Chapter 9 — 50 Years of Wrongfulness

“You and Co Lam, it's over?” Tham Thanh Tu was lowering his head to peel apples, his hand stopped. “Yes.” Her voice was calm, her tongue was close to the apple peel, peeling each circle downward, the thin red peel hanging down. Mom was silent for a few seconds, received the apple she had peeled and then took a bite, speaking inaudibly: "The story between you two, I heard your father tell it. I soon saw that To Nhu was not a simple person. Before, she came to our house to eat, her eyes kept moving back and forth to look at my room, but you kept saying I thought a lot. And Co Lam..." Mom sighed. "Before, he still looked like a decent child, why did he lose his way after being coaxed by that vixen? Well, let it go, it's good to cut it off." Tham Thanh Tu nodded, wiped his fruit peeler clean and put it back in the drawer. “It's all over, Mom.” “It's really over.” Mom looked at her, her eyes a bit cloudy but extremely serious. "Once it's over, turn the page, we won't turn back. When I was little, I drew so many beautiful dresses. If it wasn't because I wanted to marry Co Lam and then go to the factory, I wouldn't have locked all those things at the bottom of the trunk. Now that I'm here, I have to pick up the things that should be picked up again." Tham Thanh Tu threw the apple core into the trash, his nose filled with tears, he smiled and replied "yes". Under the teacher's introduction, Tham Thanh Tu smoothly entered the Milan Academy of Design. The academy is located in the north of the city, an old gray-white building, the outer walls are covered with half-withered vines, and above the main gate is engraved with gilded Italian letters. Tham Thanh Tu walked into the lecture hall at the exact moment the nine o'clock bell rang, found a seat next to the window and sat down. The professor who came to lecture walked in at the last second. Black vest, dark gray shirt, thin metal-framed glasses perched on the bridge of the nose, collar neatly buttoned to the top button. He is very tall, when standing on the podium he almost obscures half of the blackboard behind him. The hand holding the lesson plan is neat and decisive, the knuckles are clear. "Who is he?" A female student sat in the back quietly chatting in English. "I heard he was invited back from the Royal Academy of Arts. His name is Tong Can Nien. He's only twenty-nine years old." "So handsome, I wonder if he has a girlfriend?" "Don't waste your time. He's cold to everyone. There's not even a single person of the opposite sex around. Everyone is guessing whether he doesn't like women or not." "Shh, he looked over..." Tham Thanh Tu didn't participate. these rumors. She bowed her head, using a black pen to sketch each line on the sketchbook, until a calm male voice suddenly called out to her. "You sit next to the window in the third row." The voice was not loud, English mixed with a little Italian tone. “What are you drawing?” Tham Thanh Tu raised his head. Tong Can Nien is looking at her. The eyes behind the lenses are a very light color, like diluted amber. The entire class's eyes turned to them simultaneously. She put down her pen, stood up and said: "I was listening to you lecture about 'boundaries of deconstructionism in applied design', but I feel that you have defined 'boundaries' too rigidly. If the nature of design is to solve problems, then all boundaries set in advance are only temporary restrictions, not immutable rules." She paused for a moment, facing those pale eyes: "For example, the winning work at the Milan Triennial Exhibition that you just did." Speaking of which, the reason it was successful was because it surpassed the boundary of 'producibility'. You classified it as an exception, but I think it should be considered a development direction." The whole classroom immediately fell silent. Tong Can Nien gently pushed the glasses frame, the thin metal frame flashed cold light under the lamp. "Oh?" He did not rush to refute, his fingertips tapped on the lesson plan. “So how do you think we should fix it?” Tham Thanh Tu flipped the sketchbook to the page he just sketched and handed it over. Tong

Can Nien took it, looked at it for a long time, his throat moved slightly. Then he folded the paper in half and stuck it in his lesson plan. "What's your name?" he asked. “Tham Thanh Tu.” He nodded, took his eyes off her face, his voice returned to the same level as when lecturing: “Not a bad idea. Sit down.” During the second half of the class, he stopped looking at her, but Tham Thanh Tu noticed that when he got to the part about "the boundaries of deconstructionism", he took out the work from the Triennial Exhibition that she had just mentioned and analyzed it again, spending nearly ten minutes. After class, an Italian female student with a high ponytail sitting at the next table stopped by: "Oh my god, this is the first time the teacher asked for a student's name. That's the first time!" Tham Thanh Tu did not answer. When she walked out of the teaching building, it was already dark. It was not yet half past six, the street lights had just come on, the light was yellow and fragile. She turned into the alley that she had to go through to get back to her place of residence. At this time, the shops on both sides were closed, the iron rolling doors were down, and in the narrow alley, only the sound of her own footsteps echoed back and forth. Until she heard a second set of footsteps following close behind. Her back immediately tensed, her hands tightened on the strap of the cloth bag, her steps became faster. The footsteps behind immediately accelerated, heavy breathing followed the wall as they chased. The moment she rushed out of the alley, she crashed into a chest carrying the cold air of the frosty wind.