THE PASSING WIND

-TheSilentReader-

I looked at The Passing Wind.

The lazy ocre yellow lights could not even illuminate the grandeur of the erratic strokes of different shades of gold brushed to the canvas. It was an unparalleled panoramic view of the sky—different from the usual joyful hues of blue during summer midday, or from the smears of red, orange, yellow, and blue during sunsets. It was the sky of death, expressed ironically of the lively color of yellow, tinted with gray and black, as if a huge amount of toxic smoke devoured the blue sky and enveloped it with heat, fire, and decay. Amidst of the environment was a naked woman being swept away by the noxious wind, her arms flailing, her feet disintegrating into ashes as she welcoming it. Her face had a bright, satisfied smile and her eyes halfway closed—a woman hungry for freedom. I felt that way whenever I stared at the painting. But this was the only third time I examined it with hungry eyes.

Pouring myself a drink, I looked at the painting again, and motioned a salute. For having it with me for the night.

The first time that I saw, it was in that same old wall where it was originally displayed. It was natural that I'd go there from time to time, since some of my purchased paintings were being loaned by the gallery. That was three years ago of summer 1997, the year she debuted, gathering the art spectators all over Musashino. She was recommended by Satou Sei-sama, to display her paintings in the public gallery where the latter was working. At first, only Masashino citizens were present in the first days of the exhibition, I heard, but after weeks of display, her works were garnering people from different parts of Tokyo, then of Japan, then of the globe.

I was with the international circle, and the moment I saw it, I could not take my eyes from the woman, amidst of the people rushing, bumping amongst each other. It was the best course not to look again—it reminded me of the past that took me a considerable amount of time to overcome. Yet, I felt compelled, that somehow my feelings were in harmony with it.

I wished to own it, but I did not have the power to acquire it. It was also firmly stated by her representative that nothing that Yumi made and would make would ever be sold to anyone. Either it would be displayed in a public museum, or it would be kept in Yumi's basement. If the worst circumstances happened, everything will be owned by his brother, on condition that he will maintain its display in public.

Sad, indeed. If I let her know that I want to keep it, surely, would she reconsider her decisions?

Years later, I was still trying to forget about it. I made myself more important and powerful. Somehow, in the middle of marveling my deeds and becoming bored at my achievements, I remembered that painting. I remembered the intimate marvel of being into the mind, heart, and soul of the painter.

Then, it dawned to me: why not keep it for myself? I am optimistic that she would understand.

CHAPTER 2

"Go back. Again please," Shimazu Yoshino ordered as she stared at the large-screened monitor of the security room of the museum. In her dark green powersuit, she was scoffing in impatience as she inspect—over and over—seven cameras that should have been monitoring the security of the painting, and everyone that went in and out of the east wing of the gallery. As usual, the videos were showing that the wing was jam-packed with people: foreigners, students, civilians, curators. It seemed that nothing was wrong, except the feeling in her gut that something was missing. She inspected every pixel. Nothing was wrong.

When the uniformed employee of the gallery ran the video again, she watched intently. She held on to a green sludge of a drink (Yuuki-san paled in disgust as she gulped), and with her other hand she moved a long tress of black hair from her chest to her back. Still nothing.

Why the hell the security did not notice the discrepancies? The video was cut the two minutes before the fire alarm, and according to them, the video was fine that when the alarm went of, they could see from the screen that the people were evacuating away from the east wing because the sprinklers were enabled.

Then the screen showed people being pushed by security outside, and when sprinklers and barricades were activated, they ran out of the room. Thus, artificial raining began. Metal plates unfolded like fans and covered the paintings.

Then, the screen showed static.

At the site itself, the barricade, which shut the wing from the rest of the gallery, was not fully closed because it was stopped by a briefcase containing a thick titanium alloy. It was situated at one corner of the doorway, just below where the barricade would fall down. It was able to sustain the barricade's weight, thus enabling anyone to penetrate the wing by doing a planking position. Water sprinklers and metal plates were enabled because of teargases found inside the wing.

