THE PASSING WIND
-TheSilentReader-
CHAPTER 6:
Kyoto. She paled at the mention of the place.
He was at her office to discuss the minor details about the restoration of several paintings that Kashiwagi Suguru owned—and all of them will not leave the premises of Kashiwagi's property at Kyoto. She would be staying there, finishing the commission to a place that she wanted to forget.
It used to be a place of refuge for her, the place where she had learned the culture and history of her craft from a master himself. But she considered that part of her experience to be one of the worst occurrences that shaped up her career as an artist and as a Nihonga painter. She knew that when she stepped away from Musashino, she was bound to remember everything that she tried to forget.
Kyoto.
"Where in Kyoto are we going?" She asked bravely, despite her nerves. She was pleading to all saints . . . .
Kashiwagi raised a brow at the question. "I'm afraid that I cannot disclose that kind of information until we reach there."
Yumi swore under her breath. Having this kind of commission away from home was beginning to seep into her brain as a very wrong idea. She knew that this man could not be trusted at all, given the nature of the paintings that he was asking to be restored. What enchantment did he tell her boss to accept this kind of work? Surely, if her boss knew that the pieces of artwork were from somewhere suspicious, who knows what evil had been attached to the paintings?
Why Kyoto? Why not here?
She asked those same questions to the man in front of him, who was standing near the door of her workshop. It would not be wise to question a benefactor just like that, but she did not care—she was the one assigned to restore them—surely, she had the privilege to question the man about these matters. But, goddamn it—she asked those impertinent questions to get away with the idea of going back there. Maybe, if she could negotiate—
"It is where those paintings originally reside. That is all I need to tell you. Those paintings would only visit Musashino and stay here after all of them were restored. Your superiors and I have negotiated its staying at the gallery for a month, and after that, it will be forever be residing at Kyoto." Kashiwagi's voice was now formal, distant, and blunt. "That was the only thing that I need to tell you, before we travel two days hence. My butler will personally fetch you at your house at seven o'clock in the evening."
Then, he bowed, and immediately left her studio.
Having that warning would mean that she needed to clean the studio to bring her art materials to Kyoto as instructed by the benefactor himself. She flinched at the memory of his commands. She thanked the gods for being insightful after she finished her last commission; she cleaned most of her brushes and arranged tubes of her acrylic and oil paints. She sorted out her all other materials—the graphites, charcoals, lenses, kneading erasers, brushes, and x-acto knives—and placed them to their own plastic boxes.
The ones left were her unfinished canvasses, facing upon the four walls of her studio. They were too many of them, gathering dusts.
She gathered her courage, threw away her pride just to get near of those incomplete businesses, and looked at them again. Of the years of her career, only thirty of her paintings were given chance to be exhibited in the gallery. Fifteen each for every exhibition—the first one lasted for almost a month in display, while the second lasted for three months. Since then, nothing had been made originally by her. Everything she did with the brushes was for restoration. She had no product since she change her medium.
She picked one random canvas and looked at it. Three-fourths of the canvas was finished. She picked another one—half of it was already painted with oil. She picked another, then another, upturning it, inspecting the unfinished product, trying to remember the image each of them was trying to show. She tried to remember her emotions as she painted them. Then, she stupidly asked herself: what the fuck is wrong with oil?
She vividly remembered every emotion that she had when she painted all thirty of her works—pain, sorrow, loss, resentment, deception, and revenge—those were her motivation to continue finishing her works, particulartly The Passing Wind. All she thought about were her eternal discord for Hinomura, and her fruitless love for Ogasawara Sachiko. Anger made that piece so alive, so captivating. She marvelled at her own work.
Fuck. And not only that her most prized painting was missing, she was going back to Kyoto. I want to die.
Then, a knock on the door was heard. She did not bother responding. She placed the old canvasses facing the wall. The door opened but the person holding it was not even announcing herself. Yumi then answered first without looking at the door, "Identify yourself please, Anonymous-san." She bantered easily, without removing her eyes and attention from the canvasses she surveyed a while ago.
