My sleep became sweet with last night's phone call. Suddenly opening my mouth, I inhale a rich breath, and the morning wind, accompanied by a salty mist, fills my throat and nostrils, reminding me of the warm, moist scent of Ye Xi. The smell from memory intoxicates me, lingering between half-dream and half-awake. I am unwilling to wake up, yet I strive to depict every detail of him with my most alert senses. What can capture the elusive Ye Xi? All things pass with the wind, only creation is eternal, and I must lock him into my music. Unconsciously shifting, I listen with upright ears to the sound of birds fragmented by the wind, their clear, melodious voices resembling those of Mediterranean shearwaters. My brother mentioned that their scientific name has three letters in common with "Yel," which means "wind" in Turkish, so their name is also my name. Only I know that their name is also Ye Xi's name. Their flight symbolizes the intention of love. Thus, I fell in love with their voices, longing to capture their calls even in the morning dreams. Such a melody is my song for Ye Xi. There's no need to add anything else; it will surely be the song of my new album.
People always need something to combat the uncertainty: the wandering of my family and the White family, the shifting of love, the alternation of life and death, the destruction of Crete, the disappearance of the Minoan civilization (prior to the civilization of Santorini), my weakness, Lin Huiru's warm and poisonous embrace, or Yexi's sudden disappearance. Whatever God gives us, we can only endure. At least for now, I can still indulge: in the ocean, olive leaves, pebbles, the sun, or the Mediterranean shearwaters. Among countless prototypes, I try to transcend in various ways, like all artists, recording the feelings of fleeting life with different media, attempting to turn the ephemeral into eternal, not seeking others' attention, just wanting them engraved in their memory until one day, a passerby resonates with these tomb-like works, traversing time and space, and everything is recreated. When I saw the terracotta paintings of Achilles and Patroclus, I knew that all separations and the destruction of the flesh are temporary. On the black glaze, the clear yellow patches, and the intricate lines woven into armor, their poses vividly come to life, with profound love condensed on each other's faces, the shy lover and the devoted friend. I gaze foolishly at the paintings on the terracotta, completely unaware of Bai Jingrui beside me.
"Such fascination." Bai Jingrui's casual remark pulled me out of my trance.
"Their poses are truly beautiful." My gaze remained fixed on the terracotta.
"Yes, they are lovers across the ages, childhood friends as well," Bai Jingrui said affectionately. "Patroclus and Achilles studied skills together in Chiron's hands when they were young."
"They are soulmates," I admitted openly, my eyes shining.
"They met in their tender youth. Young love is always the purest, but it's a pity Patroclus died too early," Bai Jingrui wrote the word "Apollo" on the glass with her hand. "At the funeral, Achilles cut off a lock of his hair, which was cremated along with Patroclus' body and other offerings."
I saw a shimmer in her eyes, like ripples on water.
"Miss Bai, are you also moved by their love?" I slipped the MD player I held into my pocket.
"They are legends, and legends are naturally beautiful," she turned to me, her long hair trembling momentarily in the breeze, a curtain of black concealing fleeting sorrow. "You listen to MD every day. What are you listening to?"
"Gould," I said the name with a slight tremor, my mind involuntarily thinking of Ye Xi.
"Gould and Bach, also soulmates across time," she smiled. "I wonder where Voyager 1 (Gould's Bach Goldberg Variations is considered the best version, and in 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1, aiming to explore extraterrestrial civilizations) has taken his Bach now."
"Miss Bai, do you usually enjoy listening to classical music?" I touched the MD player in my pocket, making sure it was safely stored.
"Occasionally," she hesitated slightly, "Last time, at your request, I went to Warsaw to listen to the final of the Chopin Piano Competition. Ye Xi is truly amazing. I used to admire Rubinstein's Chopin; he was remarkable, to possess such mastery and insight at such a young age. Chopin's piano pieces are always melancholic, but Ye Xi's rendition isn't quite melancholic; his music is pure beauty. Sometimes, people are blinded by emotions, immersed in self-indulgence, but in fact, the beauty of art transcends emotions."
I suddenly found myself at a loss for words, as if saying one more word would reveal too much. I glanced around and saw my parents and siblings standing just a meter away at another display window.
"Haha, I've talked too much, I'm sorry to embarrass you," before I could speak, Bai Jingrui hurriedly continued, "He's really talented. You're so lucky to have such a friend. It's a pity you were too busy with work at the time and didn't have the chance to go in person."
"There will be other opportunities in the future," I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
"Men always prioritize their careers, you're right," she suddenly chuckled bitterly. It seemed like she had more to say but stopped herself.