It was still unknown on how the painting was whisked from the wall with metal plates protecting it. How the security cameras were invaded was still being figured out by the logistics, but they found a small mechanism known as a "spider" attach to the main conduit. It was also the reason why they thought they were seeing a different feed from the screen.

Those who pretended to be security personnels of the museum must have been staged to be there. They succeeded in drawing the attention of the police only to them. But the question was: did they know that they were being set-up?

The suspects were now in the interrogation room. They (five of them) pretended to be uniformed sentinels of the gallery, and of a Southeast Asian descent, however, only one of them knew Japanese. Civilians obeyed them to leave the premises of the east wing because firstly, they blended among the Japanese crowd, and secondly, they donned the uniforms of the gallery employees.

"How was it?" Fukuzawa Yuuki inquireed the moment he went inside the room.

"They're really good."

"I hear annoyance amidst the praise." Yuuki deadpanned as he tried not to look at Yoshino's large cup.

Yoshino noticed his discomfort immediately, "Wanna try?" It was strongly rejected. "Well, how were the suspects?"

"The bastards could not understand a single shit of Japanese . . . I mean, ounce of Japanese." Yuuki tried to filter the cuss word out of his vocabulary, but Yoshino seemed not to mind the sudden usage of expletive. It was quite unfair for the woman (he scolded himself) that he was having stereotypical view of what a Lillian graduate was.

(Take his older sister for example.)

The apology was overlooked by the insurance agent. "You did not change the word 'bastard' though."

While Yuuki was standing in front of the stacks of monitors, extensive keyboards and elaborate mouse, Yoshino helped herself into a cushoned computer chair and crossed her legs. Several hours after the painting was missing, when suddenly, Yoshino had been parading herself into the crime scene, tapping her feet against the marbled floor, and telling everyone that she was allowed to be here. The insurance agent was hired by the museum. "It hurt me that Yumi would entrust finding her painting to you, and not to the police."

Shimazu snapped at him, that the contents of her cup almost poured to the keyboards. "Look it, porcupine-head, I was never hired by Yumi-san. Satou Sei-sama got me here to investigate. It's for the gallery's insurance. The funny thing was that even though Yumi was pissed off, whenever her stuff is stolen she never asked for legit help. Blame Sei-sama, not me. It's not just about the five percent. Got it?"

Yuuki remained silent.

"Let me handle them." Yoshino gulped the last bits of her green drink.

"Do you even know their language?"

"South-east, right? No, but I'll call someone for help." Yoshino reached out for her phone in the side-pocket of her slacks and furiously punched her thumb against the buttons. "I can't believe I'm asking her."

"Who?"

"Chisato-san. She knows these things." Yoshino put the phone on her ear and waited for Chisato to answer. Yuuki focused more on the mutliple screens in front of him while Yoshino changed the tone from the cheeky, dominating voice to a silent, calm one. The cop was making one of the computer guys to scan the videos once again for his inspection; Yuuki gained a small complaint from him, yet he followed Yuuki's instructions.

". . . yes, I just . . . no, Chisato-san, I don't know . . . Of course, your efforts will be highly acknowleged by authorities. Goodbye, then." She put her phone back at her pocket.

Yoshino sighed. "I'm still new to the business, but Sei-sama hired me even though my seniors were better and more used to this. Really, it's not just about the money."

"I can see that."

Yuuki understood, because Sei-san and Yumi were very close. He had known Yumi's superior in an accidental meeting, years ago, when Yuuki barged inside Yumi's house because of worry (She was not answering his calls). Apparently, he didn't like what he saw; Yumi sleeping on Sei-san's lap, had dried tears upon her cheeks. It had been the time after Yumi went back from Kyoto. No one, not even Touko, knew her whereabouts.

(A lost soul could also find another lost soul.) Sei was the only one who could do it.

