Chapter 77: The Ancient Dam, The Lonely Soul

Lin Shenlu was truly captivated by the details on the woman painter’s canvas at first glance.

She was painting in oils; on the left and right sides, the gnarled trunks of ancient trees were rendered with exquisite detail, while the center of the canvas depicted a steady stream of people walking upon blue flagstones. The green foliage extended inward from the edges, creating a powerful sense of space, with layers clearly delineated.

Amidst the crowd beneath the ancient trees on the flagstone path, the most striking figure was a girl. The woman painter’s brushwork was lively and agile—stray, drifting strands of hair, a vacant gaze cast back over her shoulder… it was unmistakably the likeness of Su Bao’er.

It was hard to imagine that the painter, not far away, had captured the standing Su Bao’er on her canvas, and the overall effect was remarkably harmonious. The contrast of colors, the play of light and shadow—all were superb. No wonder Su Bao’er had been studying the canvas intently, darting glances at the artist herself. Clearly, she had realized she’d been painted.

The woman painter quietly continued adding color to her work. Su Bao’er scrutinized it from left and right with intense curiosity. Lin Shenlu, meanwhile, didn’t approach, but lit a cigarette and stood off to the side. In the hush, he observed the artist closely.

She was in her early twenties, with a clean, fresh appearance. Her hair was casually twisted into a bun at the back, secured by a paintbrush stuck among the curls. The loose black sweater she wore could not hide her slender frame. Her face was delicate and pure—sometimes she’d frown, adjusting the hues, sometimes tweak the contrast between light and shadow.

At last, the woman painter exhaled softly. The painting was finished.

In the streets of Ancient Weir Painting Village, in any random corner of Dagangtou Town, one might find such wild painters. With their brushes, they captured the abundance of color in nature, the scenery, and the crowds. This painting was one the woman painter herself found satisfying, but to Lin Shenlu, it held a peculiar flavor.

No matter how much Su Bao’er’s image was blended into the environment, she remained slightly out of place. The painter had captured, with remarkable depth, Su Bao’er’s solitary figure, the desolation of her backward glance, the confusion in her eyes. Yet precisely because of this, the painting felt tinged with melancholy.

The woman painter smiled slightly and handed the painting to the dazed Su Bao’er squatting nearby.

“Do you like it? It’s yours,” she said softly.

Su Bao’er nodded again and again. “Deer, come look—she painted me,” she called to Lin Shenlu, pointing at her figure on the canvas.

He nodded, but unlike the other tourists or villagers, he didn’t shower the painter with compliments. Only then did the woman painter notice the man who had been quietly watching all along. Perhaps used to praise, she seemed particularly sensitive to Lin Shenlu’s expression.

“Are you a fellow artist?” she asked, setting down her brush and taking out a slender cigarette.

“Not really. I studied for a few years in the past,” Lin Shenlu replied, habitually offering her his lighter.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s wonderful, you’ve painted it beautifully,” Lin Shenlu smiled, shaking his head.

“But in your eyes, I see words left unsaid… Tell me, I’d like to hear,” she said, tapping the ash from her cigarette.

Lin Shenlu quietly sat to the side, looked from the painting to Su Bao’er crouched nearby.

“It’s too lonely. I think it may not be your doing—it’s her…” He gestured toward Su Bao’er. “Her presence inevitably conveys that feeling… Loneliness is a frightening word… it doesn’t even have an antonym. I won’t judge the painting itself, but the girl in it… she’s too alone.”

“Is loneliness so bad? In a world riddled with wounds, she’s dreaming tea-scented, ornate dreams…” The painter blew a smoke ring.

“Must I pair her with a desolate street, a hopeless sunset, the moon over a deserted field, to evoke the sorrow of someone staring long at the lonely moon?” she glanced at Lin Shenlu.

He shook his head.

“The meaning of a painting always exceeds the image itself. Must desolate settings alone evoke a person’s loneliness? The world may be barren, but romance is immortal…” Lin Shenlu spoke softly.

Then, he took the clean paintbrush from her hair.

Her black hair tumbled down at once. Lin Shenlu dipped the brush into a deep rose pigment from her paint box, then handed it back to her.

“Try it—paint a rose in her hand,” he said with a smile.

The painter said nothing, but took the brush and with a few strokes added a red rose to the hand of the solitary, backward-glancing Su Bao’er.

Three minutes later, she set the brush down, leaned back in her chair, and looked at Lin Shenlu.

“Well? With a flower in her hand, doesn’t she look less lonely now? Her eyes aren’t so lost anymore…” Lin Shenlu smiled.

With a rose in her grasp, Su Bao’er appeared more endearing on the canvas.

Lin Shenlu went on, “Here is a world desolate, but romance never dies. How does the saying go—I nourish the rose with my own bones to commemorate my love for you… Is that not a perfect interpretation?”

The painter gazed at the painting and smiled.

Under Lin Shenlu’s gaze, she picked up the brush again, dipped it into black pigment, and with a stroke, the red rose turned black. The once dewy petals now seemed scorched by fire, their brokenness like secret wounds opening a deep hollow in the body, falling toward emptiness without anchor.

The woman painter smiled.

Lin Shenlu’s expression grew somber.

In that instant, the painting’s mood transformed completely.

“Why did you do that?” Lin Shenlu asked in confusion.

“Because I have no use for love. Loneliness, that’s all. I have my own marshes,” the painter replied softly.

The painting was finally finished.

She looked at the black rose in Su Bao’er’s hand on the canvas and asked with a smile, “Do you still want it now?”

“No… the flower’s wilted…” Su Bao’er shook her head.

The painter took out a fine brush, dipped it again in black pigment.

“I’ve been in Lishui for three days. This is my third painting. I shall give it a name…” she murmured to herself. “I came here chasing someone—a writer. His latest post said he was coming to Lishui for inspiration, so I followed his trail. Unfortunately, I didn’t find him, so I stay here and paint a picture every day.”

“For this painting, I’ll call it… ‘Without Fragrance.’” She wrote the two small words in the corner of the canvas.

Turning to Lin Shenlu, she said, “Thank you for your suggestion. The rose you added deepened the loneliness of my painting. Loneliness, after all, is fate.”

The painter had completed her work. In the lower right corner, she wrote two more characters—her name.

Qinai.