"Yumi,"
She stiffened upon her feet. When she looked at the person upon the door, she saw Sachiko. Yumi was astonished, but kept on arranging the canvasses and faced them to the wall. After she was done, she stood up in an unceremonious manner, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her faded jeans. "Sachiko." She walked to the sole couch at her workshop and sat down. When Sachiko was recognized, she stepped inside the room and closed the door. "What brings you here? The gallery's open hours passed already yet you managed to get in."
It was already nine o'clock in the evening. "But I won't be surprised if you presented your family's name to the security. Such underhanded tactic."
Sachiko glared at her former petite soeur, "I did not come here to be insulted, Yumi."
Yumi stood up from her couch and said, "Then, Ice Princess, state your business." Yumi's hand was pulled off her pocket and waved her hands as she mentioned Sachiko's old Lillian title.
Sachiko then motioned for the paintings that were at the walls. Yumi tried her best not to flinch as she touched the canvasses one by one. Then, she removed her hands from the canvasses and said, "I came here to see you."
The reply was immediate. "I don't want to see you."
"I know."
"Then I don't see the point of you visiting me."
Sachiko took few steps to be in front of Yumi, who was boring her eyes to the former like an angered snake. Yumi, however, was scowling in her mind because of her insipid fascination for coincidence; she was not surprised. One moment she was just thinking of how Ogasawara Sachiko had been the grand inspiration for her paintings and the dartboard for her anger, and then not a moment later she found Sachiko at her door, ready to ignite her anger once more.
First, there was Kashiwagi. Next was Sachiko. The third one would be a curse indeed.
Yet, her thoughts were distracted when Sachiko took too much of her personal space as she stood in front of her. Yumi tried not to recoil away from her former lover, as she endured the urge to get her hands onto the senior and punch her lights out. She wished desperately that she should have done it, but her heart began to weaken as she almost felt the heat emanating from Sachiko. She cursed herself for being so weak—she could not even be immune to Sachiko's charm after all this time.
In defence for her dignity, she smirked. "Well?"
Sachiko took a step back and said, "I came to talk."
Yumi sniffed as she looked for something to do inside her now clean workshop. (Where is work when you dreadfully want it the most?) She pulled out her backpack and checked the contents inside. "About what?"
"About the past."
"Th-the past?" Yumi choked at her own surprise, and laughed sardonically. "I could always imagine our meetings would be like this—you know, the atmostphere so dense, you wanting to explain what happened in the past, me trying to be as civil to you as possible—it's like we're inside an overly dramatic soap opera!" She struggled to wind down her laughter and sat down the sofa. She covered her mouth as she trembled, foolish thoughts invading her mind. Sachiko just looked at Yumi laughing at her but when she attempted to interfere, Yumi's mirth shut off, like a lightbulb—in a snap of a finger.
Yumi clenched as words began flowing from her mouth. "Sachiko, what are your intentions, really?"
Sachiko looked at the mess, and tried not to show her reaction to the person in front of her. She could not move from her post. Then she heard Yumi talking, "One thing you expect from us artists is our disorderliness. Or are you still annoyed of that fact?"
She continued, "I'll be leaving for Kyoto in two days. Even though my painting is still missing, I could not just lie on my bed and mope, true? Yuuki and the others can go apeshit for finding it. There are plenty of things to ponder on, to do. Too bad that I won't have Sei's company there." She made sure that cans of paints were properly lidded. She arranged documents and dumped them above a lightbox. She threw empty tubes of paints to the trash bin at the corner of the workshop, like freethrows in basketball. One by one, she shot the tubes away.
She knew that she was annoying Sachiko to the point of fury. As a true lady, old habits die hard.
Yet, she found it surprising that her visitor was not speaking a word. Didn't I ask her a question a while ago? She continued talking, "So you won't expect me here for a long time. And I don't expect you, either. Since your piehole is incapable in answering my questions, I guess your visit served no purpose, right?"
She scanned the room, and then decided that she had cleaned as she could before leaving her workshop. Then, she got her jacket and bag from a stool, and fastened the latter on her back. Still, Sachiko was unable to talk, just standing there near the doorway.
"I'm going out." She shut off the lights. "Or do you want to stay here?"
"I intend to settle our disagreement." Sachiko cried bleakly. "After all this time, I couldn't gather courage to come to you. For a long time . . ."
