Ch 43

People can only be young once—so Tonya spoke.

Tonya passed away in the beginning of 1978. In her will it instructed how she shall be burried. The mourning relatives hurried to her death bed and saw her lying in the casket like a slim young girl, with a long veil covering her face. People would almost think that it was a bride lying there if it wasn't the withered arms beneath the cuffs.

"I remember this dress." Natasha gently wiped away her tears with handkerchief. "Forty years ago when Andrei took her from the village, she was wearing this dress." Beside Natasha stood her niece Lyuba who was now over forty years old, "I want to bury mama beside papa…but nobody ever told us where papa was burried…" The relatives comforted each other and finally decided to bring Tonya back to her hometown Bereza, the place where her life and love began.

Beside his sister's, his parents' graves were immersed in deep grass. Professor Braginsky stood in front of the graves for a while, then headed toward the woods outside the village. The village itself had undergone tremendous changes; only the woods remained as it was in his memory, endearing and beautiful. But he let her down. Ever since the day he followed the troop reclaiming Bereza in 1941, he never set foot on the ground for the next several decades. Every inch of land and every single tree would remind him unceadingly that he had once been young and strong, passionate and happy.

One of many life's lessons: never revisit the land of happiness. But when a man had lived for almost sixty years and discovered that people his own age were passing away one after another, a sense of urgency toward life compeled him to do outrageous things like in his youthful years.

In this woods there was a place of bliss. He discovered it when he was still a little boy and, with a child's selfishness, kept it as a secret from everyone else. Later, in that starry night of 1941, in this blissful place, he protected himself and his beloved one inside his arms. Even to this day, he still remembered the pity and tenderness in his heart, the lovely body covered with wounds inside his arms, those cracked and swollen lips, and that face that was pale from the torture but rosey from shyness. Even though he had seen Wang Yao in his stronger and more handsome times, but whenever he recalled, his memory was filled with the look when Wang Yao was rescued from the gibet.

But now, this place hid another little boy. The boy threw a threatening glare at the professor and put his index finger in front of his lips—the professor understood right away. This freckled little genius was like little Vanechka, discovering this excellent spot as his own stronghold, and it would be very frustrating if this piece of information was revealed to other little friends. Suddenly, the little boy jumped out with a piece of tree branch in his waving hand, and after running away for some distance, started shouting in his tall and bright voice, "Ura—"

Young boys' cheering voices came from every corner of the woods, accompanied with running steps of many pairs of little boots. Boys of every generation played war games like this, just like himself when he was seven years old half a century ago, thinking that fighting in war was feat of romantic heroism and nothing more.

The professor left quietly. The land of bliss that was once only known to himself had now more witnesses than himself and his lover. Today, the freckled boy claimed it for himself just like how Vanechka once took fully advantage in his own fighting game. But that little boy would never know what kind of love once rooted here.

Because Vanechka grew up and went to the front so that this little boy didn't have to when he grew up.

In the Victory Day of 1980, Ivan shed tears in the Red Square. He didn't see the old mother who had been looking for her son year after year—and never had he ever after. "Be optimistic, Vanya!" comforted Anya, "Maybe she found her son so she doesn't need to come…" she cried too before finishing the sentence.

Anya was indeed very understanding. There was even once that she said, "Vanya, send a letter to China…"

And now, he could. If, during the first few years after the war, it was that he didn't want to contact Want Yao due to his own tangled mind from the nerve injury, then in the next decades, it was the tension between the two countries that blocked the possibility of reconnection. But now, as they entered into the eighties, relation with China was no longer hostile. The Chinese scientist's paper along with that significant name reappeared on the academy's biology journal. The professor quickly noticed this change because he had subscribed this journal, even though he couldn't understand a page.

The professor clenched the journal in his hand and comtemplated for long. He walked to the easel and lift the curtain that covered it. Over the years, he had created many distinguished paintings, but stubbornly refused to finish the one in front of him. "It's already very touching, even before it's finished." said students, colleagues and everyone who saw the painting. "If it could only have the eyes drawn…what a great work it would be…"

"Dragon is the freest of all. Who could've bound a dragon? It would fly away once it has eyes…"

Only he knew that the true artwork had flewn away with Wang Yao back to the faraway country of China years ago. The one before his eyes was merely a replica.

Artworks may be replicated. But the soul infused from his intricate emotions of death and birth, of farewell and reunion in that fateful night, like his own youth, would there never be a second copy.

He felt that Wang Yao's entire soul called out to him from this unfinished portrait, "How self-justifying, Vanya! Who told you that I was married and had children? Who told you that!"

"But we got to go on living, Yao…" He muttered to himself, "People could only be young once…"

In the youthful years, one lived bold and recklessly and was proned to the flame of love, as one believed that his time was inexhaustible. But middle age didn't need such temperament, save only restraint and toil. Ironically, when coming into the old age, the reckless and enamored temperament would awkwardly resurfaced in the inappropriate time, like an old house caught fire. Because then, he knew that there wasn't much time left.

As for the letter, Professor Braginsky didn't write it afterall. He quickly came to know from the biology journal that an important international academic convention would take place in Moscow State University. Among the lists of attendees, the name "Wang Yao" glaringly hurt his eyes. "I'm just going to look at him, from faraway." The professor justified to himself over and over, "What could two old guys possibly have anything to say…"

The last impression they left on each other's hearts were at the most handsome, passionate and powerful time of their life. If so, why bother meeting again? But the professor finally reconciled with himself, that people eventually got old, and if he couldn't face old age unperturbed, how could he reminisce and face his own past?

He went to Moscow State University alone. Anya went to Kursk with their children several days ago. She wanted to see the second lieutenant Volodya Kolosov. In her words, Volodya was a good guy and would never blame her for marrying someone else; but if she kept refraining from visiting him, he wouldn't feel too great in the afterlife…

As the Chinese biologist walked out of the car, it only took professor Braginsky one glance before he hurriedly left. Although he was already sixty and had poor nerves, but the eyes of a scout and a painter were dependable. He could tell from a glance that it was not how Wang Yao could look when he aged.

In other words, the name that appeared along with published papers on the Soviet journal since the fifties as well as the mailing address that had occupied his mind for decades were only corresponding to another person. He should have thought of it, since Wang Yao told him that there were millions of people with the last name "Wang" in China and quite a few by the whole name "Wang Yao" as well.

He walked faster and faster, not able to slow down his steps. When he arrived home which was located at the art academy, he was already too exhausted to care. Next day, their children accompanied Anya home. The old lady's mouth surrounded with wrinkles stretched a sad smile, and so, he understood. Anya probably had found Volodya in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. His wife was more fortunate that him.

Several months later in her last hours, Anya gripped Ivan's hand in all her strength and murmured,

"Vanya, forgive me! I can't forget Volodya…"

And he lay his head to her ears covered by white hair,

"I understand you very much, Anya. We're the same generation…"