Bronze and Sunflower Page 3

  Best of all, the buffalo loved to lower its head and invite Bronze to grab its horns and climb up onto its back. It wanted Bronze to ride through the fields of Damaidi like a king, with all the other children watching. And Bronze was happy to oblige.

  As he rode on the buffalo, high above the world, all he could see was the sky, the reeds swaying like waves and the windmills towering in the distance. Then, when no one was looking, he would wriggle down and lie on the buffalo’s back and let it carry him wherever it liked. But Bronze was lonely. As lonely as the only bird in the sky, the only fish in the river, the only horse on the steppes.

  Until the little girl appeared, and he realized he was not the loneliest child in the world.

  After that, Bronze would take his buffalo to graze by the river. And Sunflower’s father would tell her to go and play by the tree, so they both had a friend on the other side of the water.

  Sunflower would sit beneath the old elm, resting her chin on her knees, and gaze quietly across to the opposite bank. Bronze would do as he always did when grazing the buffalo: he’d cut some grass and guide the buffalo to the best patch. Every now and then he’d glance over at her.

  The days passed, and Bronze wanted to do something for the little girl across the water. He would have liked to sing her one of the songs that the village children sang, if only he could sing. He would have liked to ask her to come hunting for duck eggs in the reeds, if only he could express himself. In the end, he turned his riverbank into a stage and performed for her. He had an audience of one. And his audience always sat in the same way, with her chin resting on her knees.

  Bronze would ride on the buffalo, then pull the rope tight and squeeze his heels against its belly. The buffalo would speed off, its hoofs clattering along the riverbank, kicking up mud.

  Sunflower barely moved, her head turning just enough to follow him with her eyes.

  The buffalo charged into the reeds, causing them to rustle and sway. When it seemed they had disappeared, Bronze pulled on the rope, turned the buffalo around and returned, galumphing along the riverbank. It was all for show, and he was the showman. Sometimes the buffalo roared to the sky, sending tremors across the water. They would run back and forth like this a few times, then Bronze would flip himself off the buffalo, toss the rope to one side and lie down in the grass. The buffalo would pant and flap its ears, then lower its head and begin to graze leisurely.

  It was during one of these quiet restful times that Sunflower heard a sound she had never heard before. It was Bronze whistling through a reed leaf, and it seemed to go on for ever. She looked up at the sky, and saw a flock of ducks flying off to the west.

  Bronze climbed onto the buffalo and stood on its back whistling with the reed leaf. She worried that he might fall if it started to move, but the boy was remarkably steady. Then he threw aside his whistle and did a handstand on the buffalo’s head, opening and closing his legs. Sunflower was enchanted. But when Bronze slipped off the buffalo’s head, she sprang to her feet in shock.

  After what felt like an age he reappeared, covered head to foot in mud, two bright eyes peeping out through the grime. Sunflower burst out laughing.

  When the sun slipped deeper over the furthest part of the river, the two children headed for home. Sunflower sang as she skipped along. Bronze sang too – in his heart.

  On summer evenings, when there was a southerly breeze, Sunflower’s father caught the scent of sunflowers wafting over the river from Damaidi. They were his favourite plants, and he loved their fragrance as they grew in the fields. They smelled so different from the ones that grew in pots. It was the scent of the sun’s breath and it made him feel warm and alive. He had a special bond with sunflowers, they’d played such a big part in his life, such a big part in his work.

  Before he had come to the Cadre School he had been a sculptor, and his most successful works had been sunflowers cast in bronze. It was the best material for making sunflowers, he felt. Its cold gleam had an ancient air about it that touched something primitive inside him. The coolness of the bronze and the warmth of the sunflowers came together to create a new life. He loved the vibrancy and serenity of these flowers. He could lose himself in them and lose all track of time.

  His bronze sunflowers were famous. They stood in the centre of the square and had become the symbol of the city. Gradually, they started to decorate and define it. They appeared on the gates of hotels, on the walls of buildings, on the columns of colonnades, on the railings in the park. The tallest sunflower reached three metres, the smallest no more than a centimetre. Some pieces had a single stalk, some two; some were groups of four or five, or more – all leaning at different angles, each one slightly different. Then sunflowers were produced as handicrafts and laid out on shop counters for tourists to buy. They were made in workshops large and small, as many different sunflowers as you could imagine, but always in bronze. Sunflower’s father thought it was too much, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.

  It was this passion for sunflowers that inspired him to give his daughter a country girl’s name. To him, it was beautiful, evoking the thought of sunshine lighting up the world. And his daughter seemed to love the name too. When he called her, she would shout back, “I’m here, Sunflower’s here!”

  Sunflowers were in his heart. They were in his soul. And here, in this bleak part of the world, he caught their beautiful scent. As evening fell and dew damp filled the air, the plants and flowers of Damaidi released their perfume. And her father could discern among all these different fragrances the particular scent of sunflowers.

  “Not just one or two,” he told his daughter, “but hundreds and thousands.”

  Sunflower sniffed the air, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not pick up the scent. Her father smiled, then took her hand. “Let’s go to the river,” he said.