Yumi decided not to hear the rest of her speech. She walked outside the room; Sachiko followed. She put her keys to her pocket after she locked the door of her office and workshop. Outside the room was a dark-filled hallway. Sachiko continued her incoherent, even broken speech. ". . . are you listening, Yumi?"
(It's too late. It's too late. It's too late.)
The painter dropped her jacket.
Yumi moved lithely closer to Sachiko. She reached for the woman's midriff then snaked her one hand from her stomach and gently to the small of her back, as her other hand scoped from the side of Sachiko's neck up to her cheek. Yumi gathered her closely to her body—both of them reminded of the past: each other's warmth, smell, touch. Sachiko could not even move from where she stood; she could not even move a muscle as Yumi's breath began to tickle the skin of her cheek, ears, and neck. She shivered as Yumi began to sigh at her ear.
Sachiko trembled as she felt Yumi's tongue grazing gently the lobe of her ear. She could not resist against the painter's actions as much as she violently wanted to. She knew that she was now being exploited—her pride as a woman was beginning to blur, to diminish as she felt herself being pinned to the wall. The hallway leading to Yumi's office was dim and without light. Her thoughts began to roam to their days at the university: their secret liaisons, their lies, their stolen intimacy that they kept hidden to everyone around them. Yet, the building ache to respond to Yumi was beginning to crawl to Sachiko. She raised her arms and began to envelop Yumi and meet Yumi's lips with hers. . . .
"Sachiko, you really don't understand, do you?" Yumi whispered lowly to her ear. Sachiko's arms stopped moving.
Yumi moved her head away to look at Sachiko's face as she continued to talk, "If you're expecting that our meetings would be like what you anticipated just now . . . like this, you expect none."
Sachiko's mouth suddenly became dry.
"You must have thought of this possibility—being in my arms—when you try to surprise me with your visits. You know, I'm afraid to tell you that you are very easily persuaded, Sachiko. I just touched you so slowly and gently, but you did not retaliate." Then, Yumi's half-mooned eyes began stared at her. Sachiko began to see a smirk that could almost resemble the devil's.
Then, the painter moved away from the heiress, and stepped away from her and the wall, boring her eyes to the astounded Sachiko. "At that moment, have you ever thought of your husband? Of what would he think of you?" Yumi shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she spoke slowly and clearly. "You hate men as a consequence of your father and grandfather's infidelity. What do you think if I told you that you were about to cheat on your good husband? What if he told you that you're just like them?"
A sound of a slap emanated upon the empty and dim hallway.
"Yumi!" Anger rose from Sachiko's chest, blocking her throat. As much as she hated to be affected by Yumi's accusations, she tried not to let tears flow down from her eyes.
Yumi picked her leather jacket on the floor and swung it to her back. "That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore," she said.
She knew that slap was to come afterwards. She managed not to recoil to Sachiko's attack, but she argued with herself that it was her punishment for saying those things to Sachiko. Fuck you, that's what it was about. A verbal torment was much more hurting than the physical one. She walked along the hallway knowing that Sachiko would follow. It was much better that she had done it this way—Sachiko would do nothing but to ponder about that moment. To be anguished of the fact that she was not as free as she used to be.
Yumi was not easy as she used to be.
She knew what Sachiko was thinking. Three years of being with her—that was enough for Yumi to know everything about her. Three years as her equal—their minds, bodies and hearts as one to the point that Yumi could not bear to live without her—gave her the avenue to explore everything that was Ogasawara Sachiko. That knowledge she had engraved to the deepest pit of her flesh and mind.
She almost thought conceitedly once that only she knew Sachiko. No one could ever be as close to her soul—and almost merged into her—as Yumi once did.
But that also gave Sachiko the avenue of knowing her as deeply.
But she's changed now.
She has changed now.
Yumi walked ahead but she felt Sachiko took hurried steps to be beside her as they exited the premises of the gallery. Neither said another word as they rode the elevator leading to the parking area and to their own vehicles.
Sachiko gripped on the steering wheel too strongly as she drove her back home. "You're wrong, Yumi." She repeated like a mantra. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong . . ."
She hated the fact Yumi knew her too well.
She could not even pump out her anger. She could not find any place to vent out. Not in her house; never in her workstation. Sei must not see her like that. Busy bars and pubs would not be suitable for it. Even empty parks did not appeal to her. Her anger would not go away. Once she released everything, she'd be normal again.