Yoshino looked at her watch; she's cutting too much hours that was alloted for her free time. She had a strict eight-hour working time, yet today she extended it for more than six. Maybe she wanted to get this case to be done soon; she did not want to see a moody Yumi parading into the building, unconsciously pestering her brother about it. Yoshino wanted to talk to her just like friends, not because she was part of the investigation. When Yumi saw her fumbling along the security cameras, she immediately deduced that Yoshino was sent to investigate by Sei-sama.

It felt like as if she needed to be acquainted with her all over again.

The painter had improved her acting abilities a little. When they saw each other for the first time, Yoshino noticed a slightly bright color upon her features, but she immediately smirked and pretended as if Yoshino were her co-worker—she just raised her hand to say Hi.

When they talked for the first time that day, Yoshino had begun to watch her words closely because at some point in the conversation, Yumi would look at her with a raised eyebrow and would tartly reply, "Is that so?" Then, she realized that she said something illogical or stupid.

(She argued that she was trying to lighten the mood.)

But one thing did not change: it was her transparency. When she's angry at the moment, she will show it. If she's amused, she'd smirk. If she felt like taunting others (Yoshino noticed it whenever Yumi did), then she won't hesitate. That would make Yumi so full of herself, but when was the time Yumi had been like that?

It was a breath of fresh air, a new perspective for Yoshino, a new thing to ponder on. But, she wanted to point out her that she preferred what Yumi used to be. That kind and gentle wind.

Yoshino knew what happened to her. They all knew, yet when they tried to breach their gaps, and reach out to her, she would retaliate. All she said was "Leave me alone." gravely that they could not retort. She never said that line before.

Since then, she used it all the time.

Time passed, priorities had changed. Soon, they have forgotten.

Yoshino checked her things in her makeshift office at the police station where Yuuki was working. She just loved how she could manipulate things by just batting eyes. The deed was not deliberate, not thoroughly flaunting, but she knew she wanted to control things during her investigation. When she was going out, she saw Yuuki getting his jacket from the backrest of his chair. They were the last ones in the floor. Janitors were now routing upon corridors and workstations.

"Hey, Yuuki-san."

"Yoshino-san."

Yoshino noticed his cleanly pressed white shirt. Working more than fifteen hours would inevitably wrinkle any good clothing. "You changed your suit and tie. Going on a date?"

Yuuki scratched the back of his head. A little blush escaped upon his cheeks. "Yeah."

"Of course."

Then she began to head to the elevator. Yuuki followed, and the former guessed that this must be the time to ask this: "Is Yumi home by now?"

Yuuki went limp, "I don't know. But the best thing to do, if you want to talk with her, is to get her out of the gallery."

"She's been working at this late of night?"

"I think so. I check on her sometimes. Touko and I need assurance that she won't be killing herself at work." When the elevator doors were closed, Yuuki immediately pressed a button for the parking area.

"Have you talked to Sachiko-sama or Touko-chan about this?" Yoshino asked nervously. She felt her saliva thicker than before.

"No. I don't have to. They probably saw it in the news hours ago. But Touko isn't calling me yet. She's still tired from her exams, and I don't know when to drop the bomb in the date. Anytime she can explode."

The elevator doors opened, they walked to their cars, which were parked together.

"Better call and tell her now."

"I think you're right."

"Of course I am. The earliest and immediate time is the best time for everything. Put your feet in women's shoes sometimes. Goodnight." Yoshino bid a farewell speech, and opened the door of her car.

When she was inside, she knew the first place she would visit for the night. The museum might be closed for reception, but her badge and occupation would make it otherwise.

She was almost asleep.

Yumi heard three knocks upon her door. She immediately knew that it was not some employee of the museum—they don't knock on her door. They usually leave it alone. Sei was the only person who would break an unspoken rule, and she once admitted that she did it for entertainment purposes. Apparently, Sei's level of annoying had taken higher strata; she was not anymore dealing with a gullible Yumi. Despite of her first theory, she noticed that the intensity of those three knocks was not as violent as Sei would want it; it was uniformed, refine and quick. Second theory: it must be her boss. She sighed again, what now?