  The river was calm that night. The moon hung low in the sky, sprinkling silver across the water. Fishing lamps flickered by the overnight moorings. If you stared at the lamps long enough, they went still, and it seemed, instead, as if the sky and the earth, the reeds and the river were moving, as though that summer night in Damaidi was a dream, an illusion. Her father drew the air into his nose. The scent of sunflowers from across the river was even stronger. Sunflower thought she could smell it too.

  They sat by the river for a long time, until the moon began to move to the west. As they walked back, the air was thick and damp and filled with night scent. They felt heady – perhaps tired or intoxicated by the perfume – as though the world was drifting and floating around them.

  When Sunflower woke the next morning, her father had already left the house. He’d crept out of bed while it was still dark, picked up his easel, brushes and paint, and followed the scent of the sunflowers through the night, across the river, to Damaidi. As he left the Cadre School, he asked his good friend Uncle Ding, the gatekeeper, to keep an eye on Sunflower.

  He walked through Damaidi village and on through another stretch of reeds, until he came to the sunflower fields. They were enormous, beyond his wildest dreams. He had seen sunflower fields before, but never as big as this. He climbed to a high place to look out over them. They went on and on for ever. It took his breath away.

  He chose the perfect place to set up his easel and unfolded his seat. A red semi-circle was emerging on the horizon, like a mushroom pushing through the earth.

  Sunflowers were such wonderful plants: those long, rough pencil-straight stalks holding up large round flower heads, which tilted up and down like smiling faces. When night fell, the sunflowers stood solemn and still in the moonlight mist, like people, like an army.

  These sunflower fields had been created from reed marshes. The soil was rich, and the sunflowers grew vigorously. Sunflower’s father had never seen them so tall, with such thick stalks, or such large, strong flower heads, as big as enamel washbasins.

  In the early morning, before the sun’s rays crept over the land, this forest of sunflowers was drenched in
dew. Droplets of water hung like jewels from the heart-shaped leaves and the drooping flower heads.

  The sun rose higher in the sky. On the ground, the sunflowers seemed like giants, with feeling and sensitivity, with lives and minds of their own. Their faces were turned to their god. They were the sun’s children. All day long they followed it, moving imperceptibly, full of quiet love and devotion.

  Sunflower’s father watched as the sun rose and the flower heads woke and gradually straightened. When the sun floated high in the sky, it charged through their soft, crumpled petals, filling them with energy. They opened, bigger and brighter than ever.

  A circle of gold spread its light over the sunflower fields. Petals of gold fluttered and dazzled. As the huge sun shone silently down and the little suns looked silently up, Sunflower’s father was overwhelmed with emotion. These flowers, so childlike and innocent, were, at the same time, so resilient and strong. He loved them with all his heart.

  He thought about the city, and his sunflowers cast in bronze. He felt as if he was the only person on this earth who truly understood them. What he saw that day was impossible to describe in words. He must think about them, understand them, and one day, when he returned to the city, he would make bronze sunflowers that would be even more striking, even more graceful than before.

  As the heat of the sun increased, the heat in the fields rose too. The sun burned, and the petals danced about like flames. He daubed paint onto the canvas, stopping now and then as the magical scene before him absorbed all his attention.

  At midday the sun’s rays were at their strongest and the sunflowers were at their most magnificent. The flower heads competed for the sun’s attention and seemed to grow ever taller. They were like balls of fire burning beneath the blue sky. Against the white feathery reeds in the background, these golden balls of fire seemed even more vivid and alive. A pale lilac haze shimmered above the sunflower fields. Birds flying through the haze shimmered too, their shapes shifting as though in a dream.

  Sunflower’s father painted constantly, splashing paint onto one sheet after another. He didn’t want to paint with precision, he wanted to paint with his heart; to open his heart and let everything out.

  He forgot about his daughter, forgot about lunchtime, forgot about everything. The only thing in his heart and mind was the vast expanse of sunflowers in front of him.

  Eventually, he grew tired. His eyes, scanning the field, came to rest upon a single sunflower. He looked at it carefully: the beautiful flower head was bursting with seeds at the front, and the back seemed green, until he looked more closely and saw the soft, white centre. Behind the petals were the light, triangular sepals, shorter than the petals, overlapping to make a green zigzag trim. The flower head itself was concave, the seeds growing darker towards the middle, which was little more than brown fluff. In this one flower alone there was almost too much for him to take in. He had to make one!

  He felt fortunate that his life was linked to these plants. He felt lucky and rich. He thought of his city, and the pleasures of life reflected in his bronze sunflowers.

  He was preparing to head back, when he had an idea. He put down his easel, leapt into the sunflowers and started walking. The plants were taller than he was, and the flower heads towered above him. He walked and walked and was soon submerged in the sea of gold. When he finally reappeared, he was covered from head to toe in golden pollen. Even his eyebrows were golden. Bees buzzed around his head and made him feel dizzy.

  Sunflower’s father walked back through Damaidi. His footsteps were slower than before. It was afternoon, and people were out working on the land. There was almost no one in the village, just a few lazy dogs stretched out in the sun.

  He felt strange, as though his feet were sticking to the streets, as though a mysterious force was urging him to stop and explore.

