〈Epic Fantasy Novel: The Paradise Hotel〉2

Author: Chen Qingyang

[I] Arrival at Lake Lucerne

A minivan stopped by the shore of Lake Lucerne. Lin Xiaoyang got out of the car, studying a French rental notice pinned on a bulletin board:

"Paradise Inn, a self-service inn for artists. Quiet environment, reasonable rates. 20 Swiss francs per week…"

Lin Xiaoyang muttered to himself, “20 francs a week? Cheaper than a motel. Let’s go with this place.”

He tore off the small slip with the contact number and returned to the car.

The minivan slowly drove along the lakeside road, flanked by fiery red maple trees that twisted like two passionate dragons. Between every two maples was a rectangular flowerbed planted with ornamental flowers of various colors.

Pedestrians strolled along the roadside in small groups, while young men and women rode bicycles leisurely. Some families were resting under the shade of trees; some lay in hammocks, others sat on the grass chatting. Children chased butterflies or played tag with each other.

Following the directions along the lakeside road, Lin Xiaoyang finally found the inn. It was nestled in a dense, shaded area by the lake, accessible via a sloping side road. Towering mahogany trees—centuries old—formed a verdant canopy. The inn, partially hidden among these trees, resembled a medieval European aristocratic castle at first glance.

Lin Xiaoyang murmured, “This must have been a noble estate back then.”

To the left was a small dock with three or four yachts moored. On the right, following the signs, he climbed a small uphill path to the parking lot. After parking, he took his luggage from the passenger seat and walked into a garden blooming with flowers of every hue. The garden was adorned with more than a dozen marble statues in various styles, though Lin Xiaoyang didn’t linger, eager to reach the front desk and book a room.

The reception was on the right side of the grand, high-ceilinged hall. On the left was a café with a good view overlooking much of Lake Lucerne. Only two or three Westerners were seated there, chatting quietly. The reception desk, entirely made of mahogany, was large but staffed by a single elderly man with white hair, presumably the inn’s proprietor.

Lin Xiaoyang approached the desk. “I’d like to rent a room.”

The innkeeper, Robert, handed him a form.
“You should fill in your data sheet,” he said.

Lin Xiaoyang took a pen from his jacket pocket, completed the form, and handed it back.
“This is your room key,” Robert said.

Having finished the check-in, Lin Xiaoyang picked up his luggage and the key, then ascended the spiral staircase to the fifth floor.

Arriving at Room 504, he opened the door. The ceiling light illuminated the room, followed by Mozart’s violin concerto. The soothing melody instantly relaxed him.

In the sitting room hung a large oil painting depicting an outdoor concert. Three or four aristocratic ladies in pearl-studded gowns sat on chairs, surrounded by gentlemen. Six or seven musicians in tailcoats performed various instruments, while in the background a plaza hosted an open-air stage with a fountain.

Lin Xiaoyang thought, “This must be part of a private collection.”

Approaching the painting, he noticed the artist’s signature—written in Chinese: Huang Lihua.
“Could he be Chinese?” Lin Xiaoyang wondered.

He studied the painting for a while, then moved to the window. Light streamed diagonally through the beige floor-to-ceiling windows, falling across the expansive Persian rug. The suite included a bedroom, a sitting room, a study, and a bathroom. Lin Xiaoyang entered the study, noticing a piano and a mahogany desk set. A vase with fresh lilies rested atop the piano, evidently just replaced.

From the window, Lin Xiaoyang admired the castle’s courtyard, paved with red bricks in a square layout. An open-air stage and fountain matched the painting exactly. The ground floor featured long corridors encircling flowerbeds.

“This is truly a perfect place for writing,” he murmured.

Lying back in the armchair by the window, Lin Xiaoyang gazed across Lake Lucerne, shrouded in light mist. Memories of a quarrel with his girlfriend, Xie Huijun, in his backyard surfaced.

“You’re overthinking everything!” Huijun had said, agitated. “My parents never judged your family’s wealth. I’m the one taking over my father’s business—you weren’t being asked to join our family. Why do you always see the worst?”

“I don’t like anyone arranging my life,” Lin Xiaoyang had replied. “If I knew you were a wealthy heiress, I would have quietly walked away.”

“You’re being unreasonable! I just want a future husband who can take over my father’s business, that’s all!”

“I don’t like conditional marriages,” he said stubbornly.

“I need some time in Europe. When you’ve thought it through, email me,” Huijun said, grabbing her bag and leaving without looking back.

