CHAPTER 4: 99 MORE

THE SAKURA BETWEEN US

CHAPTER 4: 99 MORE

By day ten, the house in Gion had changed.

It was no longer perfect.

Ink stained one corner of the engawa where Xiuying had forgotten a brush overnight.

The kitchen counter was crowded with half-finished cups of tea.

Three rejected paintings had somehow ended up crumpled beside the garden stones.

And the studio—

The studio was a disaster.

Paper everywhere.

Brushes soaking where they shouldn’t be.

A sweater hanging from the back of a chair.

Faint black footprints crossed the floor because Xiuying had developed the terrible habit of forgetting there was ink on her feet before walking around barefoot.

She loved it.

Not the mess itself.

What it meant.

The house looked lived in now.

More importantly, it looked like an artist lived there.

Tanaka had noticed too.

Every morning he arrived with groceries, looked at whatever new disaster had appeared overnight, and became slightly less formal.

On day seven, he stopped bowing every time he saw her.

On day eight, he started bringing extra tea.

By day ten, he opened the gate, saw Xiuying asleep against the studio wall and simply said:

“Morning, Sakura-san. Another late night?”

Xiuying opened one eye.

“What time is it?”

“Seven forty.”

She sat upright.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I just did.”

“Ren will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Nineteen.”

“Tanaka!”

He disappeared into the kitchen before she could throw anything at him.

She was Sakura now.

At least around Gion.

The woman at the tofu shop called her Sakura-san. So did the children who sometimes slowed down outside the gate hoping to glimpse the strange Chinese painter who apparently never brushed her hair.

But the seal Ren had given her remained beside her real name on every finished painting.

Lin Xiuying.

Sakura.

Both.

Ren understood the distinction.

When he teased her, she was Sakura.

When they disagreed about a painting, she was Xiuying.

And when he said Lin Xiuying, using her full name—

That usually meant trouble.

He came every morning at eight.

It had become a ritual.

Xiuying would be sitting in the studio wearing the oversized shirt she had found at a Kyoto thrift store, hair tied badly behind her head, surrounded by whatever she had created the night before.

Ren would arrive.

Shoes off at the entrance.

Tea if Tanaka had made it.

Then the painting.

Ren never simply said good or bad.

That would have been easier.

Instead:

“This one is angry.”

Xiuying would glare at him.

“I’m not angry.”

“Then why does the tree look like you want to strangle it?”

Or:

“This one is homesick.”

“It’s a bowl.”

“It’s your grandfather’s bowl.”

“How do you know that?”

“You painted the crack three times.”

And, worst of all:

“This one is lying.”

Xiuying had nearly thrown a brush at him the first time he said that.

“Paintings cannot lie.”

“Artists can.”

“I worked six hours on this.”

“Then you lied for six hours.”

She hated him that morning.

Mostly because he was right.

Painting number four was Kiyomizu-dera.

It was beautiful.

Technically, perhaps the best thing she had painted since arriving in Kyoto.

Every line was controlled. Every proportion careful. The temple stood elegantly above the trees.

Ren studied it for nearly a minute.

Then:

“It’s a postcard.”

Xiuying stared at him.

“What?”

“A very expensive postcard.”

“I spent six hours on that.”

“I can tell.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“No.”

“It sounds like one.”

Ren crouched beside the painting.

“Where are you?”

She frowned.

“I’m sitting right here.”

“Not you.”

He pointed at the temple.

“Here.”

Xiuying crossed her arms.

“It’s Kiyomizu-dera.”

“I know what it is.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Ren looked at her.

“If another technically skilled painter visited Kyoto tomorrow, could they make this?”

Xiuying didn’t answer.

“Probably.”

Her jaw tightened.

Ren continued.

“Where is the woman who arrived from Chengdu with no brushes?”

Silence.

“Where is the woman whose fiancé stole her work?”

“Don’t.”

“Where is the woman who couldn’t make one stroke three nights ago?”

“Ren.”

“That’s the person I’m looking for.”

Xiuying stood.

“So you want everything I paint to be miserable?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“The truth.”

“You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

“I don’t think it’s easy.”

“You’re not the one painting.”

That stopped him.

Xiuying looked down at the temple.

Six hours.

Perfect lines.

Perfect composition.

Absolutely nothing of herself.

Her anger slowly changed direction.

Not toward Ren.

Toward the painting.

She reached down and picked it up.

Ren watched.

“What are you doing?”

Xiuying tore it in half.

Ren’s eyes widened.

Then she tore it again.

And again.

Pieces of perfect Kyoto fell onto the floor.

“You said my work belongs to me,” she said.

“It does.”

“So if anyone destroys it, it’s me.”

Ren nodded.

“Fair.”

“Also, I hate you.”

“Also fair.”

After he left, Xiuying cried.

Then she painted again.