Her motorbike was running almost a hundred but still she felt no fear of stopping, or even dying. She laughed hard. Her voice was much louder than the cries of her vehicle, which was shouting in reverie because it was running at its greatest speed. She did not care for the road or for the people watching her along the way—she just laughed.
She was thoroughly amused and angered by all this! She felt like a lunatic, so utterly ecstatic that she did not care for the future! At one lonely lane in the highways of downtown Musashino, while riding her mechanical horse, she raised her both hands in jubilation—to release more of the happiness that she felt to this empty sky!
(How undeniably unlucky she was! How far down could a normal person like her could be in this hellish world! She knew that there were more unfortunate ones than her but still . . . she's going to Kyo-fucking-to! That bitch Sachiko was stalking her! No one as wretched as she would be grounded to situations such as these! How grand that the world is conspiring for her amusement! She won't be bored!)
A celebration should be in order! What could she do? Do utter chaos? She had this black motorbike to blow up!
Because the past was finally catching up to her! The past that she was sure she left behind was finally creeping back! She did nothing for it to come back; she had not killed, she had not broken anyone's heart, she practically did nothing bad, but why did her name belong to the bad kids' list this year?
She laughed harder, finally gripping on the controls of her bike as she took a sharp turn, decreasing its speed to the bare minimum. She won't go home until her mirth die down. Yes, that's what she'd do; if not, she might burn her house down, in search for something to destroy.
She spent hours riding her motorbike, breaking speed limits everywhere.
And her mirth did . . . it did die down.
Yumi's motorcycle stopped in a screaching sound in front of her apartment. Having nothing to break, she pulled out the helmet from her head and smashed it with all her might to the ground.
She swore under her breath. The front shield could not even break. She laughed, and for the first time this night she heard very clearly the crisp of her high-pitched hilarity in this silent neighborhood.
Her entrance was so loud that tenants of the rooms of the second floor of her apartment complex turned on their lights, one of them went out of his door and shout, "What the fuck are you doing! It's goddamn late!"
"I'm sorry!" She said to him.
"It's cool, man. Just keep it down, all right?" Then, he closed the door.
When she opened the door of her apartment, she once again found Sei crashed into her place. Then, Sei smiled, "You calmed down?"
"I don't know . . . I'm so pissed off." She growled tremulously. She felt no inducement to laugh. Nothing was funny anymore. Now, she was just utterly, purely, pissed off.
Nine years ago
"I love you, too, Yumi."
She was more concerned of securing Sachiko's heart for eternity, not just for moments that they feel like it. Like this one—she felt her blood rising, the intensity of her desire to respond to Sachiko's pleading lips was palpable now with her trembling hands. "Onee-sama, wait," she plead, as she clasped her hands at Sachiko's shirt.
Sachiko stopped. She looked at Yumi with confused eyes.
This was supposed to be a normal high school grad farewell.
"Have you thoroughly considered this?" Yumi asked desperately, half-heartedly making Sachiko change her mind.
Amidst the warmth gathered inside the old greenhouse, Yumi felt lonely as she begged for Sachiko's answer to her pleas. Her eyes began to mist. "Please promise me one thing. Please think about this. I want you to promise me, that you will never leave me. Promise me that. Never leave me. No matter the circumstances, please, do not leave me . . ." She repeatedly cried.
Sachiko smiled at her—she looked at her junior as if she were saying nonsensical things. She put both her hands to Yumi's face and declared firmly, without any regret, "I will never leave you. I promise you, even if the whole world is against us."
Yumi put her hands at the back of Sachiko's neck and pulled her close. She finally succumbed to Sachiko, knowing full well that she promised never to leave her side. And would keep it.
Present day
Yumi was quiet all the time while they travelled. Kashiwagi's butler personally fetched her at her apartment at exactly seven in the evening, as instructed by his master. After half an hour, they were already at the airport, just on time for the flight. With her art supplies and clothes in tow, she found out from the butler that they would be riding his master's private jet. Yumi rolled her eyes as she thanked the gods for her sudden luck. Rich bastards.