Lin Xiaoyang returned to his laptop, muttering to the screen, “Huijun… where are you?”

Later, riding his bicycle along the lakeside bike path with his phone and digital camera in his pouch, he reached the dock where yachts were moored. A blond young man played a melodious violin, drawing a crowd. When the piece ended, tourists dropped coins into his hat; Lin Xiaoyang added a one-euro note.

As he turned to leave, the young man called out in French-accented English:
“Sir, please wait a moment.”

Lin Xiaoyang instinctively turned. “Are you looking for me? May I help you?”

“Yes, someone asked me to wait for you here,” the young man said.

“Who asked you to wait for me?” Lin Xiaoyang asked.

The young man smiled mysteriously. “I don’t know, but he said, ‘This man will be your boss in the future.’”

“What’s your name?” Lin Xiaoyang asked.

“My name is Wilson. I’m from the south of France, the Côte d’Azur. Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, it’s a beautiful place,” Lin Xiaoyang smiled.

Wilson asked, “Do you live at Paradise Inn now?”

“Yes… but how did you know?” Lin Xiaoyang asked, surprised.

“Huang Lihua told me,” Wilson said.

“Huang Lihua? The artist? Are you sure?” Lin Xiaoyang was incredulous.

“Yes, he said you would be here this weekend,” Wilson affirmed.

“But I’ve never met him,” Lin Xiaoyang said.

“You’ll see him very soon,” Wilson predicted.

“This is really strange,” Lin Xiaoyang said skeptically.

“Anyway, nice to meet you. I’ll find you later. Take care,” Wilson said, returning to his violin and music stand. Lin Xiaoyang watched him go, puzzled.

“I must be being watched… but why?” he thought.

Chapter Two: The Concert Mural

In the evening, Lin Xiaoyang returned directly to his room at the hotel. He sat at the desk facing the lake and began organizing his travel notes. He arranged the scenic spots according to his driving route, filtering and prioritizing them, then categorized each by its characteristics, composing the text and adding illustrations. All of this work was done on his laptop.

He looked up at the shimmering lake. In his mind, he pondered how to continue a paragraph he had drafted for a report. The evening mist floated above the water, and the sunlight refracted off the waves in golden sparkles, as if a young dancer in a sequined golden dress were performing a waltz.

As darkness fell quickly, Xiaoyang felt a slight weariness and rested his head on the desk, drifting into a light sleep.

Some time later, he awoke with a start. Strange things began to unfold one after another. Xiaoyang sensed a figure behind him, its shadow stretching across the desk. The light came from the floor-to-ceiling window behind, and the door was locked—he had no idea how the person had entered. He turned around and saw a young man of medium build standing before him. He wore a deep blue long robe with a formal sash, a red beret atop his head, and round-framed glasses. His facial features were unmistakably Chinese, and his attire immediately caught Xiaoyang’s attention.

Xiaoyang, stunned, asked, “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

The man calmly pushed up his glasses. “I am Huang Lihua. I have always lived in this room.” His voice was measured, polite, and unhurried.

Xiaoyang thought in astonishment, Huang Lihua? The artist of that painting in the living room?

“Yes,” Huang Lihua said, anticipating Xiaoyang’s thoughts. “I am the artist of that painting.”

Before Xiaoyang could ask anything further, Huang Lihua continued speaking, and an eerie chill ran down Xiaoyang’s spine.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Xiaoyang stammered, feeling a tingle across his scalp.

“Yes,” Huang Lihua replied gently, noticing Xiaoyang’s unease. “I can hear your thoughts. I’m very sorry if it startled you.”

Xiaoyang hesitated. “You said you’ve always lived in this room?”

Huang Lihua extended his right hand, pointing toward the painting. “I live within that painting.”

Xiaoyang’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible!” Thinking he must have misheard, he rose and walked to the living room to examine the painting in detail. Yet he found nothing unusual. Huang Lihua followed him closely, standing no more than two feet away.

Xiaoyang felt as if the elderly artist were toying with him. “You’re joking, right?” he said irritably.

Huang Lihua remained calm. “I am a Chinese student who studied fine arts in Paris.”

Though not the answer Xiaoyang wanted, he found it oddly convincing. To depict human expressions and movements with such lifelike subtlety in oil paint, he must have had rigorous academic training. He’s no street painter; there’s no reason for him to lie.

