THE PASSING WIND

-TheSilentReader-

I remembered the one of the days that my mother came with me to preparatory school. It was also the first time that we would be separated from each other. We did not travel with the family car; we commuted. My father was so furious that he scolded her grittily, and without remorse. I was watching his rage that I felt sick. It was also the first time that I rode in a mode of transportation where all people from all walks of life meet. I remember her bringing me to the females-only area of the train. But before that, she held me tightly, as if more afraid of the rest of the open world as the cramped compartment of that part of the train.

With her holding me tightly by the hands, I felt vulnerable and dependent of her.

Most people who would have known this might think that I had some a strange case of complex for my mother that I could not get away behind her skirt. The truth was that, it was the first time that I felt dependent. It was also the time that I felt that my existence had been important to someone. I felt her sentiment—that she needed me too, that even though I happened to be a mistake of the past, she did not abandon me. I was not what my father expected. But she had been there, no matter the circumstances.

She was the only person holding my hand. Only she had been there always. For me, I knew that I'm alive because of her.

She was taken away from me—she was gone.

Then I saw the painting. How very interesting that I remember vividly that piece of memory the moment I saw it.

CHAPTER 5:

Yumi locked the door of her office that night; few days after Touma Sachiko visited her. Upon her one arm were her black leather jacket and her backpack full of art supplies, while at the other were her set of keys of the gallery. She had full access to her workplace, since she was among several young artists who have been staying for allnighters ever since she was hired to do commissions there.

It was already an hour after the dead midnight. She had walked the same path to the parking lot, where her motorcycle had been parked. She got her helmet from a locker at one of the security guard's posts and proceeded to her ride. All the while, all she thought of was the woman that left the museum few days ago, harboring a bitter farewell from Yumi's incorrigible mouth.

She thought that she already had forgotten everything that happened between them, but as time passed by with her former Onee-sama, she felt like her x-acto was beginning to slice the thin lining of her indifference surrounding her heart, just to expose it to bleed and gush out in deluge. She thought she was beginning to win her own battle against Touma Sachiko, but as she remembered what she had said to the heiress, she began to loose her composure.

She kicked, and motioned for the security to open the gates for her to pass. Once her way was cleared, her motorcycle began to roar like a wounded lion.

The painter hated herself that she was defeated at the sight of her once lover. Her mind was clouded with thoughts of Sachiko during their college years, a vibrant woman who had made her forget the rest of the world, and the woman who had been her muse. Before and after everything happened.

She was her muse when Yumi was drowning in the pit of love, savoring the taste of contentment. She was her muse when Yumi was tearing her heart out because of rejection and depreciation. She was the reason she wanted to leave for Kyoto. She was the reason the painter had been successful since the start of her career. Every movement of her brushes, every stroke, and its corresponding message was substantially dedicated for her to move on.

Yumi knew about this fact. She used her anger as a stepping-stone for her career. But even though she said those words to here with overflowing arrogance, she felt her heart implode whenever she remembered.

Lying bitches such as you killed her.

She felt as if she was saying this to herself.

(Bitch please . . .)

She repeatedly was saying that she needed not to change. She told herself a million times. But as she met new people, she was not sure when to open up. Her heart was fixed not to trust anyone easily. It was less complicated and more secured. Her distrust surfaced upon her like a natural skin.

But not Sachiko, who had known her when she used to be transparent and gullible.

She never realized that she was already near her apartment when she decided to drink herself to stupor. She grunted as she stepped on the clutch of her bike. She settled that it was best to try to sleep in the comforts of her bed than to get drunk and find herself dozing off at a table of a bar.

She opened the door and found her apartment flashing out the definition of a traditional Japanese-style room. She deposited her paint-covered shoes, placed them neatly at the genkan, and replaced them with uwabaki slippers. As she looked upon her apartment, she thought that she was having a crisis of her etiquette and hygiene. The first impression of anyone that came to her office was that she was a boor, having such a scatter that even a normal Japanese slacker could not fathom, but at home, she was different.

Everything was considered clean and arranged.

She scowled at her inconsistency.

Then, she looked back at the genkan, finding a pair of brown boots nestling at the opposite corner of the entrance foyer. She sighed and grinned. Why did she not see it before?

Sei.

