From Bao, I had learned that Yao started as a highly promising aircraft engineer in a major state-owned enterprise after graduation from Nanjing Aeronautical University, married a very talented woman after a romantic encounter in a cruise, and won a lot of prizes for his artworks before his mind went astray and had to resign from his job.
“How did you return to Songzi to live all by yourself?” I asked.
“I had a car accident and broke my ankle permanently,” Yao answered, in a calm and matter-of-fact voice.
“When and why did his wife leave him with his daughter?” I asked Bao in a low voice, who answered my question simply by saying, “She disappeared once and for all without even going through a divorce procedure soon after the accident.”
“I don’t remember having a wife or daughter,” Yao barged in, apparently having overheard our conversation. “All I know is my paintings are as good as Van Gogh’s.”
Yao was still living in his adolescent dream despite his old age, I said to myself, remembering how passionately he had used to be talking about his artistic pursuits, and how determined he had been to emulate his Dutch mentor.
“It’s good of you to stay gold, dude,” I told Yao in a sincere and appreciating tone. “Will you give me your best writings so I can publish a few books for you?” I offered. Since I had a small press of my own in Vancouver and a lot of editorial and publishing experiences, this was the least I could do for my oldest friend.
“The problem is, all my writings are casual,” Yao explained. “I’ve never got any time to edit them.”
“What’re they mainly about?”
“He has written on every topic, ranging from specific historical studies, art criticism, cultural observations and folklore to contemporary politics and international relations,” Bao told me on Yao’s behalf.
“How about compiling your best writings into a quotation book?” I suggested.
“Nah. I just want to concentrate on writing,” Yao replied. “Most important, though, I want to paint a lot of more and better pictures than Van Gogh did. After I die, people will recognize me and collect my artworks.”
To me, Yao seemed as clear-minded as Bao and myself. But how come people keep saying that he’s a lunatic homebird who’s been suffering from severe mental disorders? From his demeanor, he is obviously able to think logically, speak intelligently, and move around properly. He tends to show too much enthusiasm and take too much pride in his creations when it comes to fine arts or literary writing, as Bao has told me beforehand, but isn’t it characteristic of any “normal” artist?
When we finished our dinner, I asked Bao to send Yao back to his spacious condo unit bought by the latter’s younger brother, who had just retired as Head of Hubei Provincial Department of Health.
“Fare well, dudes,” I said to both of them. “I’ll see you when I see you!”
“I’m in it with all my heart!” Yao said, sounding as devoted to his art as Van Gogh himself, though a bit out of tune.