A touch of melancholy crossed Huang Lihua’s face. “I completed my studies in 1922, traveled to Switzerland, and stayed in this hotel. I have been here ever since.”

“1922?” Xiaoyang gasped. “Did I hear that right?”

“Yes, 1922,” Huang Lihua confirmed, pointing to the date in the corner of the painting.

Xiaoyang whispered, reading the inscription: “April 13, 1925. But you don’t even look thirty—you look younger than me!”

Huang Lihua smiled mysteriously. “That is because those who reside long-term in this hotel do not age.”

Xiaoyang’s disbelief deepened. “You must be joking. That’s impossible.”

“I am serious,” Huang Lihua said, his tone earnest.

Unease gnawed at Xiaoyang. Am I seeing a ghost?

Huang Lihua extended his hand. “I am alive. Feel my palm—it’s warm.”

Xiaoyang tentatively touched it; indeed, it was warm.

“Have you lived in this hotel all these decades?” Xiaoyang asked.

“Yes. I left briefly for Paris, but returned here two years later,” Huang Lihua replied.

“Never once considered leaving for another place, or returning to China?”

“Decades ago, perhaps. Now… there’s nowhere I wish to go. In truth, I cannot go anywhere,” Huang Lihua said, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes.

“Cannot go anywhere? Are the hotel staff restricting your movements?”

“No,” Huang Lihua said softly. “It is I who cannot leave the ‘Forest of Oblivion.’”

Xiaoyang frowned. “I’ve come and gone freely for two days! I can take you out in my car.”

“No. You cannot bear the consequences of my leaving. We live in two different worlds. If you take me with you, you cannot leave the forest. Even if you somehow manage, your body would age rapidly and die outside.” Huang Lihua gazed out at the lake, his expression somber.

“Why? Are there traps in this forest?” Xiaoyang asked, noticing that the mural seemed subtly alive—the faint sound of the concert grew clearer.

“I don’t have time to explain fully,” Huang Lihua said, gently taking Xiaoyang’s elbow. “The outdoor concert is about to begin. Come with me into the painting.”

“What if I can’t return?” Xiaoyang pulled his hand away.

Huang Lihua’s eyes softened. “Don’t worry. No one will notice you. After the concert, I will show you around.”

Xiaoyang hesitated but sensed goodwill in his gaze.

“Shall we go? I’ll show you,” Huang Lihua said, guiding him. Xiaoyang followed as they stepped into the painting. Before him was indeed an outdoor concert. They seated themselves in a back corner.

The musicians were men and women, roughly thirty to forty years old. Their instruments: piano, violin, cello, clarinet, flute, French horn, and a set of timpani. They began to play. Xiaoyang listened, growing increasingly puzzled.

“None of these pieces sound familiar,” he said.

Huang Lihua smiled. “They wrote all of them themselves. That’s why.”

“These compositions sound like Bavarian folk dances—light, cheerful, and full of joy,” Xiaoyang noted.

“You are correct,” Huang Lihua confirmed. “They are modern Bavarian folk dances.”

After a while, they strolled the castle courtyard. The audience wore diverse national costumes, like a miniature United Nations. In a pavilion, they rested. A servant brought juice and pastries; Xiaoyang had orange juice and a slice of cream cake.

Unnoticed by them, a middle-aged attendant, planted by Robert, was observing Xiaoyang.

An hour later, Huang Lihua led Xiaoyang to his studio. Three walls were covered with paintings—watercolors, gouache, prints, sketches, and oil paintings. On a stand facing the courtyard was a half-finished oil painting.

“This is my studio,” Huang Lihua said.

“All your work?” Xiaoyang asked.

“Yes,” Huang Lihua confirmed.

“How many?” Xiaoyang inquired.

“Over three thousand. What you see is only a tenth; the rest are stored,” Huang Lihua said. Xiaoyang marveled, enough for a private gallery.

“I’ve lived here ninety years,” Huang Lihua said. “Painting has been my main life focus.”

He led Xiaoyang to a tall mirror. “Step through, and you’ll return to your room. Without me, you must never enter—I fear you might get lost. Tomorrow evening, meet me in the lobby, young man.”

He waved as Xiaoyang crossed the mirror threshold. Xiaoyang returned to his room; the sounds vanished. He touched the painting—behind it, the wall was solid. How could the music have come from the painting?

Lying in bed, he turned restlessly. Huang Lihua isn’t a ghost—but could he be a vampire? Why approach me?

Dawn found Xiaoyang in a half-sleep.