Six years ago

Clad in a black jacket, simple button-down shirt and khakis, Yumi cast her eyes at the little lake at the Ginkaku-ji, or the "Temple of the Silver Pavilion," as she walked through its hallways. It is one of her occasional visits at the Shintoist and Buddhist temples during the length of her stay here in Kyoto, for her undergraduate thesis, which was a separate project from senior-level exhibition. She had been busy ever since her third year at university; therefore, her time here inside a very well known Buddhist landmark in Kyoto was a break from work. Although this destination was frequently visited because of research (and to spark inspiration for her exhibit), she was very much convinced this small tour would unwind herself. Just to see the pavilion and its nearby gardens was enough. She was a simple woman, after all, who appreciates simple pleasures such as this. Why not enjoy the peace and quiet here, which happened once in a blue moon? There were so many tourists loitering about the property before that sometimes she could not handle the crowd. She thanked the Buddhist priests for allowing her inside (even in restricted areas) on an unofficial visit.

She strolled along the garden surrounding the Ginkaku-ji and was tempted to stay there all afternoon. The university art student sat beside a tree, after placing a large handkerchief to the ground to protect her bottom from the slightly wet grass bed. She appreciated the narrow trees lining the garden and grateful of its slightly thin shade. The rays of the sun had been gentle these days that she thanked her heart for deciding that she should take a break from academics and work.

She pulled out the restraint of her ponytail to let her head rest comfortably at the trunk of the tree.

She felt as if that for the first time after she left for Kyoto that she was truly at peace. (Then, she remembered that she have to get some souvenir for her sensei when she go back.)

Her eyes began to feel the heat of the sun, the rays inducing her eyes to close. She felt her whole body relax as she leaned her head to the trunk of the tree. For a few moments she dozed off, unaware of her surroundings. She trusted the place to protect her.

When she woke up, her vision was blurry, but she could see a short blond hair and luminous gray eyes gawking at her. For a moment she hesitated to speak, but with her head a little unfocused, she squealed. Then, she blurted out the first thing—no, person that she had in mind, "S—Sei-sama?"

Indeed, Yumi was right at her assumption; it was Sei, whose face was almost touching Yumi's, as if she was about to kiss a sleeping princess from her slumber. "Too bad, you woke up before I could smooch you to death." Sei said in an undertone.

"Huh?" Still, Yumi's brainpower was still loading. "What are you doing here, Sei-sama?"

For a moment, Sei looked at the view of the temple before her. She said in a more displaced manner, "Whenever I go so far away a place, you never fail to meet me along the way."

Yumi tried to decipher Sei's words but, "Sempai, I don't think I understand what you said."

"It doesn't matter. What matter's that I could keep you for myself today, without anyone distracting us." Sei grinned impishly. "I am here in Kyoto for business, but then my work has been finished earlier than I expected. So, here I am, marveling the silver overlay of the pavilion, with you on my side. I just happened to bump on you. Is my explanation good enough?"

"Accidental meetings such as this really do happen, huh." Yumi mumbled to herself.

They spent the whole afternoon in the garden, just catching up with each other; Yumi asked about Sei's work, while the latter inquired about the progress of Yumi's thesis. Even though Yumi's welcome for Sei was quite bland and uneventful (she did not shout in jubilation as she saw the former Rosa Gigantea), they have not seen each other for a long time. Right after Sei graduated from Lillian University, she just vanished from everyone's radar. It was even surprising that Yumi found her inside the country, more specifically in Kyoto; everyone expected her to run about different continents . . . which was quite Sei-like.

"I always thought you were out of the country." Yumi said.

"I've been in Japan all this time. Little trips here and there, but I always came back. It's just that, I'm not really good at keeping tabs with people. How about you, do you still keep in touch with friends? How's Sachiko? She'll be graduating this academic year, right?"

That made Yumi froze.

"Yumi, what's wrong?"

"Onee-sama . . . I haven't heard from Onee-sama ever since I went here." She muttered in a broken voice.

"I see."

Yumi invited her to her little apartment, a small six-tatami mat room at an annex house of a ryokan, wherein the owner was a close friend of her father. They took out food from the ryokan's kitchen, and inside the room, they drenched themselves with sake. Sei was becoming wary of Yumi's actions before they went out of the pavilion; she had a very good idea of the reason of Yumi's distress.