She found Kashiwagi sitting comfortably inside. Nothing could be said about the interiors, except that it was pretty expensive. However, even though she was temporarily fascinated with the sudden fortune of travelling free, she still dreaded her return to the city she once loved. Just the smell of the past was suffocating enough to let her remember things. Yuuki was wrong; not everything was about Kyoto—she could not blame the place—she just despised the events that happened there. She almost considered Kyoto as her home, far enough to be away from Musashino. Those were her thoughts at the time. She felt that she could stay there forever, to be stuck in the image of its culture, of its golden, dramatic history.
But those were the days of the last year of her college life.
She felt her chest tightened. She's getting amused again. Should she remember them? She should return here in a clean slate—a blank paper. She had no need for turbulent emotions—she was just restoring paintings. Is there a need for the usual anger and resentment? She was not making a new painting anyway. There was no need for any muse to be here.
That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore.
All the time, she was just looking at the window, watching the clouds illuminated by the moon. Without warning, she recollected a friend of the past, Tsutako, when they went on a school trip at Italy. Of how she thought of Maria-sama watching the Earth from above the clouds. She suppressed a choke. How innocent she was back then. How simple-minded she was of her thoughts of Her as divine and pure. Of how Maria-sama was watching over everyone. But when reality faced Yumi, she felt herself drifting further away.
"You want?"
She raised a brow. "Maple Parlor?"
Kashiwagi raised his arm to offer her the pudding.
"Why the skeptical brow?" she was sitting in front of Kashiwagi, not knowing that he was observing her all the length of the trip. "I thought this would be of use to you." He said as he faced the same window that Yumi was lost into.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't expect a person such as you to be eating . . . ugh, sweet things." She said derisively.
"I love it. I assumed that you might like one. You are very decisive on your first impressions about me." Kashiwagi replied, with the same mockery that Yumi used. Yumi would have guessed that he was very amused by her current attitude, thus tolerated it. He seemed not to mind her breaching the gap between the decorum between an employer and employee. That, she had violated propriety. She was not minding people around her; she was very used not to bother anymore. Even when an important sponsor was in front of her.
"I'm sorry for being rude."
Kashiwagi returned on finishing his desert. "You don't mean that."
That should give you a reason not to bother me anymore.
She looked once again at the window. Business is business. Even with her unsuccessful attempt at being diplomatic, she pondered that soon, this commission would just pass by. Being in Kyoto would just passed by. Soon, she would be back at Musashino, doing another commission, or attempting to create another art piece. Sei would get drunk in her house; Touko and Yuuki would visit her from time to time. Her life would circle to only those. Everything would just pass. Just like Ogasawara Sachiko. And Hinomura.
Just like everyone else.
"We're already here. Brace yourself." Kashiwagi said. She was perplexed at the man's words, hitting her chest like a sure arrow.
"Holy shi—" Her seat mildly shook as the plane landed.
They were now heading to the location by car. After they arrived from the airport, she looked once more at the busy lights of Kyoto. Of the eleven centuries since its foundation, it survived wars, famines, fires, and earthquakes, a true indication of how this city was blessed from the gods. Yumi had been too excited to live here many years ago, to start her career as a painter. She felt that of all the 2000 religious places here—Buddhist and Shinto shrines alike—maybe, with much effort and patience, her luck would turn out to be just fine. With how ancient she felt whenever she was here, she was able to turn away from the past. She felt like living to an era when not everything happened. When Yumi had not turned down Sachiko's enchantment back when at the greenhouse.
She should have not succumbed to her feelings at that time. She knew what was to happen, yet she indulged herself. She trusted Sachiko far too much.
She thought of instances that she was in the same situation such as this—landing at the airport, feeling dizzy because of stress even though the travel-time was just a few moments. She could just take the train whenever coming here, but somehow, watching Kyoto above the skies was calming and enraging at the same time. It would have been better if she felt just one of the two—but it was hurting that she was lost in a sea of contrasting emotions.
What a poor soul she was, burying herself to the grievances of the past.
The car stopped in front of a vast wooden gate.
"We're here."
"It's a very large compound."
Kashiwagi nodded and replied, "It belonged once to Kinomoto Hinata."