Men are expected to prioritize their careers, which is why Bai Jingrui can study East Asian studies, read many seemingly useless books, delve into ancient Greek mythology, and listen to classical music in her free time. When I chose music as my profession, I faced significant obstacles. Literature or art is often seen as the domain of women, yet those who are immortalized in history are predominantly men. No wonder she mentioned Proust and Woolf that day. Not only them, but also Xiao Hong, Qiu Miaojin, Sanmao, and many other women. Even Simone de Beauvoir didn't actively choose an open relationship with Sartre. This is the advantage of being a woman – not competing, not fighting, but indulging in one's own emotions. Using one's weakness to contribute to men's grand achievements. If a woman were to fall in love with Ye Xi, perhaps she would only want to get close to him, dedicate everything to him, help him achieve his musical dreams, rather than wanting to be with him. So, I'm not worried that Ye Xi will fall in love with women. Even if he does, there's no one who can rival him. Women are always looking up, while men are always gazing down at them.
But Bai Jingrui is different. I know she clearly appreciates the allure of these seemingly useless things. When she speaks of praising men, her words are always incredibly soft, tinged with the utmost coldness, as if bombarding the male order with sugar-coated bullets. She praises same-sex relationships, rejects her brother's advances, yet doesn't fall into meaningless rebellion, nor does she give up her beloved profession to prove herself in the "male domain." I have a feeling she understands my situation. Perhaps hastily entrusting her with a token was the best choice.
"What about women?" I ventured to ask.
"Women? Elegant and beautiful," she tugged at the sleeve of her black short-sleeved shirt, subtly shifting her body.
I knew she didn't want to engage in deeper conversation with me. Her watertight response showed a defensive posture.
"What were you two talking about?" My brother stood behind me, glancing back and forth between me and Bai Jingrui.
"Just trivial matters," Bai Jingrui buried a smile and walked away, hiding her head.
I speculate about her future; she surely won't follow in my mother's footsteps, taking on her husband's surname, bearing three children, and basking in our family's honor as her own. I watch her silhouette—black long hair, black short sleeves, black trousers, Chanel crossbody bag—vanish around the corner of the black gallery. In a corner of my heart, an evil sense of relief blossoms. I think of Katherine's fondness for me, Lin Huiru's crimson nails, Ye Xi's sweat beads; I would surely not be blamed. Promiscuity makes me more charming. But Bai Jingrui, she can only rely on her nobility for allure. Does she also have a fire within? She must, otherwise why would she be engrossed in vast books, why would she become emotional when speaking of Greek gods? Why does she seem like a flame wrapped in ice, constrained by the expectations of femininity? Or perhaps she simply disdains desire altogether. I chuckle, realizing my own darkness. I am just projecting my own experiences onto her. The torment of desire, for me, is so scorching, yet I attribute it to loneliness. I think of the words of my predecessors, men are always adept at finding excuses for their mistakes. I too hide behind this identity, feeling justified. When my conscience condemns me, I can still retreat into the world of music.
Back in Taipei, Zhang Hongsheng (Yan Feng's agent) requested a sit-down with me, and I engaged in conversation with him confidently, drawing from my experience at the Acropolis in Greece. He remained his usual self, not asking questions directly, and this time, I refrained from sharing my true opinions proactively. I simply talked about how my trip to Greece had brought me joy and fresh energy, ensuring him that I wouldn't be bothered by rumors anymore, nor would I harbor any resentment towards Song Yaowen. I expressed confidence in my new album and how my thoughts on music were flowing abundantly, and so on. I couldn't discern any emotion from Zhang Hongsheng's face, obscured further by the smoke from his cigarette. Sometimes he squinted as if the smoke were preventing him from opening his eyes fully, with faint wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead. These wrinkles made me uneasy, reminding me of Zhang Hongsheng's maturity and wisdom. I found myself repeatedly picking up my water glass, drinking heavily.
"Yan Feng, you're so young. Youth is truly a wonderful thing," he probably said about five times.
I could only smile repeatedly.
"Traveling is beneficial for work. You should go out more in the future, even if it's just for a day or two," he pinched the cigarette butt between his index and middle fingers, pressed it firmly into the transparent square glass ashtray until the last spark extinguished.
"Yes, indeed," I thought to myself. With Zhang Hongsheng backing me up, it would be easier for me to visit Ye Xi every month.
"Where are you going this month?" He crossed one leg over the other, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back. I could see another layer of eyelids in his thick eyelids.
"Berlin," I replied expressionlessly.
"Oh, that's far," he took another cigarette from the Marlboro pack, "You just went to Greece last month, and now you're going to Europe again this month for only three days. Aren't you tired?"
"I went to see some exhibits last time, but they turned out to be replicas. This time, I want to see the real deal," I thought of the terracotta panel depicting Achilles and Patroclus. I must go see it with Ye Xi. The thought made a smile almost spill from my lips.
"You're so happy. You guys really love civilizations from before Christ, one Mesopotamia, and what? The Parthenon? Hahaha," Zhang Hongsheng laughed heartily, mentioning the work of another popular artist, which left a sour taste in my mouth.
"Not really, I don't write those kinds of songs," I thought to myself. All my songs are just me pouring my heart out to Ye Xi.
