53. Cloud Box Part 2

At first, Yin Yan noticed that he could no longer draw from memory.

He assumed it was just a side effect of going off his medication and didn’t think much of it. The side effects were varied. Some physical, like sudden shifts in blood pressure, erectile dysfunction, or heightened libido. Others were emotional, like persistent fatigue, depression, or a compulsion to talk, which he often disguised cleverly in class, turning it into a charming trait.

But this was the first time he had experienced memory issues. And the longer he remained off the medication, the more he realized it had nothing to do with withdrawal. He had already stopped the meds before they designed the collar. His physiological functions had returned to normal.

Not long after, he discovered he could no longer draw from life either.

It happened during class.

Along with his own graduate students, there were several undergraduates from Studio One that day. The model was a beautiful Ukrainian dancer.

At the academy, models were usually middle-aged villagers from nearby. Young female models were rare, and foreign models even rarer. Yin Yan hadn’t chosen her to be flashy. He wanted the students to study techniques for painting different skin tones. He had also contacted models from Central Africa and India for future sessions.

The curious undergrads had pestered their instructor, who finally relented and let them attend Yin Yan’s class. Yin Yan readily accepted the request, agreeing to take them for a few days.

He had prepared a canvas for himself, intending to demonstrate while teaching.

As he set up his easel and squeezed paint onto his palette, the students began quietly messaging their friends, and more and more began trickling in. By the time he picked up his brush, the back of the classroom was filled with students and even the assistant lecturer who had followed the undergrads to supervise.

The first step in classical oil painting typically involves making a sketch as large as the canvas, then transferring it using tracing paper or pouncing with powdered graphite through perforated outlines. These painstaking steps preserve accuracy and keep the surface clean, but they are too time-consuming for in-class demos.

Yin Yan gave the undergrads a brief explanation of the process, then picked up a No. 6 filbert brush and diluted a small amount of burnt umber, intending to sketch directly on the canvas.

For him, this was easy. A quick sketch with thin paint. Even painting in front of an audience, he could usually perform with steady, fluid confidence.

But the moment the brush touched the canvas, something felt off.

The brush was familiar, the turpentine was the brand he always used, the canvas was primed exactly the way he liked, but the stroke felt sluggish. He pressed the brush in place for a long time. The turpentine bled down the surface. Only then did he realize something was wrong. He lifted the brush and dabbed away the excess oil with a tissue.

Dozens of eyes were watching his every move.

Yin Yan wiped the brush clean, cleared his palette, and began mixing some ultramarine. At the same time, he offered an explanation. “I usually sketch with burnt umber. Just now I realized, the model’s skin is very fair, so a brighter underpainting might suit better…”

Some students scribbled in their notebooks, noting even the brands of paint and brushes he used.

He brought the brush back to the canvas, and froze again.

He clearly remembered what the model looked like. But when his eyes returned to the blank canvas, his brain was just as blank.

Yin Yan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t know what had gone wrong, but his instincts kicked in fast. He immediately found a way out. Opening his eyes, he turned toward the model and focused on her, trying not to look at the canvas. Relying on muscle memory alone, he blocked in the rough draft.

It was a stunning display. Everyone in the room was amazed by his control.

But Yin Yan’s feelings were conflicted. A classroom demo should never rely on such theatrical, unrepeatable methods. And with a colleague present, it was even less appropriate to show off. He had no choice. If he hadn’t done it this way, he wouldn’t have made it through.

The next step was not something he could bluff his way through.

In the process of laying down tonal values, the eyes had to move between the model, the palette, and the canvas. It was impossible to paint blind as he had done moments earlier. Yin Yan tried to remain calm. He switched to a No. 12 brush, soaked it in turpentine, then mixed some burnt sienna with ivory black and added a touch of zinc white to glaze the shadowed areas.