But then, the boss should have opened the door right away. The knocker waited for Yumi's reply. It's not him. She was supposed to be knocking his door. Not otherwise.

"Leave me alone."

A voice emanated through the door. "No. I will barge in, no matter what you say."

(Ah.) "Then do it now, Yoshino." Yumi lazily said.

After the door opened slightly, Yoshino's head appeared. "Are you packing up?"

"No, I'm busy."

Yoshino walked inside, setting a beeline to Yumi and her couch through the horrible mess of her workshop. Yumi wore a straight-cut jeans almost faded with time and paint. Her top was just a sleeveless shirt, also had been abused by paint and time. She tried not to step onto something. Yumi was on her couch; her feet crossed and rested on the arm, while her head was hanging at the other. "You're sleeping." Yoshino said sarcastically.

Yumi did not bother to remove herself from the couch. "Yeah, I am. And that's work too. Have you ever had insomnia? Getting me to sleep is work."

"My god, Yumi, you are a mess. Come on, I'll take you home. We'll talk on the way."

"Talk? Who said anything about talking? Yoshino, let me sleep."

That made Yoshino summoned guts to be more stubborn than normal. She put both her hands in Yumi's armpits and raised her up as if she were a small child. Yumi, however, was surprised with Yoshino's strength that she just realized that she was already by the door, with Yoshino pulling her by the arm. "You will go home. Take a bath. You reek of paint. Your clothes reek of paint. Take a rest there. It's an order."

"Whoa, Yoshino, you still have your spunk after all these years. You can't just order me around, yet you act like you're responsible for my food." She let herself be hauled away from her workshop. They were now in her office, and Yoshino kept on dragging her while getting Yumi's bag and black jacket on the way.

Yumi wondered, "How the hell do you know the things to get?"

"I'm so happy I found you quite dense right now. I'm essentially a detective, Yumi."

When they reached the parking lot, Yumi removed her arm from Yoshino's grip and got her keys in her bag. She tossed it back to Yoshino. Then, Yumi went to the other side of the parking lot, not minding the detective, who was about to get her keys on her pocket, too.

Yoshino, however, knew that Yumi would not follow her to the car, and she anticipated it. The counter-attack was easy; she would get hold of Yumi's arm again. She opened the door of her car to settle Yumi's things at the passenger's seat when she saw a bright yellowish light, lighting her back. When she was about to turn, she heard an angry yet smooth grumble of a motorcycle.

(Black helmet, black motorcycle, black jacket.)

Yumi tossed another helmet to Yoshino.

"Is this your ride?" Yoshino was not expecting that from Yumi.

Yoshino could feel the smirk inside the helmet. Yumi slid the tinted face protector upward. "Naaah. That would be un-Yumi-like." Yumi said nonchalantly.

Yoshino inspected the motor. She could not help but touch the cushoned, black-leathered seat. "Are we really . . . ?"

Yumi scowled. She seemed to misunderstand Yoshino's words that she spat immediately, "I'm not drunk, Yoshino. I just can't sleep. Get our things from your car. We'll ride on this baby."

"Why not my car?"

"Yoshino-chan," Yumi deliberately imitated Eriko-sama, knowing Yoshino's buttons, "I simply will not allow myself in your car. Surely, that will be too imposing on you." Yumi flashed a smile.

"You really try so hard for me to get rid of you tonight, don't you?" Yoshino annoyingly answered back.

"I thought you notice!"

"That is enough, Yumi! Mind your manners." She copied Sachiko-sama, much to the biker's surprise. Then the latter erased her smile from her face and replaced it with a firm frown. She turned her eyes into slits. Yoshino retreated, noticing that she just stepped on a large landmine. She surrendered, walked near to the bike, and placed her hand upon Yumi's arm. "Sorry, I was too competitive in winning this stupid tug-of-war. Please, I want to talk to you, after all this time. You haven't contacted anyone ever since you came back from Kyoto. Not even me, your best friend. And that was years ago. I really missed you, you know."