  Damaidi was a large village. There were a few brick houses with tiled roofs, but most were thatched. The newer buildings were thatched with wheat straw, which glistened like gold thread and dazzled the eye. In the summer sunlight, a blue haze hovered over the rooftops. The streets were narrow and paved with dark bricks, many of them old, uneven and worn smooth.

  It was a plain, ordinary village. To Sunflower’s father it seemed strange and familiar at the same time. It was as though he had something to tell this village – something important that he had to pass on. But everything was a blur. A dog raised its head and watched as he walked past. It had a kind look in its eyes, which was unusual for dogs round there. He nodded at it, and the dog seemed to nod back. He smiled to himself. A flock of pigeons flew over the village, casting a dark shadow over the houses. They circled above him a few times before landing on one of the roofs.

  By the time he left the village, he had been walking for a while. He glanced back, still with the vague feeling there was something he should leave with the village, though he couldn’t say what it was. Only when he’d walked back through the reeds did this peculiar feeling begin to subside.

  As he reached the river, he looked for his daughter under the old elm on the opposite bank. But there was no sign of her. Maybe Bronze had come over and they’d gone off to play. He needed to see her. He felt guilty: he hardly had any time in the day to spend with her, and when he did, he spent it thinking about bronze sunflowers. He had let her down. But at the same time he felt a warmth gurgling inside him like spring water. As he sat on the bank waiting for a boat that could take him across the river, his mind filled with memories of his daughter. After her mother died, he’d brought her up by himself. There were only two things in his life now: bronze sunflowers and his daughter. She was such a clever, beautiful, adorable little girl! When he thought of her, his heart melted. One memory after another floated before his eyes, adding layer upon layer to this summer scene.

  He remembered the time he’d been working late one evening on his bronze sunflowers, and his daughter was tired. He’d carried her to bed, tucked her in, patted her shoulder and whispered softly, “Good little Sunflower, go to sleep. Sleep, little Sunflower, go to sleep.”

  She’d opened her eyes wide and looked at him. But he couldn’t stay; he was worrying about the sunflower that he still had to finish. When he couldn’t get her to sleep, he had to leave her on her own.

  “Baba’s got to work. Try and go to sleep,” he had said before going back to his workshop. She didn’t cry or make a fuss. After a while he went to check on her. He tiptoed to the door and heard her little voice saying, “Good little Sunflower, go to sleep. Baba’s got to work. Try and go to sleep.” And when he peered round the doorway, he saw her gently patting her shoulder as he had done. Eventually, her little hand stopped on her chest, like a tired bird resting in a tree. She had put herself to sleep. He’d gone back to his workshop, but when he thought of his daughter asleep in her bed, he couldn’t help smiling.

  Sometimes his daughter would fall asleep while she was playing. He would carry her in his arms, her arms and legs flopping, and when he laid her on the bed, a smile would creep from the corner of her mouth and ripple across her face. To him, her face was like a flower, a peaceful flower.

  When thunder crashed outside, she’d burrow her head in his chest and curl up tight. He’d press his cheek to her head and pat her trembling back with his large, firm hand. “Don’t be afraid,” he’d say, “the thunder’s telling us that spring is coming. When spring comes, the grass will be green and the flowers will open, and the butterflies and bees will come.” Gradually, he would calm her. But when she peered out and saw a streak of blue lightning split the heavens, and the trees bending in the wind, she would hide her face in his chest again. He would comfort her until the thunder and lightning no longer frightened her and she could look out of the window and watch the storm in the sky.

  Day by day, his daughter grew. He knew her better than he knew himself. He knew her face, her arms and legs, her temperament. Recently he’d been working so hard that he mostly saw her when she was asleep, when he tucked her arms und
er the cover. Her skin was soft as warm silk. As he lay in bed thinking of bronze sunflowers, he would suddenly be overcome with love. He would wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, taking in her smell as he nuzzled her porcelain-smooth cheeks.

  In daylight, when he saw her skin as flawless as the purest white jade, the thought of even a scratch on it tormented him. He insisted she took care as she played. But she did not always do as she was told, and sometimes she scraped her arm, nicked her finger or grazed her knee. Once, when she was not looking where she was going, she’d tripped and cut her face on a brick. It bled, bright red. He had been angry and terrified. He couldn’t bear to think of a scar on her beautiful face. For days, he nursed her wound, full of worry, until the skin healed and her face was like porcelain again, and he could relax.

  Now he was desperate to see her. The feeling was intense, as though he might never see her again. As though he had something urgent to tell her.

  She did not come. She must be out with Bronze. He liked Bronze, and hoped the pair would play together often. He felt she was safe with him. But at that very moment his need to see her was overwhelming.

  He saw a little boat by the shore, one he’d seen earlier that day. It was too small for him, so he decided to wait for a bigger one. Time passed but no boats came. As the sun moved to the west, he decided to cross the river in the little boat after all.

  The little boat carried him, and his easel and his materials, steadily across the water. It was the first time he’d steered a boat, and he enjoyed it. He punted with the bamboo pole and the boat glided easily across the water.