It was the most basic procedure. The initial glaze didn’t need to be precise, just enough to express the general relationships of light and shadow. He kept repeating this to himself like a mantra. But as the painting progressed, he realized the figure on the canvas was growing farther and farther from the model.

To put it simply, it didn’t look like her.

In another studio, that wouldn’t have mattered. In expressionist work, as long as the figure vaguely resembled a human form, it passed. The focus was elsewhere. But in classical painting, a flawed likeness meant the painter’s foundational skill had collapsed.

The person on the canvas was almost a different individual altogether. The colors were dull and muddy, floating over the structure of the body like a layer of heavy, clumsy makeup. Yin Yan hadn’t even painted the full face, just one eye, and he already knew exactly how this piece would turn out in the end. If he finished it…

He didn’t dare imagine.

For weeks, he had been working under a strange, unspoken pressure at the academy.

After the results of the National Exhibition were announced, many were surprised that Yin Yan only received a Merit Award. His connection with Ma Pingchuan quickly became a topic of quiet discussion. The former dean was preparing to step down, and there was no longer any debate about the next one. Ma Pingchuan would soon take the position. With him would come a cascade of personnel changes.

The official documents hadn’t been issued, but it was no secret. Titles and forms of address were already starting to shift across the campus.

Yin Yan’s name was not among them.

In front of him, people avoided the subject as if by tacit agreement. He pretended nothing had changed. But if he finished this demo painting, he feared the act would collapse completely, and everything he had built would unravel with it. Students might not notice, but that visiting lecturer certainly would. He had likely already sensed something was wrong.

The paint was becoming sticky like glue. The brush dragged more and more, nearly immovable. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. Behind him, the lecturer began to speak.

Each time Yin Yan made a move, the man echoed with polite commentary, explaining to the students, with careful praise the unique technique of “Professor Yin.”

Yin Yan felt like his soul had long since left his body, fleeing to someplace empty, leaving behind nothing but a husk, smearing paint on a canvas.

He pushed through as best he could. Before his failure could become too obvious, he casually pointed at the canvas and smiled.
“This technique here was inspired by… Titian. I’ll grab the materials from the department office for everyone to reference.”

One of his graduate students offered to go.
“Professor Yin, I can get them.”

“No need.” Yin Yan had already made it to the door. “You wouldn’t know which book it is.”

The excuse was flimsy, but it didn’t matter. Every second away from that classroom bought him a little more breath.

The moment he stepped outside, he pulled out his phone and sent a message to Lu Zhengming.

There was a time difference between Dunhuang and Pingyuan. While the classroom was already filled with people, the adobe walls at Yumenguan were just catching the first light of morning.

There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky over the Gobi. Even at dawn, the sunlight here was harsher than midday light on the plains. The wind swept across the wilderness, stripping away moisture and warmth alike. Standing on the vast sand, a person would feel something strange. The sun scalded the skin, yet the body could not retain a trace of heat.

The sun and the wind seemed forever locked in dispute, each vying to be the harshest master of the land.

But neither could rival time.

Time shattered hills into rubble, wore down rubble into gravel, ground gravel into dust. Everything on the surface of the earth was its enemy, and in its endless erosion, all things lost their shape.

All that remained of the western fortress from two thousand years ago was a silent horizon and a lonely wall of rammed earth.

Lu Zhengming could not imagine flutes in the moonlight or snow on the bowstring. Only through words could he glimpse the blood and desolation that once filled this place. If one day time erased the last of this earthwork wall, he would be left to stand in a barren wasteland, where it would seem as if nothing had ever happened, searching backward through fragments of language.

He thought of that conversation with Yin Yan at the museum, about artworks and human life. If, a hundred years from now, his paintings still existed, and someone stood before them, looking at those abstractions too raw to be described in words, what would they see?

The students around him had no such concerns. They laughed and played with the new lecturer, Wang Yi. They were happy just to be present.

Three years ago, Lu Zhengming had been like them. It was only after all that he had gained and lost that he realized he could never take things lightly again.

