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墨書 Inktalez
A narrow path wound its way like a silver stream, flanked by Chinese locust and sycamore trees, their many withered branches trembling in the wind, resembling a hastily sketched Chinese painting. Yusheng rode his bicycle with Qing He, both lost in thought and silent.
When the door opened, Aunt Li welcomed them inside.
She had been working for Lin Hai for three years, responsible for taking care of the professor's daily needs. The work was not demanding, yet she received a hefty salary, and now she lamented Lin Hai's passing.
She said, "I haven't dared to touch those paintings; they're still in the studio. If you want to see them, I can open the door for you."
"Aunt Li," Yuejiang asked, "did Dad say anything special to you before he passed away?"
"Nothing particularly special. The professor rarely went out; he just locked himself in the studio. I would prepare meals and leave them on the table in there. Except for that night before he died when he kept calling out: 'Mu Lian! Mu Lian!! I see you! I see you!!'"
Aunt Li paused for a moment before continuing, "I remembered something. A year ago, after you all left one time, the professor said he needed to give himself an explanation. He asked me to move those paints from the storage room to the studio and gave me an envelope, telling me that if anything happened in the future, I should give this envelope to you."
"What envelope?" Yuejiang pressed. "Can you give it to me?"
Aunt Li turned to her room and retrieved the envelope, handing it over. Yuejiang opened it and found a piece of paper inside. Just then, a key fell out with a soft clink onto the crystal-topped tea table.
Furrowing her brow, Yuejiang examined the writing on the paper and took the key that Yusheng picked up, saying, "This is Dad's bank safe deposit location and key."
"Did he say anything else?" Yusheng couldn't help but ask.
"No, just this."
Yuejiang placed the key and note back into the envelope and put it in her bag. Standing up, she said to Aunt Li, "Aunt Li, could you please open the studio door? I want to see those paintings."
The studio still retained the appearance it had that night; canvases were strewn across the floor, stained with various colors of paint. Brushes and palettes lay discarded on the ground, and the windows were tightly shut.
As Aunt Li opened the door, a strong and pungent smell of paint rushed out, causing all three of them to instinctively take a step back.
The paintings were arranged at the foot of one side of the wall, depicting the same Water Pond and the same lotus flowers, yet each showcased a different charm and color due to the artist's choice of varying months and angles of light.
This is the essence of Impressionism, which focuses on capturing fleeting moments and perceiving the world through "light" and "color."
Yusheng gazed at the master's final works, deeply moved by the exquisite technique and rich emotions, his expression filled with reverence.
Yuejiang counted the pieces—there were a total of thirteen—and couldn't help but furrow her brow.
"Aunt Li, are you sure Dad said he would take a year to paint a different Water Lilies piece for each month?"
"Yes, I'm certain I didn't mishear. That's exactly what he said."
"Then that's strange. If he painted one each month, how could there be an extra one?"
Yuejiang pointed to the painting closest to the time of death. "Yusheng, look at this extra piece; it's different from the other Water Lilies."
"You're right," Yusheng replied after comparing them. "The other twelve were painted during the day, but this one depicts a nighttime scene."
Although Aunt Li didn't understand art, she chimed in, "I also think this painting isn't as beautiful as the others; the colors are so dark that it seems hard to see anything."
Indeed, the other paintings were created in bright daylight.
At sunrise, a distant light mist enveloped the scene, with flowers appearing dark red like burning coals; at noon, the Water Lilies bloomed extravagantly, with bright colors where cool water ripples contrasted with warm petals; at sunset, the Water Lilies were undoubtedly at their most beautiful, reflecting a glorious pool of light. In each painting, the lotus flowers were undeniably the main focus, naturally drawing attention.
Only this nighttime painting was engulfed in darkness; ominous tree shadows and sleeping lotus flowers intertwined shades of black, gray, blue, and purple to create a tranquil yet slightly eerie world. Only a stark beam of moonlight pierced through the canvas, casting a pale reflection on the water's surface and suspending a fragmented moon's shadow—like a light shining into a grave.
The twelve pieces had warm color tones while this one was cool-toned and oddly blurred. Why would the master paint such a piece before his death?
To be honest, this strayed from the principles of Impressionism; with its blacks and whites, blues and purples transitioning through gray, such strong visual contrasts and blends might even surpass what could be achieved in printmaking.
Yusheng examined the painting closely while analyzing it.
"Yes, Dad's paintings have always been vibrant and enchanting. Others say they can feel his profound love and vigorous vitality through his art, but why does this one not seem to fit his style? The entire piece gives off a sense of endless, deep despair. And you're right, it doesn't fall under the category of Impressionism; it contradicts Dad's usual creative philosophy."
"Could it be that this isn't the teacher's work?!" Yusheng voiced this bold hypothesis, feeling a bit uncertain about it.
"I think so too. There are twelve months in a year; logically, there shouldn't be thirteen pieces of work."
Yuejiang fell into a bewildered contemplation. Father had passed away shortly after this painting appeared, uttering cryptic words that were hard to decipher.
Moreover, this was the only piece that belonged to the series "Finding Water Lily." Yet, what it depicted was merely the pitch-blackness of midnight and the moonlight piercing through the night, not Water Lilies at all. Could it be...
Yuejiang was startled by a sudden thought that flashed through her mind. She took a deep breath to calm herself and turned to Aunt Li, asking, "Dad passed away on September 8th, right?"
"Yes, that day was White Dew. I remember clearly because I was planning to pack away your father's summer clothes as the weather turned cooler."
Yuejiang's body jolted as she stumbled backward into Yusheng. Instinctively, she exclaimed, "This can't be! It absolutely can't be a coincidence!"
Both Yusheng and Aunt Li were taken aback by her sudden reaction, unsure of what Yuejiang had just realized.
Though I was only three years old that year, I still wouldn't forget that the day my mother left home was precisely White Dew!
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