Two Names

Kiryu has painted nine versions of the same person and none of them is honest. The tenth canvas is on the easel, blank, on a Sunday in March, in the pale grey light of a Tokyo art studio. He is a third-year oil painter. He is in love with two people he does not name: Hasumi, a fourth-year printmaker whose right hand carries a scar from a year he has not yet spoken of, and Kanade, his childhood friend who has been listening to a colour called Naples yellow for eight years. He paints over the thing he is painting over. He says nothing. He makes technically excellent paintings of nothing in particular and lives in the careful safety of his own not-yet. What follows is a year. A studio in spring. A portrait in autumn. A residency in winter. A piece of paper on a table that has not yet been opened. The painting that emerges from this year is called Two Names. It does not depict the people. It depicts the space between them. When Kanade finally sees it, after eight years of not asking, he says three sentences and walks out. When Hasumi finally sees it, he says it frightens him. This is a quiet novel. It does not end with a confession. It ends with a hand, and a colour, and a year that has finally begun. Read the free preview chapters online on SweetNovel.