He began to reflect on the past. On what had shaped him into who he was now, and what had turned Yin Yan into who he had become. He used to have many ideas about the future, but now all he had were uncertainty and doubt.

“Professor Lu!”

“Lu-ge, take a photo for us!”

Wang Yi ran over, cradling the camera.

He had a sweet, doll-like face paired with a hormone-charged body. He had produced a great number of works, and most of them left strong impressions. Lu Zhengming had once joked that his paintings were like concentrated semen, raw and exhilarating. Wang Yi had laughed uproariously and said he wanted to spread his seed across the world.

Just like Pedro, he was Lu Zhengming’s type. He liked passionate, creative people. Being around them always sparked inspiration.

But of course, no one compared to Yin Yan. His talent was unfathomable, mysterious, seductive. Lu Zhengming could not even say for sure how much of his obsession with him was based on love for that talent.

“This one adjusts the aperture, this one zooms in or out… and you press this to shoot.”

Wang Yi quickly explained the controls, then jogged back into place. “Set it to burst mode! I’m gonna jump, catch it midair!”

“Got it. Ready, three, two, one, jump!”

The shutter clicked in a fast burst. Lu Zhengming flipped to the gallery to check the photos. Just as Wang Yi jumped, a few of the other boys had leapt with him, throwing up hand signs midair. In the photos, Wang Yi looked like a student again, and Lu Zhengming remembered that he was only two years younger than him.

A year ago, he would have done the same thing. But in such a short span, his mindset had changed completely. The students were still living in the same timeline as before, while he had already stepped outside of it, a spectator looking into another world’s carefree joy.

“Professor Lu, you’ve changed a lot since last year’s trip.”

Lu Zhengming turned. It was Ouyang. She was holding a sketchbook and wore a windbreaker that concealed her figure. She looked brighter than when she wore those heavy linen robes, but she still kept to the edges of the group.

“Have I?”

He handed the camera back to Wang Yi and walked with Ouyang to the refreshment booth. The boys gathered around Wang Yi, laughing at his facial expressions in the photos. Wang Yi didn’t mind and laughed along.

The sunlight grew more intense. Ouyang stood in the shade and took the drink Lu Zhengming gave her. She twisted the cap open without hesitation and took a sip.

“You’ve changed too,” Lu Zhengming said with a smile. “You’re not so polite anymore.”

“Maybe I’ve just come to terms with things. That flower Pedro gave me, it was the first time in my life anyone gave me flowers. I suddenly realized how good it feels to accept someone’s kindness.”

“Fair point.” Lu Zhengming nodded. “I’ll pass that on to the old man. He’ll be thrilled.”

As they spoke, Ouyang kept glancing toward Wang Yi.

She turned just as Lu Zhengming caught her. A trace of fluster crossed her face.

“There’s something going on…” Lu Zhengming followed her gaze, a teasing look in his eyes. “Is it what I think it is?”

Ouyang paused, then nodded calmly.

Lu Zhengming was a little surprised. But since she was so straightforward, he couldn’t make a big deal out of it. He could only say something teacher-like. “You’ve got good taste. That guy’s definitely interesting… but he is a teacher, you know. You might want to wait until you graduate, when you’re fully responsible for yourself…”

“No need. I’m not his type.”

Ouyang cut him off with cool finality. Lu Zhengming almost choked.

“What happened?”

“I told him directly. He said he doesn’t go for my type.”

This time, Lu Zhengming really did choke. He wiped his mouth, flustered. “Damn, you’re bold.”

Ouyang added with a faint tone, “He said he likes women with big boobs, tiny waists, and perky asses.”

“Shit. That’s just brutal.”

Lu Zhengming cursed aloud, then thought of how he had been three years ago. He was just as blunt, never sugarcoating a thing. He scrambled to find something comforting to say, afraid Ouyang would spiral like Yan Yan had.