No temples.

No careful perspective.

No pretty Kyoto.

She painted herself.

Or something resembling herself.

A face emerging from black ink, features blurred as though rain had washed them away.

One eye visible.

The other disappearing.

She hated it.

She almost destroyed that one too.

But she didn’t.

The next morning, Ren stared at it for five minutes.

Xiuying waited.

Finally, he said:

“Now we’re starting.”

She hated how much that sentence pleased her.

⸻

By day ten, ten paintings leaned against the studio wall.

Ten days.

Ten attempts.

Some beautiful.

Some ugly.

Some Xiuying never wanted another human being to see.

But they existed.

That was enough.

Then came day eleven.

Eight o’clock.

No Ren.

Xiuying continued mixing ink.

8:05.

She looked toward the gate.

Nothing.

8:12.

Still nothing.

At 8:20, she told herself she didn’t care.

At 8:31, she had checked her phone four times.

By 8:45, she was irritated.

Not worried.

Definitely not worried.

At 9:00, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Come to the address below.

Wear something nice.

Not the paint shirt.

—R

Xiuying stared at the message.

“Excuse me?”

Another message arrived.

An address.

Kikunoi.

Xiuying looked down at the oversized shirt.

Then typed:

There is nothing wrong with my shirt.

Three dots appeared.

There are three kinds of ink on it.

Four.

The dots returned.

Wear something nice.

Xiuying hated him.

She was beginning to notice how often that happened.

⸻

The restaurant made her nervous before she even entered.

Everything was quiet.

Controlled.

Beautiful.

A staff member guided her through a traditional interior toward a private room overlooking a garden.

Xiuying smoothed the skirt of her white dress.

The same dress she had worn when she first met Ren.

She wished she’d bought another one.

The door opened.

Ren was inside.

But he wasn’t alone.

Beside him sat a young Japanese woman wearing a red kimono.

Long black hair.

Perfect makeup.

Perfect posture.

The sort of person who looked as though she had never accidentally walked across tatami with ink on her feet.

The woman smiled.

Then Xiuying saw the man sitting across from her.

Her body stopped.

Jian.

For a moment, Kyoto disappeared.

She was back in Chengdu.

Jian’s studio.

Li Mei.

Her sketchbooks.

His seal.

Her stolen Tokyo exhibition.

Jian looked up.

The color disappeared from his face.

“Xiuying?”

She couldn’t answer.

Ren stood.

Xiuying looked at him.

He knew.

Immediately, she understood.

He had known Jian would be here.

“You knew.”

Ren’s expression changed.

“Sakura—”

“You knew he was here.”

The woman in red looked between them.

“Oh! You must be the artist.”

She stood and bowed politely.

“I’m Mika.”

Xiuying barely heard her.

Mika smiled.

“Jian told me you studied together in Chengdu.”

Xiuying slowly turned toward Jian.

“Studied together?”

Jian’s jaw tightened.

“Xiuying, not here.”

That sentence did it.

Not the restaurant.

Not Ren.

Not even Mika.

Jian telling her when and where she was allowed to speak.

Xiuying stepped into the room.

“Why?”

Jian glanced at Mika.

“Why what?”

“Why did you tell her I was your classmate?”

Mika’s smile disappeared.

Jian lowered his voice.

“This isn’t the place.”

“Interesting.”

Xiuying’s hands were shaking.

But her voice wasn’t.

“Because your studio was apparently the place to steal my paintings.”

Mika looked at Jian.

“What?”

Xiuying continued.

“And my Tokyo exhibition was apparently the place to put your name on them.”

“Xiuying.”

“And my apartment was apparently where I was supposed to sit quietly while you slept with my best friend.”

“Enough.”

“No.”

The word came easily.

Xiuying almost smiled.

“No. You don’t get to say enough anymore.”

The room fell silent.

Mika looked from Jian to Xiuying.

“Jian… what is she talking about?”

Jian didn’t answer.

Ren did.

“Last month, Jian exhibited work in Tokyo that is now under dispute regarding authorship.”

Xiuying glanced at him.

Not he stole it.

Not yet.

Ren had chosen his words carefully.

Mika hadn’t.

She turned to Jian.

“You told me those paintings were yours.”

“They are.”

Xiuying laughed.

Jian looked at her.

Something old passed between them.

Five years.

Arguments.

Promises.

Cheap dinners.

A silver engagement ring.

Gone.

Xiuying surprised herself by realizing she didn’t want any of it back.

She looked at Mika.

“I’m sorry.”

Mika blinked.

“For what?”

“For finding out this way.”

Then Xiuying looked at Jian.

“But I’m not sorry you found out.”

She turned toward the door.

Ren moved to follow.

Xiuying stopped him.

“No.”

He froze.

“I can walk out by myself.”

Something in his face changed.