Over a nearly empty a large bottle of sake, she asked Yumi, "Are you and Sachiko-chan in good terms?"

Yumi, who was flustered deep red because of the drink, looked at her senior, trying to brush off her uneasiness. She tried to laugh, struggling to convince herself and the woman in front of her. "Yes . . . yes, we are."

"Well—"

Sei's words were interrupted. Then, she found her face doused in tears. "We . . . were. We barely see each other since Christmas Eve. Do you know that we broke up?" Yumi was surprised that she revealed that information. No one should know. But she could not hide anything from Sei. She laughed at her stupidity. "She . . . she broke up with me. I was to be transferred here for the third trimester, and before I could tell her that I have accepted, she broke up with me."

"I'm sorry . . . you and Sachiko . . .?"

She raised both her hands trying to clear out her words, "No one was supposed to know it! No one. We would have told them . . ."

Then, Sei began to interrupt by holding both Yumi's shoulders to quiet her down. Yumi stopped shortly, looking at the senior in confusion. Sei's eyes were very deadly serious, her brows almost meeting, her eyes like slits, her mouth upside down. "Listen to me, Yumi. Listen very carefully: have you received an invitation from Sachiko?"

Yumi became more confused. "No, I haven't."

"Did your family ever have an invitation from her?"

"Not that I know of . . . if there was one, then Yuuki should have forwarded it to me."

Sei gulped and reached for the younger girl's back abruptly, and embraced her fiercely. She felt Sei's hand on her head, forcing her to lay it on her shoulders. She tried to buckle, but the blonde did not allow her. "Yumi . . . I'm afraid of letting you know this. She sent me an invitation for a wedding. She's going to be married on April."

Yumi's heart began to ache, as if a major vessel just exploded. Her breathing became snappy. "No—no way. No, that . . . that can't be true."

Sei's squeeze became more asphyxiating. Yumi began to cry, "It's all coming to me . . . she did . . . she betrayed me."

She cried violently for a long time; Sei just held her in her arms, trying to console and to comfort her, without saying a word. It was so difficult not to react on Yumi's dejection because she knew nothing of their relationship. If ever they were together for a long time, Sei did not notice it during her stay at Lillian U. When Yumi calmed down, Sei put her hands at the sides of her face. She looked at Yumi's puffed and reddened eyes, her flushed cheeks and nose, the corners of her mouth wet with mixed saliva and tears. Sei reached her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped Yumi's cheeks. Later, she gave it to her, who emptied her clogged nose with it.

Drunk and miserable, Yumi looked at Sei. She tried to kiss her sempai, thus planting her red lips to Sei's pale ones. The former White Rose was surprised that she could not even move; her mind was screaming in objection to Yumi's sudden boldness. She withdrew her lips from her kouhai, yet, Yumi still attacked, pushing her down against the tatami mat.

Even without wailing, Yumi's tears still flowed freely from her eyes; large, salty drops splattering on Sei's cheeks and lips.

It happened while the sliding door of her six-tatami mat room slammed open. It revealed a very weary Yuuki, who was holding a red envelope on his right hand and still wearing his travel jacket.

He was obviously exhausted from running.

Present Day

"Ouch, godda—"

"Please, not in front of the table." Yumi absently drawled.

"Yeah, right."

Sei hurt her finger as she tried to unlid the pot containing hot ramen. They were just starting to eat late dinner, and found Sei wasting all her food reserves upon her refrigerator. Including the vodka that was supposedly carefully hidden somewhere in the house. Sei being near to one bottle would not be better for the both of them; therefore, Yumi herself put away the liquor just to prevent Sei from taking advantage of her.

Of Yumi's place, of course. She knew that Yumi would definitely take care of her even though she was vomiting all over the tatami mat. But the senior had a different reason why she barged into her home without permission and warning—it was to inform Yumi of her new commission.

"Itadakimasu." The both declared.

"What's new?"

Sei was trying to act all cool, but she could not help but to relinquish her superiority over Yumi. She had allowed the junior to be almost as equal as her, but ever since it was stolen, Yumi acted worse than before—she was not that anxious in finding that painting. Sei then tried, "You seem to be not that problematic about your lost stuff."