“I’m fine, Professor Lu.” Ouyang took another sip of her drink. “Honesty’s better than a well-meaning lie. I like people who are upfront like that.”

Lu Zhengming was at a loss. After a long pause, all he could manage was, “Then maybe… don’t bang your head against the wall?”

“I’m not. I’m just sitting at the base of it, watching him, and that’s enough.”

She looked entirely unbothered, as if the person in question wasn’t her at all. That made Lu Zhengming even more awkward. He could only sigh.

“Women…”

“Women and men are the same. Once you fall for someone, there’s no difference.”

Lu Zhengming choked on his drink again. He felt like he hadn’t even matured properly before becoming old. His edges were duller now. He overthought everything. And in the moments that mattered, he always seemed to make the kinds of choices he would later regret.

He still ached for that lost car full of paintings. But paintings could be redone. What he had been wrecking, one thing after another over the years, was his future. He had thoroughly ruined any chance of advancement at the academy.

He looked at Ouyang with unusual seriousness, and for the first time spoke to her like an elder offering guidance. “Don’t gamble your future away.”

“I’ll be careful.” Ouyang was just as serious. “Thank you, Professor Lu.”

“Cut the ‘Professor’ crap.”

Lu Zhengming scowled and glared at her, then went off to chat with other students about the field trip.

There had been no signal in the remote countryside all morning. It wasn’t until they returned to Dunhuang for lunch that the internet reconnected. Lu Zhengming had been full of emotion all morning and could not wait to share it with Yin Yan.

At the top of his chats was a new message:

Call me in ten minutes.

Yin Yan rarely used this kind of tone with him, especially after their relationship had crossed into new territory. But it was already afternoon in the plains while Dunhuang was still at midday. Lu Zhengming glanced at the time and broke out in a cold sweat. Hours had passed since the message was sent.

He quickly walked out of the restaurant, dialing Yin Yan’s number as he moved.

It took a long time for Yin Yan to answer. His voice was faint, and no matter what Lu Zhengming asked, he always replied with the same line, “it was nothing.”

The more he said that, the more anxious Lu Zhengming became. He didn’t believe for a second that everything was fine. He hung up and immediately sent a video call request. When the screen lit up, Yin Yan looked normal, which only made his unease worse.

“What happened? You’re not allowed to lie to me.”

Yin Yan was silent for a moment, staring at him. “Can I tell you when you’re back?”

Lu Zhengming glanced around. Some students were already finishing lunch and stepping out to smoke. He turned his back to the group to shield his phone, walking even farther away. Still uneasy, he pressed, “What is it? Why did you want me to call earlier?”

Yin Yan shook his head. He looked tired. “It’s already been taken care of.”

No matter how Lu Zhengming questioned him, he refused to say more and insisted on waiting until he returned. Lu Zhengming felt that his expression was growing thinner and thinner, like it might shatter at any second. He quickly promised, “Okay, okay, I won’t ask. We’ll talk when I get back. Just five more days. I’ll be home in five days. Until then, please keep your promise. Take good care of yourself, alright? Wait for me…”

He kept coaxing him, his voice growing softer and gentler. He nearly forgot he was supposed to be “the master” in their relationship.

Yin Yan finally smiled. “I’m a grown man.”

Lu Zhengming’s face flushed, and he lowered his voice, feigning a scolding tone. “Is that how you talk to me?”

Yin Yan’s smile deepened. “Yes, Master.”

“I mean it. I’m really worried. If you want to talk, you can tell me anytime, alright? I’m not just your ‘master.’ I’m your lover. Whatever happens, I’ll face it with you. I’m here. Always. You don’t have to shoulder it all by yourself…”

Thousands of kilometers away, Yin Yan stared at the screen, at the worried, sincere face doing its best to soften its expression to appear gentler. Suddenly, it felt like something inside him cracked open. Something soft began to pour out.

“Zhengming, I quit.”