"Right, you have your own thing with Chink Out Chinese hip-hop and blues. It's a good idea. Keep it up," Zhang Hongsheng straightened up, "Take it easy this month. Next month, you have 5-6 events lined up, plus a beverage company's ad. You'll need to go over the contracts yourself. By October, all the masters should be ready, we'll need to finalize the packaging design, and the company is planning to have you shoot a music video. Any ideas on your end?"
"I'll think about it when I'm in Berlin this time."
"Okay," he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
Berlin in September was already quite cold. As soon as I got off the plane, I noticed that the birch leaves on the roadside had already fallen, and there was a thin layer of snow piled up along the streets. I saw Ye Xi in the distance, alone, wearing a black coat over his windbreaker, listening to his MD, pacing beside the Mercedes-Benz. I hurried towards him, and he smiled. He said he had something to talk to me about, and it definitely wasn't bad news. He looked so beautiful.
"You are so beautiful!" Finally, I was close to him again, finally embraced him again. I wanted to kiss those cold lips; he had ignored me for so long, a whole five months. Why would he think that after all this time, I would still be kissing him again? Yes, he just assumed it, because my love for him was always taken for granted.
I kissed him deeply, ignoring the gaze of others. I pushed him into the back seat of the Mercedes-Benz; I couldn't bear the torment of longing, the desire for Ye Xi. I wanted to tear off his thick clothes, press against his skin tightly, close to his heart.
"So urgent?" He held me, motionless, "Let's go back to my apartment first."
I released my hands pressing against his chest; he sat up, and I pushed him back onto the seat. He lay flat, and I tightly held his hands. My hair hung down, obscuring my view, but I faintly saw his curly hair scattered around. He turned his head, his straight nose like a Greek youth sculpture. His skin appeared even whiter against the cold air. I held his lips with mine, and he instinctively adjusted his gaze with my kiss. I parted from his lips, and our noses were just a finger's width apart; my hair touched his face, guiding me to see every pore, every eyelash, and the soul behind his chestnut-colored iris. His beautiful eyes teased my desires; my fine strands of hair turned into thousands of tendrils. I imagined myself diving into his soul. He looked at me coldly, his slightly parted lips tinged with a hint of blood, like fallen peach blossoms against his snow-white skin, and I could only pick them up with my lips, united with his.
"It's too cold here. Let's go back. There's heating," he said, his breath forming milky mist, invisible fragrance lingering in the air.
I let go of him, and we moved to the front seats, fastening our seatbelts. He stepped on the gas, and the car sped up to 100 miles per hour. I thought he must be feeling the same as me right now, just wanting to get back to his secret room and intertwine with me until countless tomorrows.
His apartment in Berlin was located at the southwest corner of the Keximani Church, a building from the New Art Movement period. After World War II, many old buildings in Berlin were destroyed, and buildings from this era were rare. It was only a ten-minute walk from the Berlin Wall. The 217-square-meter top-floor flat had Bauhaus-style interior design, with slanting floor-to-ceiling windows neatly arranged. The entire attic was bathed in light from the southeast, west, and south, making the white walls translucent. The edges of the oak floor were warm, and the wood burning in the fireplace emitted a crimson flame, warming the entire room. I felt my face start to flush.
"You're also wearing a black wool coat," Ye Xi slowly set down his backpack, one hand smoothing the edge of his coat.
"Yeah. Loving you makes me become you. Sometimes I imagine myself as you." I slipped my hand into his coat, then through his windbreaker, and dove into his blue cashmere sweater. I opened a gap in his snug cotton t-shirt, and my icy fingertips touched his scorching back. I had to make him make up for these lonely months.
I flipped him over, pinning him onto the wooden floor, desire burning fiercely through the seams of our clothes. I struggled to part his skin, the floor creaking beneath us as his knees collided with the hard surface. My fingers ran through his hair, his sweat intertwining with my fingers, trickling down slowly. As the floorboards creaked faster, he couldn't help but moan, saying he was in pain. I told him he hurt my heart, and my heart ached. I asked him if he remembered what I told him, that every time he visited a city, it was a collision of love for me. This time it was Berlin, where would it be next time? He had to tell me, or I wouldn't be able to find him again. I would go mad, chasing him to the ends of the earth, loving him until I bled dry. I lowered my head and saw a trace of blood seeping from below, unable to distinguish if it was his blood or mine. Would his blood flow from the wound in my heart? This redness, like Lin Huiru's red toes, was so glaring. I saw a few deeper spots in the black wool coat I had lifted, tears that I had shed. Blood and tears blurred my vision simultaneously. I sighed deeply, letting go of the desires of these past months along with the blood and tears, all pouring into his body.
As our breaths calmed, he remained silent. I pressed against his back, a few inches above the floor. I saw a black short tube lying in the corner under the sofa, adorned with gold at both ends. I felt like I had seen something similar in Lin Huiru's bag. It was a lipstick.