Sei noticed that Yumi kept on picking on a certain vegetable from the steaming pot. She said gloomily, "That would be incorrect."

"I'm sorry." She knew that the painter had suddenly crumbled her defenses for Sei. "You know that you don't have to be all bitchy around me. I'm harmless."

Her little painter sufficed a small smile. Sei could sense that Yumi was not only worried of the painting, but also for Touma Sachiko that had visited her a few days ago. It was very satirical that after the painting was stolen, Sachiko appeared in their lives once more. Sei had a very good idea of the reason the painting was realized into canvas and paint—it was a proof of Yumi's struggle. It was some sort of a charm—a warning for her not to be trapped to the same pit again.

"Well, I have something that you might be interested." Sei said as she chewed beef.

"New commission?" Yumi replied lazily.

"A bigger commission. It requires time and effort. Particularly effort. You'd know the details later and the paintings to restore. But for starters, you know, Kashiwagi Suguru went to the boss looking for someone to restore Nihonga paintings for him. All I know is that he owns some of the treasured paintings of the pre-war and post-war. Exciting, isn't it?"

Yumi was now playing with her food at her plate. "That man?"

"You've met him, right?"

It was more like Sei had been interrupting her daydreams. Yumi replied in a more detached manner. "Yeah. But only brief, the same day Sachiko had visited me."

Sei almost broke her chopsticks as she heard the name from Yumi's mouth. Then, she found Yumi getting contents from the pot much more than before. As she played with them, she said breathlessly, trying to laugh despite herself, "It's suddenly coming into me—the loss of it—I'm afraid that I will not see it again. You convinced me to at least loan it to the gallery, and now, it's gone."

Detective Fukuzawa Yuuki was shuffling along the list of bidders at every auction the gallery had been organizing ever since her sister's debut. He tried to removed bidders who were only interested in western painting—the impressionism, post-impressionism, minimalism, pop-art, cubism, etcetera. He was only interested in modern Nihonga. It seemed that several bidders were mostly foreigners.

He reviewed her sister's profile—she just had two exhibitions in the same gallery since she left the university, until three years ago, when she changed her medium. Ever since all she did was to restore paintings of various media and from different visual art movements. Three years of big commissions for restoration. Usually signed the prints of her paintings for avid fans and collectors, and their prices reached over 500 thousand yen. The gallery where she worked is a non art-target one. Somehow, she never was poor.

Nothing was to be extracted from the Southeast Asian suspects who were still inside the confines of the police department of Musashino. According to Shimazu-san, they intended to steal different artworks in that wing. But the testimonies were not that simple, neither fully consistent. But there were things that were the same for all statements: the one who stole the painting was not one of them. They were paid to steal, and were given very precise directions about the heist—the clockworks, gadgets, utility, logistics—everything.

Somewhere now, a troubled mastermind, who ordered these men, had been very displeased of the failure. Based from the investigation, there were two custom-made smoke bombs and an attache case having titanium alloy blocks at the crime scene—therefore, this guy, whoever he might be, was double-crossed by someone else who knew his plans. He took advantage of the men's failure to deliver, and took a painting. But then, was he just waiting for them to fail? What if they succeeded; would he withdraw his plans?

Someone pilfered the artwork not because of money. Then, who would be daring enough to play such a game and spend too much on skilled men . . . ?

Was this just a game?

This fact had been repeatedly running inside his head for few days now. Still, a 500 million-yen painting (rumored to be its price when a Modern Nihonga art collector tried to convince the painter to sell it) was a good commodity to be just sold in black market, or be kept in a secret basement. Yoshino would be so happy if it'd be found. She'd be given the five percent of the insurance.

He looked at the list of Nihonga paintings auctioned in the last four years. These lists would not even help them in their investigation.

If they were after the money, then they should have pilfered those that have more value than Yumi's, and should have taken more paintings as time would allow. But why one painting? Why Yumi's work? Still, who are those people who are so very interested in Fukazawa paintings to the point of stealing them?

"It's not about the money." Yoshino said.

One thing that she did not expect out of her presence during the investigation was her extended service for the museum's almost-virtual patron: Kashiwagi Suguru. She got a call from a very-pissed Sei that their boss wanted her to tour the young man to the gallery, since the business executive had been extending his support three years since. He rarely visited.

