4. The Gift

Su Yun returned to her place and took a deep breath, trying hard to calm herself. Perhaps it was just He Mian’s particular quirk—after all, don’t painters also draw nude models? But a moment later, she was fuming in silence. Even if he was an artist, he had painted her without her permission—was he ignorant of the law?

While Su Yun was torn between nerves and indignation, Emma knocked on her door, holding a small booklet, her face alight with excitement. “Su, there’s an art exhibition on the Champs-Élysées this weekend. Would you like to go with me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t make it. I have an interpreting job this weekend. You should ask someone else,” Su Yun replied, her French fluent and steady.

Emma sighed, shaking her head in wonder at Su Yun’s drive. “You work too hard—even with a double major, you don’t take weekends off.”

Then, her tone shifted. “This painter is very mysterious. I heard he’ll make a public appearance at the exhibition. I’m so curious—what kind of person creates such masterpieces?”

“Who knows, maybe he’s an old man. It’s better to preserve some of that mystery,” Su Yun tried to shatter Emma’s fantasy.

“No way! The pamphlet says he’s a young artist, and he’s Chinese too. His name is He Mian. His painting ‘Starry Night’ is just…” At the mention of this artist, Emma could hardly contain herself.

But as soon as Su Yun heard the name He Mian, she froze, her mind blank. After that, she could only see Emma’s mouth opening and closing, the words lost to her. This was the second time she’d heard that name today.

“Emma, could I have a look at that pamphlet?” Su Yun asked.

“Oh, of course!” Emma handed it to her.

—

Seated at her desk, Su Yun flipped through the pamphlet with care. The art world’s reviews of He Mian were glowing, calling him “God’s Eye”—a man with a singular perspective and insight into the world. His representative work, “Starry Night,” had brought him renown, hailed as a healing piece.

The starry sky he painted was unlike Van Gogh’s; it was the sky just before dawn, the horizon tinged with pale light, the heavens layered in depth, the moon a slender crescent, the stars twinkling—a blend of realism and impression. Su Yun didn’t know much about art and didn’t particularly wish to appreciate it now; all she wanted was to find out whether this He Mian was the same He Mian she’d been messaging.

—

Su Yun tapped her numb legs. She’d been waiting for three hours.

She had been restless at home, unable to calm down until she retrieved the painting. She messaged He Mian, asking when he’d be home so she could collect her “gift.” Over an hour later, he replied: around nine o’clock.

Su Yun arrived at half past eight; now it was after eleven.

She sent him more messages. At first, he replied that he was almost there, then went silent. Staring at the chat screen, Su Yun wondered if he was playing games with her.

—

Ding—the elevator doors slid open.

Jia Yan was supporting He Mian, grumbling, “When did your drinking get so bad? Just a few glasses and you’re like this?”

Su Yun stood up from the floor as the two approached.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jia Yan greeted her. He never forgot a pretty face—last night, in the dim light, she’d been a sultry siren; today, in the bright light, a pure beauty.

“You’re here for He Mian, aren’t you?” Jia Yan gave her a knowing look.

Su Yun couldn’t deny it—she was indeed here for He Mian.

“He…” Su Yun pointed at He Mian.

“Oh, he’s drunk. Come give me a hand, he’s heavy as a rock,” Jia Yan said, not standing on ceremony as he beckoned her to help.

Su Yun thought to leave, but feared that if the painting wasn’t properly stored, this man might see it. So she lifted He Mian’s other arm.

He Mian turned his face toward her; the reek of alcohol, mixed with perfume, hit her at once. Su Yun turned her head away in disgust.

—

“Where’s the key card?” Jia Yan muttered, patting He Mian’s pockets—nothing. “Check your side, beautiful. Look in his jacket and pants pockets.”

Su Yun searched, feeling something hard near his thigh. It was probably the card. She reached in, retrieved it, and handed it to Jia Yan.

—

Jia Yan exhaled deeply, eyeing the man sprawled on the bed. At last, he’d hauled him home.

Su Yun glanced around—no sign of the painting. Where had he put it?

“What’s your name, miss?” Jia Yan asked.

“I’m Su Yun,” she answered politely.

“I’m Jia Yan—pleased to meet you. I’ll leave him to you, then.”

“Leave him to me?”

“Sure. You two already got to know each other pretty well yesterday, didn’t you?” Jia Yan winked.

…This wretch—he just blurted out anything.

Su Yun was about to speak when Jia Yan’s phone rang.

“Hey, baby. I’ll be right down. Wait for me, okay? Love you,” Jia Yan cooed, his tone syrupy.

After hanging up, he turned to Su Yun. “Su Yun, was it? I’ll be off now. Take care of him for me.” With that, he left in a flash, hurrying to his sweetheart.