Today is Sunday. The Little Shramanera has been incredibly busy lately; his boss is holding a solo art exhibition today, and he and another colleague have been preparing for this event for over ten days.
The company the Little Shramanera works for is dedicated to the promotion of traditional Chinese culture. Word is that the boss is a multi-talented woman whose husband is a high-ranking government official with significant influence in the city. The combination of her artistic talent and his political connections has allowed this media company to flourish in City A, enjoying immense prestige and a brilliant future. Whenever Wu Aizhen suggested as much, the Little Shramanera would often tell her that she was focusing on the “dark side” of things. He deeply admired his boss. “She is a master of the Four Arts—the zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting. She’s incredibly gifted,” he would say. “How could a woman like that depend on her husband? Even without him, the company would be just as successful and vibrant.”
Wu Aizhen gave a noncommittal smile. “You certainly have a lot of women to admire,” she remarked. “Actually, not that many—just two. Are you jealous?” The Little Shramanera leaned in with a mischievous, playful grin as he straightened his tie, giving her a light, tender kiss.
“Oh no! It’s late—I’ve got to run. Bodhisattva, you’ve got to come and show your support this morning. My boss has asked me about you several times; you’re quite a legend in her eyes. Remember, the opening is at ten!”
This scene had unfolded earlier that morning. But now, she was already back in her Master’s Zen Hall.
Just after ten, Wu Aizhen arrived at the exhibition hall. The crowd was still thin, with only a few people scattered about. As soon as she walked in, she spotted the Little Shramanera. He was standing with a man in glasses and a woman dressed in a qipao, gesturing as they discussed something. This was likely the “brilliant” boss he had mentioned. Sure enough, the Little Shramanera saw her and immediately waved her over to introduce them: “Dr. Wu, this is President Zheng.” “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Zheng Meiqin,” the woman in the qipao said with a hearty laugh. She firmly shook Wu Aizhen’s hand, her laughter and vibrant energy acting like a physical force. It was the kind of infectious warmth that made one feel like an old friend instantly, melting away any awkwardness. “I have admired you for a long time as well. I’m Wu Aizhen,” she replied. After the pleasantries, Zheng Meiqin insistently led her toward the “VIP section,” where Wu Aizhen saw several sets of cream-colored sofas and a tea table.
“President Zheng, Dr. Wu, please excuse me. I’ll leave you to chat while I take care of some business,” the man said. “Oh, I forgot to introduce you! Dr. Wu, this is Mi Lang, my Vice President,” Zheng Meiqin said. As she introduced him, a strange, fleeting look crossed her face as she glanced at Mi Lang. Wu Aizhen wondered if her eyes were perhaps a bit too sharp today. Mi Lang was tall with a pale complexion and naturally red lips, wearing a pair of stylish, tinted brown glasses. He offered a faint smile and a refined, scholarly bow, lightly grasping just the tips of Wu Aizhen’s fingers. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly through the lenses, but her intuition told her the gaze hidden behind those glasses was sinister. What a hypocrite, she thought.
Mi Lang walked away, his retreating figure radiating an air of effortless grace and charm. Standing beside him, the Little Shramanera was relegated to the background, appearing like an inexperienced, green youth who possessed nothing but his own innocence and enthusiasm.
Zheng Meiqin stared at Mi Lang’s back, momentarily lost in thought. For a few seconds, she seemed dazed, as if she wanted to call him back to give him one more reminder.
Zheng Meiqin had clearly put a great deal of thought into her appearance today. She wore a finely tailored, cream-colored qipao, featuring a lotus flower with yellow petals and pink-tipped buds that climbed diagonally up the left side. On her feet were matching cream-colored fabric sandals—slingbacks with peep-toes. What surprised Wu Aizhen most was the nail art on Zheng’s right big toe: a vibrant, multicolored butterfly that was so vivid it seemed ready to take flight from her toe. She wore a perfume that emitted a subtle scent, reminiscent of lotus leaves in a pond. Her hair looked incredibly soft, cascading over her shoulders in curls like a small waterfall. Standing to her side, Wu Aizhen noticed that the profile of her face, partially hidden by her hair, possessed a certain grit and resolve. Her makeup was light, though her mascara had been applied to pull her lashes long and sweep them into a slight upward curl. Zheng Meiqin was quite tall; even in flats, she stood at about 1.75 meters. Her figure wasn’t conventionally “graceful”—the qipao revealed hips that were a bit wide—and overall, she couldn’t be called a classic beauty. Yet, her entire being radiated an irresistible, compelling charm.
