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Water Lilies: A Mystery
墨書 Inktalez
On a gray afternoon in September, Lin Yuejiang first encountered her father Lin Hai's series of "Water Lilies." The sky was overcast, thick clouds hanging as if they had never existed. From the window of the studio, she could see a distant, eerie white light, as though dawn had just begun to break.
Thirteen paintings of lotus flowers were arranged along one wall, depicting the dramatically different atmospheres and scenes presented by the same pond across various seasons.
The colors were enchanting yet carried a sense of hazy detachment, typical of Impressionism. It was like a trap set by fine wine; at first glance, it seemed intoxicating, but upon awakening, one would feel the pain.
A year prior, Lin Hai's health had become a serious concern. He was frail and often distracted, and with his worsening cataracts, his vision gradually deteriorated. Yet he stubbornly refused treatment.
Lin Yuejiang and Du Yusheng traveled to a remote mansion in the suburbs to visit him. In the large studio on the second floor, the pungent smell of oil paint filled the air, with canvases haphazardly piled everywhere.
Outside was a pond where the Water Lilies, planted by Lin Hai himself, quietly grew and withered away.
Lin Hai looked at his daughter and his most favored disciple, then glanced at the dark green lotuses that had existed for over twenty years. As if speaking to himself, he said, "I've painted my whole life but always feel there's something I haven't expressed."
He continued, "You two should go back to school. Just come once a month from now on. I need to paint something to give myself an explanation."
From that day on, Yuejiang and Yusheng visited him monthly, and Lin Hai would show them the newly completed Water Lilies.
One painting each month showcased the various postures of the Water Lilies throughout the year—intertwined shades of cobalt blue, deep green, and crimson hinted at decay and struggle amidst blooming and wilting.
Before they left each time, Lin Hai would habitually ask, "Have you figured anything out?"
Yuejiang and Yusheng would often exchange glances and could only offer trivial remarks in response. Seeing this, Lin Hai would sigh helplessly and say, "Then come again next time."
Yuejiang always felt that Father must have wanted to convey some profound meaning, but neither she nor Yusheng could grasp it. Perhaps this meaning lay beyond the canvas.
In that villa, apart from Lin Hai, only Aunt Li took care of his daily needs. Aunt Li had originally worked at an art academy, and after retiring, she became Lin Hai's housekeeper.
However, on a certain day in September, Aunt Li suddenly called to inform that the master had passed away.
It turned out that at the time, the painting was nearing completion. During dinner, Lin Hai had raised his hand to smooth his graying hair, his face pale as he murmured, "I am finally going to reveal it."
At that moment, Aunt Li hadn’t thought much of it. When she went to bring tea to the studio later, she saw him completely absorbed in his work.
It wasn’t until late at night that Aunt Li was awakened by a chilling fit of laughter.
She heard Lin Hai shouting in the studio, "Mu Lian! Mu Lian!! I see you! I see you!!" This was followed by a series of chaotic crashing sounds, as if a trapped beast were roaring and thrashing about. Finally, there was a violent splash before everything fell silent.
Aunt Li hurriedly dressed and ran upstairs. Using a spare key, she opened the door to the studio and found it empty. The window was wide open, and the moonlight shone unusually bright. The surface of the water sparkled with silver light, ripples still lingering from some disturbance. Lin Hai floated in the pond, his white shirt billowing as if it were a shattered moon.
Without hesitation, Aunt Li called the police. The sirens instantly pierced through the tranquility of the night, and the wheels ruthlessly crushed the moonlight scattered on the ground.
By the time Lin Hai was pulled from the water, he had already drowned. His expression was remarkably serene, as if he had sought death with a calm satisfaction.
What was surprising was that he clutched a harmonica tightly in his hand, so much so that when the police removed it, they accidentally broke one of Lin Hai's fingers.
That day happened to be White Dew; the pond water was icy cold, and the tall Paulownia trees by the edge had begun to shed their yellow leaves.
In the private studio that belonged solely to Lin Hai, the easel by the window held his final masterpiece—the thirteenth painting of Water Lilies.
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