, just like his lens, with a penetrating power.
“That’s good,” he said, then added, “As long as it can be drawn, that’s good.”
Yes, it's good to be able to draw it. We are not good at expressing emotions with words.
He uses his camera, I use my paintbrush. We are both using the only way we are good at to understand the world and digest the unspeakable pain.
The rain and fog completely dissipated, and a crack appeared in the clouds. A weak beam of sunlight slanted down, fell on the river surface, and shattered into a sparkling golden light.
At that moment, I suddenly felt that the hard and cold boulder in my heart seemed to be pried open with an invisible crack by the light, the sound of water, and the silent company of my friends.
The pain was still there, and the unfinished painting was still waiting for me at home. But at this moment, standing by the river on a clear day, I felt like I could finally breathe a little.
"I'm hungry," I said.
"Let's go," Qiu Aiming patted my back, "the buns are probably getting cold, let's find a place to warm them up."
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