"You've visited only twice. But then, you've been a generous benefactor for three years. This doesn't add up." Yumi said as she and Kashiwagi sat down upon a long bench, facing one of Yumi's paintings.

They had been strolling down the halls of the first floor for an hour. Yumi had been explaining everything for Kashiwagi-san's enlightenment—the history of the piece of art, the movement it belonged, etcetera, etcetera. Today was one of the very few moments that her boss demanded her go outside her workshop to do some trifling task for someone. She seldom went outside to present herself before the curious spectator and give her lectures about traditional Japanese painting.

And from what she discerned from the experience, Kashiwagi had known his art and its history. He did not need any further appreciation; he knew every single piece of work displayed. And as infuriating as it was—she was there not to teach him what he did not know, but to be his conversation-buddy. In other words, she was trying not to get him bored. She was challenged by his thorough knowledge in her own turf, as if he's been with her in the museum, had done all her stuff, had shared the same experience all along.

Fucking annoying. (She thought that all of his knowledge about the craft was not based from experiences, but based on what he heard.)

They were sitting in front of The Deformed.

Yumi could not hide her irritation; therefore, she thought that if she could crack this man up, she might be given a leeway to stop forcing herself from entertaining this guy. "You're our sponsor yet you rarely visited the gallery. I did not even know you, until now. You should have not removed me from my work just to tour you."

He just answered her with a smile on his face. "I would not be one of the sponsors of this excellent gallery if I don't know what I've been investing for." He smirked at her.

She smirked back. She continued, "I heard from my senior that you have some Nohonga paintings that the boss are interested to be presented here in the gallery."

Kashiwagi turned his head and remained looking at the painting. "Yes, I do. I was informed that you already agreed to be part of the project."

"Satou Sei-san told me about them. Pre-war and post-war, as she had called it in layman's terms. But she never mentioned titles. Medium. Painters. I could almost imagine that they're from suspicious sources to be much concealed by you." She censured.

Kashiwagi made no reaction.

The last statement was supposedly a joke. Yet, as she looked at the man's face, she discerned that he was not giving a single shit about it. "I see." Yumi pondered.

A week later

Yumi submitted to the boss the painting that she was previously restoring. Yet, she just presented it via Sei, and did not meet her colleagues, scholars, and the painting's benefactors when its restored quality was deliberated, even though Sei warned her to attend. Consequently, Sei did the rest of explaining.

She said that she had not slept for several days. She had no time for the report.

Yumi owed her big-time. (That scumbag of a brat.)

It was a good thing that it was praised for her achievement in the accuracy of her copying the original painter's style. Restoring a Meiji painting was very delicate job to do, give its medium, styles, the period it was painted, and its price. It was a seven foot-long fusuma painting, color on paper. Given the delicacy of the medium, the boss was much impressed at Fukuzawa, who admitted once that the commission of that kind was her first. As much as Sei wanted to straighten Yumi's direction, she could not watch her all the time and control her life. Hearing this from Sei's mouth would be surprising, but Yumi should have the discretion when and where to act like an assclown or not. With her abnormal habits, she wondered how Yumi was not having major breakdowns. Artists could handle less sleep and food, but with her, she began to think of the supernatural. Her talent was one thing almost indispensable, but with so young an age and few outputs, anyone could replace her.

The Passing Wind had been the celebrated painting since its first exhibition, but having no finished product in the last two years is not very good for her career. Maybe, she could restore paintings forever, but her talents would not be wasted only on that. She needed to find something—anything that could inspire her.

Even though that inspiration would be somebody that Yumi would not want to see for the rest of her life. Somehow, she just needed to face her demons.

"Master, all paintings were already acquired and are now being delivered to Kyoto as we speak."

"Thank you, Shimata-san." Kashiwagi said to his old butler. "Be sure that they will be delivered at Kinomoto's house."

"Very well, sir."

TO BE CONTINUED

Fusuma – sliding door

A/N: Thank you for the reading this chapter! I really am grateful, especially to those who voice their thoughts by dropping a review. I'm sorry I'm unable to reply quickly to the comments, but I'll try to drop a note for those questions that were not explained by this chapter.