Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 386
Hui Jia
St. Paul's Convent School, Au, Andrea – 14
T
he sane part of me made a final attempt to surpass my seemingly illogical and irrational thoughts - to stay afloat, to stay on
top, to be the upper hand; upon failing miserably, it accepted its failure with considerable reluctance, perishing into a pit of
dark nothingness. I was left without rules, without guidelines and without logical thoughts. I was still myself, yet I wasn’t.
They were so close, so close, and I was there teeter-tottering on the edge, holding on onto the railing with numb and
loose fingers alongside a thread of unreasonable adamance that was left behind by the shards of my sane self, on the verge of
letting go.
“Take the plunge, Ellie.”
***
Upon her slight scowl, I knew I had bought the wrong kind of wood pulp paper. The artist’s deft fingers immediately
reached for her art book and skimmed through it in search of paper with better quality. Pleased with what she had came up with,
the artist dipped her trusty old paintbrush into the ironically new wooden art palette; colours transferring itself from the tip of it
to the surface of the newly acquired paper, given the artist’s guileful maneuvering of the worn paintbrush. Swirls of green
appeared on the paper: viridian befriending myrtle green; dartmouth green siding with fern green; mantis clashing with
brunswick green, encased in a fierce battle of disagreement.
Mama was painting again.
Jeanne seemed to have an arguably weird relationship with art- a love-hate relationship. It was her pastime, her labour of
love and her solace from Father’s occasional absence- those were the times when she loved art; yet she treated it with slight
animosity when it came between Father and her; or when it was done under pressure. Yet despite their peculiar relationship, she
never parted with it- at least that was what I presumed.
It was a typical sweltering summer day in Shanghai when a supposed business partner of Father’s brought about the news of
his unanticipated assassination along with a rather preposterous peace treaty for Mama to discuss with. Having been treated as an
equal for her whole life, her disconcerted attitude at the loss of control was much expected by Jiejie and I. As much as Mama
tried to gain the upper hand by raising her voice and refusing to concede to the treaty, she soon realized she was treading on thin
ice; her dogged demeanour proved useless in alleviating the situation. Much to Mama’s constant harrumph of disapproval , the
treaty was dealt with and signed in less than an hour- we were to pay 50,000 Yuan as a compensation fee, 20,000 Yuan as
suppression fee and Jiejie was to marry the businessman’s crippled son. There was no turning back, let alone room for discussion.
Jiejie took up a job as a dancer at the prestigious ye dian around the corner of Astor House to ameliorate Mama’s financial
burden- making fast money yet slowly dancing away her dignity, until all that she had left was a lackluster soul in an empty shell.
I buried myself in academics, soughting comfort and cocoon from fraying edges of my books. My family was scattered between
the dead and the living. We were all engrossed in our own universe, our own ludicrous fantasies and memories. We were still
living under the same roof, we still shared the same blood, we still had a communal relationship as mother and daughter- we
were so close, yet so far, so far apart.
Mama stopped painting after Father’s funeral.
***
1934 spring. An imported white canvas was balanced on a starkly new wooden easel. Newly bought paint brushes were
adroitly arranged on the mahogany tea table.
A stroke. A shade of dark red splattered onto the white canvas. He came barging into her life, bought her broken soul with
money, wooed her with fashionable western dresses and pearls, demanded her to leave everything behind and start over with him.
He turned her into his canvas, one that he can effortlessly tarnish at his own will. Just like paint, he seeped into her soul, leaving a
dark red stain in place of her perished innocence.