“I won’t sit just yet; I’d love to see your paintings first,” Wu Aizhen said. “Of course! I’ve been looking forward to hearing your critique. A psychologist surely has a very unique and sharp eye,” Zheng Meiqin replied, her smile as poised and generous as ever. “Ren Qingfei,” she said, addressing the Little Shramanera by his secular name, “go and help Mr. Mi look after the guests. I’ve invited several city officials and members of the cultural elite today; they’ll likely arrive a bit later. Go and lend a hand.”
The Little Shramanera gave Wu Aizhen a quick glance by way of goodbye, then gave a cheerful “Will do!” before heading off.
Zheng Meiqin accompanied Wu Aizhen through the gallery to admire the collection. The exhibition featured a mix of traditional Chinese paintings and Western styles, including several fusion pieces that blended the two. Wu Aizhen’s overall impression was that the creative vision behind the work was truly one-of-a-kind, yet the technical execution fell short; in some pieces, the lack of foundational skill resulted in obvious flaws.
Wu Aizhen came to a stop in front of a painting titled Woman and Cat. The piece depicted a nude woman in a state of sheer languor, basking in the sun while seated in a wide, oversized chair. Reclining against the backrest, she looked utterly at ease, her long, voluminous curls cascading down around her. Beneath the thick mane of hair, only half of her face was outlined—there were no eyes, nose, or mouth, just a single sweep of crimson blushing across her cheek. One of the woman’s arms was draped over the back of the chair, pillowed under her head, while her other hand rested on a cat. It was a white cat with leopard-like spots, lying prominently across her thighs with its eyes half-closed in a submissive daze. However, the cat’s tail was painted with a startling rigidity, its tip crooked sharply to one side. Noticing Wu Aizhen quietly scrutinizing the piece, Zheng Meiqin asked, “What do you think? This one is my personal favorite.” “Is the cat just pretending to sleep?” Wu Aizhen asked. Zheng Meiqin smiled but remained silent. “This cat has the seductive eyes of a fox and the ambition of a leopard, yet it exudes the laziness and alertness of a common house cat,” Wu Aizhen remarked. “A woman like that is quite terrifying.”
“Haha, a psychologist’s insight indeed! A woman like that would be a total shark in the boardroom.”
“I love the cleverness of a fox, the softness of a cat, and the agility and restraint of a leopard,” Wu Aizhen said. “But since they’re basking in the sunshine, why paint their cold, ruthless side? Look at the cat’s eyes—amidst all that charm, they’re filled with a chilling indifference.”
“Is it really that lifelike?” Zheng Meiqin laughed, tilting her head back to look into the cat’s eyes herself. Then, she laughed even harder. It was in that moment that Wu Aizhen suddenly noticed something: when Zheng Meiqin laughed, her eyes narrowed and slanted upward—looking remarkably like the eyes of a fox.
Zheng Meiqin stopped laughing and leaned in, whispering into her ear with a conspiratorial air: “The kind of woman you’re describing… she’s a femme fatale.” Wu Aizhen offered a faint, composed smile. “Are there truly ‘killers’ in the game of love? Unless one is genuinely heartless, the killer usually ends up suffering more frequent and far deeper wounds—wounds for which there is no cure.”
Just then, Mi Lang walked back in. He reported that several VIPs had arrived and were already settled in the small conference room nearby; he also noted that the arrangements for lunch were all set.
“Please, go ahead with your business—there’s no need to stay with me,” Wu Aizhen said hurriedly.
“Will you join us for lunch?”
“I have something else to attend to, so I won’t trouble you any further,” Wu Aizhen replied.
“Tong Li is a dear friend of mine; I’ve heard so many legendary stories about you from her already. Meeting you today, I can see your reputation is well-deserved. Dr. Wu, it’s been a true pleasure—I hope you’ll drop by whenever you have a moment in the future.”
“I will! I’ll be sure to visit when I have the chance,” Wu Aizhen replied with a few polite remarks of her own.
Zheng Meiqin and Mi Lang departed. At last, Wu Aizhen had the answer to Zheng Meiqin’s immediate warmth and sense of instant connection. Tong Li was a former patient of hers who had remained deeply grateful long after her recovery; she was now the wife of a high-ranking city official.
← Previous: (II) Memories of the Meditation Hall | Contents | Next: (IV) Romantic Attachment in a Humble Abode →