If I Wait Thirty Years | Chapter 20 | The Buddha's Tear | Novela.app

Liang He was the teacher on duty today. The studios at the Academy of Fine Arts never closed at night, but a teacher would come by at ten o'clock to do a patrol and keep a log. His mentor, Chen Jingtao, had recently assigned him a research topic: "The Buddha's Tear." Chen Jingtao’s research scope and training methods were famously unconventional. Liang He had known this when he signed up, but he hadn't expected that dealing with it in practice would require so much effort. At his current level, painting physical objects was easy; if a realistic likeness was required, he could paint something as true to life as a photograph. But that was wrong—or rather, it wasn't what he pursued. The expression of painting was an interpretation of the inner heart, a reflection of the creator, or a reflection of the world; a work was simply another version of oneself. He understood all this, yet he felt his own mastery was still lacking. He had studied several Buddhist sutras, and while he recognized every character, he couldn't grasp the essence. He had consulted Lu Xialan, a Chinese literature major; he understood a bit more afterward, yet somehow felt even more muddled. Thinking of this, a sense of restlessness rose in Liang He’s heart. He simply tossed his brush aside and went to do a round of the studios. That was when he saw Qiu Yun. Only three or five people remained in the studio, scattered far apart. Qiu Yun sat in a corner by the window at the back. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and looked somewhat frail. Her face was clean—a stark, white kind of clean, like a sheet of paper—rendered almost deathly pale by the contrast of the black sweater. Her expression was deeply immersed, devoid of emotion yet appearing very solemn. Obviously, she was painting, which was perfectly normal; what else would one do in a studio? Yet in this cavernous room, Liang He’s eyes were drawn instantly to that corner—to that patch of black that seemed to shimmer with a faint light. As if struck by a thought, Qiu Yun stopped and turned her head to look out the window. Liang He followed her gaze. In the silent sky hung a bright, full moon. The moon tonight was exceptionally round. There wasn't a single wisp of cloud around it; it sat solitary in the heavens. It was a sovereign unto itself, an undefeated loner. It shone with a perfect fullness, yet it was profoundly lonely. He suddenly remembered a time long ago when he had asked, "If the force is strong enough and the speed is fast enough, can one break free from Earth's gravity and fly into space?" "Yes," that person had smiled, pointing into the distance. "Newton said long ago that man can fly to the moon." "What's on the moon?" "There is... there is..." What was there? Fragmented memories rushed toward him, but he couldn't quite recall the answer. He only remembered much laughter, much happiness, and then many people arriving, many banners, many slogans, much clamor. And then, countless fragments of torn books fluttering down from the sky like a heavy snowfall. He had reached out to catch them, only to find half of Newton's face. Those events... A bitter smile flickered in his heart. He suddenly realized his thoughts had drifted far away. Bringing himself back, he saw that Qiu Yun had already shifted her gaze and returned to her creation. Was this girl, so deeply immersed and devoted, the same Qiu Yun who played petty tricks, relied on her talent to be lazy, and lacked ambition? Was she the same undisciplined, wandering, yet somewhat quirky Qiu Yun? He stood and watched for a while. Unable to help himself, he approached her silently, stopping a single pace away. He saw the entire painting. The night sky was black, yet also blue—or perhaps a color existing somewhere between the two. There was only a single bright circular point in the composition, radiating rings of light outward. At first glance, it was all brilliant light, but at the junctions where the halos met, she had skillfully used extremely faint inverse colors. At the very bottom of the canvas were strange, flickering silhouettes—resembling vegetation, or ghosts and gods, or human dwellings, yet looking like nothing at all. The contrast of black and white, and the contrast of inverse colors, made the entire image exceptionally striking. He stared at the painting, his heartbeat gradually accelerating. In that moment, Qiu Yun seemed to sense something. She turned around, her expression not yet having time to change. Moonlight reflected upon her face. Liang He’s racing heart suddenly skipped a beat—hanging from her right eye was a single, crystalline tear. All his thoughts suddenly cleared: "The Buddha's Tear." Qiu Yun hadn't known Liang He was behind her, let alone that he had been standing there for a long time. She had just finished signing her name in the bottom right corner. For some reason, she turned her head and saw the person behind her. Before she could rein in her emotions, the tear at the corner of her eye, spurred by the sudden widening of her pupils, rolled down her cheek. Panicked, she hurriedly wiped the tear away to hide her emotions, then grew even more flustered trying to hide her painting. In her confusion, she didn't know which was more urgent to conceal, and the sound of brushes and the drawing board thudding onto the floor followed in quick succession. She looked like a child who had accidentally done something wrong, or someone whose secret had been leaked through a single oversight. She knelt down to pick them up. Someone reached down first and picked up a brush for her. "Thank you." "You're welcome." Liang He handed her the brush. "Thank you." "The painting is very good." "Thank you," she said, her head still lowered. Liang He stopped picking things up and watched as Qiu Yun gathered her supplies. "Do you like the moon?" "Huh?" Liang He looked out the window. "The moon is beautiful tonight." "It is." Qiu Yun suddenly asked, "Teacher Liang, do you read Japanese?" "I do. Why?" He turned back. Qiu Yun looked at his face; it was calm and sincere, without mockery or any sign of oddity. She smiled slightly, her expression gradually returning to normal as she changed the subject. "It's nothing. I've liked the night since I was a child. If a bright moon is hanging high, I like to watch it. My grandfather said that if the eyes see moonlight, they become bright." "Your grandfather certainly has a lot of sayings." Qiu Yun smiled again, the moonlight draping a layer of gentle light over her. "What I speak now is like the moon traversing the void, pure and unhindered, like one with clear sight." Liang He remembered a line from a sutra he had seen that afternoon. Fearing it was too difficult to understand, he translated it into plain language: "In ancient texts, the moon is compared to beautiful things—bright and pure, just like a person's clear eyes." "I know. 'What I speak now is like the moon traversing the void, pure and unhindered, like one with clear sight,'" Qiu Yun blurted out. Liang He turned to look at her, his gaze filled with naked questioning and surprise. Qiu Yun quickly added, "My grandfather said that, too." Qiu Yun lied. Those words hadn't come from her grandfather; they had come from Liang He himself. Years later, Liang He had once analyzed a painting in Qiu Yun’s class and used those four lines to describe the scene. It had left a deep impression on her, and she had looked up the original source in the Buddhist scriptures. But now, they could also be used to describe Liang He. He smiled as well, speaking casually, "Your grandfather again." Under the moonlight, Qiu Yun saw the shadows of his eye sockets, the bridge of his nose, and his eyelashes. God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light; but God surely didn't know that with light comes shadow, doubling the beauty of the world. The two stood for a moment. Neither mentioned the tear from moments ago; Liang He didn't ask, and Qiu Yun didn't explain. It was as if it had never been seen, as if it had never existed. "There's an exchange with an American school the week after next. Are you free?" Liang He asked. "I'll be at school. Why?" "Your English is quite good. Come and help out if you have time." "Doing what, exactly?" "Translating. A backup translator. Be on call."