Yumi looked downward at Yoshino, trying not to laugh at the sudden display of tenderness. She grinned. "Get our bags. We'll take out Chinese—whatever you like, and get drunk in sake. My treat."

Yoshino beamed and quickly headed to her car.

(You can be by yourself for just a night, can't you?)

When she came back, put on the helmet, and settled herself at Yumi's back, she said, "You do this to everyone who bothers you? I mean, do you drink all the time?"

"I can handle it. I may sound angry, but I don't drink much. But I want to be, right now. I lost a painting, didn't I? It's natural to get drunk today." She knocked in place the piston with her shoe, and twisted the hand knob. The engine growled loudly.

"You won't ditch this chance, right? It's a very rare offer. You won't get inside my house without promising me sake." Yumi stated as she let the bike run.

Yoshino moved her arms tighter upon Yumi's abdomen. "You're nuts."

She was not a regular housewife. She firmly rejected that kind of role the moment she agreed to marry him. Although her grandfather had opposed strongly this kind of demand from her, he understood that he had to concede. Better to have her liberty for her obedience. She never bargained this fiercely with him and her grandfather, and to choke her temper would never close any conversation.

She was not at the kitchen; she was sitting comfortably inside a limousine that she and her husband use for office travel. Yes, they were co-workers under the direction of her father. They were in the same office building owned by the Ogasawara Zaibatsu; they walk upon the same halls, ride the same elevators and sat on adjacent chairs upon every executive meeting. The times when she was not with him were during office hours, having separate offices. She insisted that she wanted to direct the public relations department, not to get too much exposure from him.

She admired him. He was kind. He was not limiting. He let her to do whatever she wanted, not just be concerned with domestic issues. When she demanded that she wanted to work in the company, he supported her. He was very understanding. He knew how to handle her, not letting her get too astray. He was never cruel. He was honorable. He vowed not to betray her trust. And thus far, he did not cross the line, unlike her father and grandfather had done to their wives.

She accepted him, but she would not be surprised if he proved himself wrong.

The trust that she had for men was close to nil, and until now, she was looking for an avenue not to open herself to other opinions. Her husband, however, was very tricky. She trusted him, but not enough to open herself wholly to him. Not even in their most intimate moments that she lost herself to the notion of showing vulnerability.

He honestly told her that he'll always try. He would make her love him.

All these years, many were the moments that she witnessed him being angry of her cold treatment, but as time went by, she let herself warm up to him. To be the wife that she should be. Her husband's response was immediate; he was happy of her wife suddenly opening up. Soon, it became a norm for her.

Her life was machinery full of routine. She was not maltreated, never downgraded, never discriminated.

Yet, she doesn't deserve her husband.

"Are you alright, Sachiko?"

"Yes. Please rest. Do not worry about me." She said.

When they went back to the Touma mansion, it was already late when she let her husband settled upon their bed. Both were too tired from office work. She then set the alarm and lied down.

Yet, for an hour she was unable to get sleep, even with evident fatigue. She got a book, yet all she gained from reading was the interest to finish it.

(That would be quite bothersome, considering that she wanted to sleep.)

Therefore, she picked another method. Television. News. A good way to lull herself.

She picked the remote control and turned the TV on.

She chose a news channel. She conditioned herself to be disinterested (she was trying to sleep), letting the sound of the news anchor's voice hung upon the air like a lullaby. She was on the verge of slumber when the anchor's voice mentioned a name she knew too well.

Fukuzawa Yumi.

The Passing Wind.

Her eyes suddenly stung with moisture, her throat and nose suddenly blocked. Her hands covered her mouth, to curb a gasp. She raised the volume of the television. Beside her, her husband grunted.

"I'm so sorry . . . ."

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter! Still, please address whatever confusion you had after reading the second chap.

I know that every player in the story was analyzing Yumi's character all over again (particularly Yoshino), but that's her point of view of Yumi after few years of no correspondence. Her analysis may be right or wrong. They are already adults and they were focused on their own lives, their individual work. They might sound unconcerned with the separation—but that was not entirely the case.