Understanding.

He bowed slightly.

Xiuying left.

⸻

Ren found her outside beneath the covered corridor.

She wasn’t crying.

That worried him more.

Xiuying stared into the garden.

“You had no right.”

“I know.”

She turned.

That wasn’t the answer she expected.

“You knew Jian would be there.”

“Yes.”

“And you brought me without telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ren was silent for a moment.

“I thought if you saw him—”

“You thought.”

Xiuying’s voice sharpened.

“You decided.”

Ren said nothing.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready to face Jian.”

“I know that now.”

“No. You should have known it before.”

“You’re right.”

Xiuying stopped.

Ren didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t tell her he had done it for her own good.

Didn’t say she should be grateful.

He simply stood there and took the anger.

“I wanted you to see that he couldn’t control you anymore,” he said eventually. “I thought being there would make it easier.”

“It didn’t.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel like I was back in his studio.”

Ren’s face changed.

“I’m sorry.”

Xiuying looked away.

The garden blurred slightly.

She wiped her eyes before the tears could fall.

“I hate surprises.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She glared at him.

“Not the time.”

“Sorry.”

Silence settled between them.

Then Xiuying said:

“Painting number eleven.”

Ren waited.

“I’m calling it The Liar’s Engagement Party.”

A tiny smile appeared on his face.

“That is a terrible title.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“It’s your painting.”

“Exactly.”

She started walking.

Ren followed, keeping several steps between them.

At the end of the corridor, Xiuying stopped.

There was still one question.

“Why?”

Ren looked at her.

“Why what?”

“The residency.”

She turned fully toward him.

“The house. The hundred paintings. You finding me after two years.”

Her voice softened.

“Why me?”

Ren didn’t answer immediately.

For the first time since she had met him, he seemed unsure whether he wanted to speak at all.

Then:

“Two years ago was the worst period of my life.”

Xiuying remained silent.

“Someone I loved was gone. My family expected me to continue as though nothing had happened. The company was falling apart. Every morning felt exactly like the one before it.”

He looked toward the rain.

“I stopped caring what happened next.”

Xiuying’s anger faded.

Not completely.

But enough to listen.

“Then I went to Chengdu.”

“Why?”

“Business.”

A faint smile.

“I was supposed to attend meetings.”

“Instead you bought paintings?”

“One painting.”

Rain on Qingcheng Mountain.

Ren’s expression became distant.

“I saw it in that café.”

He paused.

“I stood there much longer than I intended.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“You remember?”

“You were strange.”

“I still am.”

“True.”

Ren looked at her.

“The painting didn’t fix anything.”

His voice was quiet.

“It didn’t suddenly make me happy. It didn’t solve my family or the company or anything else.”

Xiuying waited.

“But it made me feel something when I had spent a long time feeling almost nothing.”

He looked down.

“So I bought it.”

“For five thousand yuan.”

“You really need to stop reminding me how little I paid.”

Xiuying almost smiled.

Almost.

“I hung it in my study.”

Ren continued.

“And every morning I looked at it.”

“Why?”

“Because the rain looked sad.”

Xiuying frowned.

“That’s your explanation?”

“No.”

He met her eyes.

“It looked sad, and it kept falling anyway.”

Xiuying said nothing.

“Your painting became part of a period when I slowly started rebuilding my life.”

Ren exhaled.

“So when I learned what happened to your Tokyo exhibition…”

“You decided to rebuild mine?”

“I thought I could give you an opportunity.”

He paused.

“I’ve recently learned I have a problem with deciding things for other people.”

Xiuying raised an eyebrow.

“Recently?”

“Very recently.”

That finally made her laugh.

Small.

But real.

Ren looked relieved.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she said.

“I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“And you’re never doing something like this again.”

“I won’t.”

“If Jian appears unexpectedly at my house tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

“Reasonable.”

Xiuying began walking again.

This time Ren fell into step beside her.

Not touching.

Just there.

When they reached the street, Xiuying stopped.

“Ren?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for telling me.”

He nodded.

“But don’t ever say I saved you.”

Ren looked at her.

Xiuying continued.

“I made a painting. Whatever you did after seeing it—that was you.”

For several seconds, he didn’t speak.

Then he nodded.

“Fair.”

Xiuying looked toward Gion.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

Ren’s expression softened.

“Painting eleven?”

“Painting eleven.”

“Make it ugly.”

Xiuying started walking.

“I’ll make it honest.”

This time, Ren didn’t correct her.

And when they returned to the house in Gion, Xiuying went directly to the studio.

She placed a fresh sheet of paper on the table.

Eleven down.

Eighty-nine to go.

But for the first time since accepting Ren’s challenge, Xiuying understood something.

The hundred paintings weren’t only teaching her how to paint again.

They were teaching her how to say no.

END OF CHAPTER 4