Echoes in light and shadow
A thin layer of dust covered the studio's glass windows, and the afternoon sunlight slanted in, casting rectangular patches of light on the floor. Ah Yu squatted in the light, her fingertips tracing the acceptance letter for the photography exhibition, the paper wrinkled from repeated rubbing.
"Are we really going to accept the award?" Lin Wanqing placed the freshly brewed tea on the coffee table, her gaze falling on the set of photos on the wall titled "Mountain Lights." In the center photo, a child in a red cotton-padded jacket held a kerosene lamp, the light casting dappled shadows on his eyelashes, against a backdrop of rolling green hills, like rice paper soaked in ink.
Ah Yu didn't look up, her fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of the notice: "The organizing committee said we'd have to share our creative ideas on site."
"Share how you got Zhong Hua to stand in a mountain valley at minus three degrees Celsius for two hours holding a reflector?" Lin Wanqing laughed, the steam in her teacup swirling. "Last time he came back, his ears were frozen like cherries."
Mentioning Zhong Hua, Ah Yu paused. He recalled the wind that day, howling snowflakes seeped into one's bones. Zhong Hua's hands, holding the reflector, were purple with cold, yet he was still shouting, "Move a little more to the left, the light is leaking!" At that moment, he was focused on adjusting the aperture and hadn't noticed the ice beneath Zhong Hua's feet until he heard a muffled thud. He turned around and saw Zhong Hua lying in the snow, the reflector pressed against his chest, but his first question was, "Is the camera alright?"
"He was just being careless." Ah Yu folded the notice into a square and stuffed it into her jeans pocket, her voice a little muffled.
Lin Wanqing didn't expose his hypocrisy, but simply pointed to the door and said, "Speak of the devil and he appears."
When Zhong Hua pushed open the door, he brought in a blast of cold air from outside. He was carrying a black cloth bag, which he untied at the workbench, revealing a camera body and lens inside. "Just had it serviced at the equipment shop," he said, holding the lens up to the light to examine it; the fingerprints on the lens were wiped clean. "Will you use this on the day of the awards ceremony?"
Ah Yu looked up and saw a light pink scar on the tip of his ear, a remnant of the frostbite from that day. A slight sting ran through her heart. He turned his face away to look out the window: "Whatever."
Zhong Hua ignored his tone, picked up the lens cloth on the table, and carefully wiped the viewfinder: "I checked the weather forecast, it's going to rain on the day of the awards ceremony, remember to bring an umbrella."
"Okay." Ah Yu stood up, pretending to organize the photo albums on the shelf, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Zhong Hua stuffing the spare battery into his camera bag—it was the one he had forgotten to charge during his last shoot. Zhong Hua always remembered these little things.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for the lecture hall of the city art museum. That morning, Ah Yu changed his clothes three times in front of the mirror, but in the end, he still wore the most ordinary gray sweatshirt. Zhong Hua sat on the sofa watching him fuss over his clothes, holding a lens cleaning cloth and repeatedly wiping a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
"What are you doing with my glasses?" Ah Yu finally stopped, pointing at what he was holding. They were his reading glasses, which he usually used to watch movies. The edges of the lenses were a little worn, and Zhong Hua had helped him find them at a flea market during their university years.
“You said the stage lights were too bright last time,” Zhong Hua put his glasses in their case and stuffed them into Ah Yu’s coat pocket, “just in case.”
Ah Yu touched the hard case in her pocket, wanting to say that she was wearing contact lenses, but the words that came out were: "You're so long-winded."
On the way to the art museum, the subway was packed with people. Zhong Hua held Ah Yu's camera bag protectively in his arms, as if it were something fragile. Ah Yu was squeezed next to him and could smell the faint turpentine scent on his cuffs—he had probably been repairing that old Leica in his studio again last night, disassembling the lens into pieces. Lin Wanqing said he was "the old Chinese medicine doctor who keeps cameras alive."
"Are you nervous?" Zhong Hua asked him, looking down. Her voice was muffled by the rumble of the subway, but it still rang clearly in his ears.
Ah Yu shook his head, then nodded. He wasn't afraid of going on stage; what he was afraid of was not being able to describe the details hidden in the light and shadow—for example, the kerosene lamp in the child's hand, which Zhong Hua had borrowed after visiting three villages; and the mountains in the background, which Zhong Hua had calculated precisely the speed of the cloud movement, making him wait for a full four hours before pressing the shutter.
Upon arriving at the art museum, the staff at the registration desk led them to seats in the front row. Zhong Hua placed his camera bag at his feet, took out a bottle of mineral water from the bag, unscrewed the cap, loosened it half a turn, and then handed it to A Yu. He had been doing this for many years, ever since A Yu could never open a paint bottle back in college.
Ah Yu took the water, his fingertips touching the cool bottle, and suddenly remembered that summer of his junior year. To photograph the morning mist over the lotus pond, he had squatted by the lake at five o'clock, his trouser legs soaked with dew. Zhong Hua came over with breakfast, stuffed hot soy milk into his hands, and then took his camera to adjust it. "Look, shooting against the light can create a fuzzy effect," Zhong Hua pointed to the dewdrops on the lotus leaves, "but you have to wait until the sun is higher, otherwise the light will be too harsh." It rained later that day, and he hid in the pavilion with his camera, while Zhong Hua stood in the rain holding his tripod for him, soaked to the bone, but smiling and saying, "Now the lotus leaves are even greener."
When the host read the poem "Mountain Lights," Ah Yu took a deep breath. He walked onto the stage, and a spotlight suddenly shone on his face, making him squint. The audience was packed with people, and he subconsciously looked in Zhong Hua's direction. Sure enough, he saw the man sitting upright with his hands on his knees, like a student listening attentively.
“These photos…” Ah Yu’s voice trembled slightly. He gripped the trophy in his hand, the cool metallic touch calming him down a little. “Many people say the lighting is exceptional, but actually…”
He paused, his gaze piercing through the crowd and landing on Zhong Hua. The man's eyelashes were long, casting a small shadow beneath his eyes, overlapping with the image of the child in the photograph.
"Actually, the lighting for these photos was found for me by Zhong Hua."
As soon as he finished speaking, there was a moment of silence from the audience. Ah Yu saw Zhong Hua suddenly raise his head, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, his hand unconsciously clenching something. Later, he learned that it was his glasses, which he had left in the entryway when he left that morning. Zhong Hua had found them and carried them all the way over.
This chapter is not finished, please click the next page to continue reading!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
