Winner

The painting competition was drawing to an end. With smug satisfaction, I took a last glimpse of the elaborate watercolour displayed on my easel before handing it in. Unfolded in front of me was yet a vernal lakeside scenery--clear blue lapping waves blended with tender green sprouting grass--that I had taken as a source of inspiration. I felt confident of winning this time.

Light-heartedly I pottered along the sandy shore until, all of a sudden, I noticed Zoe strolling towards me, fingers interlocked with a fellow schoolgirl. No sooner had I recognised her than I turned away from them in a grunt of uneasiness. The thought of Zoe alone had the effect of momentarily clouding my brow. She was not only a talented girl pulling off one success after another in various kinds of painting contests, but also the main impediment to my goal of reaching for champion. As a permanent runner-up to her, I was used to avoiding spontaneously.

“Hi, Maal!” Zoe’s saccharine voice interrupted my thoughts. I reluctantly turned to face her, greeting her back while swearing under my breath. Across her fair face hung a pair of comically huge spectacles, behind which two observant eyes shone. “Are those the latest fashion?” I asked myself, for she had never worn glasses before.

“You’ve drawn very well today!” she continued in a lively way that was interpreted by me as coy appreciation. I thus repulsed that remark in a tone of irrepressible sarcasm, “Of course I did a good job, but how could it be on par with those destined to get the first place forever?”

I’d barely finished this sentence when the serious consequence emerged. Her eyes dilated and brimmed with tears. Zoe left in a fit of pique without any words of protest, which I was indeed expecting; her flustered friend scurried off closely after, trying to console her by repeating “Crying is bad for your eyes” at full volume. For a moment I could do nothing but vainly put on a brave face on this depressing incident, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers who were all throwing sidelong looks of reproach into my direction.

I was still in a state of discomposure almost one hour later, when the competition results were about to be announced. Silence was reigning this 1000-seat hall filled to capacity, and I had a hard time locating my arch-rival, now resting peacefully with her head buried in crossed arms. “I’m sorry, Zoe,” I murmured with a sigh, “ but I’ll have to win.”

Soon the works of the top three places were carried onto the central stage, mounted to a white board and carefully covered by cloth. The audience held their breath--and I could barely keep the spasm of painful longing in check--as the paintings were unveiled. In no time, everyone marvelled and let out gasp in appreciation, while I froze, staring at the crowned piece, which turned out to be Zoe’s, again.

Stiffly I scuffed onto the stage to have the first runner-up certificate passed to me, before Zoe trotted next to me to uphold the much-anticipated trophy in a round of thunderous applause. Putting my hands together most unwillingly, I meanwhile stole another look at our watercolours: Zoe’s drawing nicely portrayed the view of the lake with smooth and accurate sketch, but it appeared far less striking than mine because of its dull tint as well as occasionally unrealistic colour choice. How could the judges point such a work as the winner? My downcast spirit instantly soured into a fever of jealous anger.

The drowning clap dragged on and on as if it was endless, till my agitation couldn’t be constrained any more. Recklessly I burst out of the hall, leaving the door behind me to bang loudly. And then, outside, it was absolute tranquillity apart from the patter of the rain. “Calm down,” my latent consciousness demanded, but that was virtually impossible right after undergoing a succession of unfairness and unpleasantness. I merely plodded alone on the lakeshore, gazing ahead through a mist of tears.

Zoe’s schoolmate uttered a little shriek when she saw me drenched in the rain. “I’m sorry, but Zoe’s still surrounded by those troublesome reporters, so she asked me to come out to see if you were still around.” She made an effort to make her tone as plain as possible. “Please don’t hold any grudge against her.”

Surely I didn’t. This cool drizzle had almost put up the burning flame of my fury; in fact, I was too preoccupied to ponder over these subtle feelings.

“Zoe is suffering from colour-blindness…” she hesitated over those words I would least expect, “her world is fading, though she can still recognise a few tints with the aid of those funny-looking glasses.”

“But the judges awarded her the first prize--just to encourage her?” I voiced my query sulkily.

She haltingly nodded her head, “In fact she never intended to reveal this secret to anyone except me, but I couldn’t help telling this to others to have more people sympathising with her. How could one who is unable to see the world fully draw it well?”

The blushed girl was still passionate with mixed feelings of commiseration and regret when I caught sight of the trophy-holder forcing her way out of the hall. I displayed nothing but a rueful smile. She, in turn, showed me a brightening and unclouding of countenance, which clearly presaged a long spell of amity ahead.

Soon, we both would be winners.