"No . . . no shi—really?" Yumi's jaw was hanging, as she tried to regain her astonishment as she stepped inside the large wooden gate of the compound. From the inside, the large wooden barricade was slid open by two males, both of them wearing kimono. She tried to discern the garden through the tinted (no, she snorted, it was shaded) glass as the car made its way to the main compound. When the car stopped, Kashiwagi's manservant opened the trunk to get Yumi's baggages. Kashiwagi opened the door and said to Yumi, "Come on."
She was sweating as she bolted out of the limo. Kashiwagi looked at her flabbergasted. The painter realized then that she was making a very odd expression, therefore made an excuse. "Sorry for my stupid-looking face. Please, get over it."
Shit, shit, shit, shit. This is Kinomoto's—! She tried her hardest to hide her tremendous anxiousness as she continued to walk upon the clobbled path of flat, gray rocks leading to the main house. She covered the lower half of her face with her palm, put force onto every step that she made with her weathered loafers, and stuffed her jeans pocket with one of her hands. She looked at the garden; it was filled with plum and sakura trees, endless artificial puddles and streams bordered with white stones, which branched throughout the expanse of the garden.
When they reached the main house, an old woman in a dull kimono was waiting for them at the porch. She bowed her head to the guests, and without speaking a word, she lead them inside. They were received at the living area, and tea was prepered for them. Kashiwagi did most of the talking, which made Yumi took notice of the woman in front of them.
(Eh?)
She had not realized that the old woman stopped talking to Kashiwagi. Yumi felt her insides boiled as the host bored her eyes to hers. She would have thought that she was being rude, but she was an elderly person. She would have retaliated, but her gut instincts told her not to play with this woman's temparament. But the woman continued to stare at her.
(When will you stop freaking me out?)
"Ah, obaa-sama, is there something on my face?" Yumi asked rather nicely.
"Nothing, Ojou-san, nothing that would trouble you."
Then, Kashiwagi continued talking to her. He asked about the paintings were already delivery to this address, and immediately, the old woman smiled brightly, as if her long lost child had returned. She confirmed its delivery. Kashiwagi, however, insisted that they would just look at the package in the morning.
(Creepy.)
In the end, she would be seeing the paintings in the morning. Would it be Kinomoto's paintings? She felt that she was so far away from reality.
"I am leaving those to you." That was the last thing Kashiwagi told her before he left. She was alone at the compound with the creepy woman from last night. Yumi was introduced to a room where all her art supplies were sent. She was not surprised of how the bright the room was—it was ideal for studio art. The rest of the package was resting upon a wall. She immediately deduced that those were Kashiwagi wanted her to restore.
She opened the large crate.
Kinomoto Hinata. She was the painter that Fukuzawa Yumi to the highest degree had admired, envied, and respected. She had seen her seal at the low right corner.
She pulled out a set of clean medical gloves from the pocket of her jumper, tore the paper sealing it, and wore the latex. Then, she took the large old painting from its container and placed it carefully on the stand. For a while, she just looked at it, sitting on a stool, her back straight.
She should have been gathering her old research notes about Kinomoto Hinata—her style and techniques, the pigments she was using—traditional or otherwise—everything about her. She should have been touching the ground, investigating how she mixed her paint, how she measured the amounts of colors and water. Of what she did by the book or what she improvised. Yet, she was transfixed of the picture in front of her.
"It's so beautiful . . . I don't even want to touch it." Yumi whispered defeatedly.
TO BE CONTINUED
Ground – the surface where the pigment is applied.
A/N: The truth is, this chapter was very hard to produce. I am quite tired while editing Yumi's narration. Are you too? I felt that her actions—the drastic shifting of emotion between the laughing-like-a-lunatic attitude and the emo-Yumi—was so taxing. I don't know, I just felt that it that was her reaction after she learned that her assignment would be in Kyoto and after Sachiko visited.
After finishing this chapter, I watched Mai HiME. Daaang, it's soooo good. I was very curious about it because the ShizNat pairing have been referenced so much by the readers, so after all the hesitation, I finally watched it. (Why did I watch it just now? WHY?) I picked Strawberry Panic! first from the two, and it turned out that I should have watched Mai HiME first. And I really love that Psycho Ojou, Shizuru! The way she desired to the point of lunacy for Natsuki . . . so bipolar, so fascinating, I always rejoiced every time I see her. And yeah, I'm totally digging on ShizNat.