Chapter 3 — Tearful Trial

13

Hospital.

“The doctor said so.” I continued, "If she lives, she will probably have your eyes and my hair. She will be born in the spring, and I have a name in mind—Tham Tri Ha."

Tri Ha. Know summer. But my life forever stops in winter. Tham Ngat's fingers tightened, the plastic handle of the fruit basket made a slight creak. “Why didn't you say it?”

"Say what? Say I'm pregnant, please don't divorce me?" I smiled, but tears flowed into the corners of my mouth, salty and bitter, "Tham Ngac, what you need is not alms."

“This is not alms, this is…”

“What is it?” I interrupted, "Responsibility? Duty? Or a bug in your perfect life plan?"

He was silent. Mom pulled the chair down and sat down, no longer looking at him, like looking at a wall.

“The agreement I signed.” I said, “but there are two conditions.”

“You say it.”

"First, the matter of the child should never be talked about in public. The child has never been to this world, so it should not become anyone's topic."

Tham Ngac nodded: "Okay."

“Second,” I looked at him, “in this life, don't let me see you again.”

His pupils slightly shrunk: "To Van..."

"Lawyer Tham," I called him by his most familiar form of address, "this is a negotiation. Do you accept it?"

There was a long silence. Outside the window, there are sparrows flying by, chirping, unaware of human suffering.

“Okay.” He finally said.

One word, so light, but like the last tombstone being pounded down. He put down the fruit basket, turned and left. When he got to the door, he stopped for a second, but didn't turn around. The door closes. Mother rushed to hug me: "Van Van, cry, baby, crying will help..." I leaned on my mother's shoulder, looking at the ceiling with wide eyes. Not a single tear was shed. Crying requires strength. But all my strength was exhausted during that trial.

14

After being discharged from the hospital, I moved to a rented room of thirty square meters in the old neighborhood. The walls are peeling, the water pipes are rusty, and downstairs is a convenience store open twenty-four hours. Late at night, the "ding" of the automatic door rang out in rhythm, accompanied by the monotonous sound of the cash register. I used the last bit of money to pay three months' rent, then started looking for a job. Art teacher? Need a teaching certificate. Gallery assistant? Need relevant experience. Graphic design? Need a portfolio—and I haven't touched specialized software in three years. Finally, the convenience store owner accepted me. “Night shift, ten o'clock in the evening to six o'clock in the morning, eighteen yuan an hour, do you do it?” I nodded. On my first night shift, I wore a loose uniform and stood behind the cashier counter. At two o'clock in the morning, a drunk man came in to buy cigarettes and stared at me for a long time.

"Sister, are you alone so late? Don't you feel lonely?"

I didn't speak, I lowered my head to scan the code. He suddenly raised his hand and touched my face. I dodged back, my back hit the shelf, instant noodles fell all over the ground.

“Pretending to be pure…” he mumbled, intending to get closer.

The automatic door "ding" again. A sanitation worker wearing a reflective vest walked in, holding a thermos bottle. He glanced at the situation and stood quietly between me and the drunk guy.

“After you buy it, go.”

The voice is not high, but has the weight of a long-time worker. The drunk guy cursed and left. He accepted the cup of hot water I gave him and said softly: "If he comes back later, press the alarm button under the counter. The owner has already installed it, connecting directly to the police station."

“I feel it Thank you.”

“Nothing.” He tightened the lid of the jar, "My daughter is about the same age as you, studying in Beijing."

He pushed the door open and his orange reflective vest disappeared into the night. I squatted to pick up the noodles, my hands shaking non-stop. Not out of fear, but out of humiliation. Does Tham Ngat know? His wife, who was once cradled in the palm of his hand, now worked the night shift at a convenience store, was harassed by drunks, and had to ask strangers to rescue her. He probably wouldn't care. The data will not show these.

15

On payday, I took a thin envelope and went to the second-hand market. The price of the easel is eighty, the paints are half-price clearance goods, the canvas is the cheapest type, the surface is as rough as sandpaper. When I returned to the rented room, it was already dusk. The sunset shines through the west window, spreading a warm orange patch on the cement floor. I set up my easel and stared at the white canvas. It's been three years. After getting married, the first time I drew was for Tham Ngat's birthday gift—a portrait of him. He said "not bad", then put it in storage. The second time, it was a birthday gift for Tham's mother—a peony painting. She said "a bit cheesy", then conveniently gave it to the maid. The third, fourth time... each time, it's to please others. What about me? I held the charcoal pen, my hand hovering over the canvas without ever coming down. Turns out I forgot how to draw myself. Outside the window, the sound of children laughing was heard. The elementary school downstairs ended, groups of students wearing uniforms walked by, red scarves blowing in the wind. Among them was a little girl with two pigtails, jumping and walking, suddenly turning around and calling: "Mom, hurry up!" The woman behind ran a few steps and grabbed her child's hand. My vision blurred. The charcoal pen lowered. No composition, no sketch, just instinctive wrist movement. The lines spread out from the center, like blood vessels, like tree roots, like cracks. When I regained consciousness, the figure of a woman appeared on the canvas. She curled up, in her abdomen there was a deep gap, from which lines grew like vines, wrapping around her body, blooming small, pale flowers. In the lower right corner, I unconsciously drew a simple whale. Whale falls. The name suddenly popped into my head. I leaned the painting against the wall and took a few steps back. Sunset just happened to slide in, covering the painting's surface with a layer of blood-red golden light. Ugly, painful, but true. It turns out that what is real is often not beautiful.

16

Meet Lam Hoai again, at the convenience store. At four o'clock in the morning, he pushed open the door and walked in, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt, dark circles under his eyes were very dark.

“A bag of Seven Stars, an iced Americano.” He handed over the cash, his voice hoarse.

When I bowed my head to change money, he suddenly said: "To Van?" The finger stopped. Looking up, touching eyes of surprise. Lam Hoai—a senior in college, a legend in the art department, who his teachers said "can paint pain into fragrance."

“That's right.” He looked at my uniform, "Why are you..."

“Work more.” I pushed the change over, trying to keep my voice calm, "Long time no see."

“Three years? Four years?” Lam Hoai did not accept money, "If you graduate, you will get married, right? Get a lawyer.”

“Divorced.” I spoke firmly, as if I were talking to someone else.

He was silent for a few seconds: "Need any help?"

“No need.”

“To Van…”

"Mr. Lam," I interrupted, "I'm working."

He pursed his lips and finally sighed: "Then I'll buy another pack of cigarettes." anymore?”

“I just bought it.”

“…Buy another bag.”

I gave you the medicine. He accepted, but did not leave. He stood in front of the counter, tore open the bag, and took out a cigarette without lighting it.

"Actually, I'm looking for inspiration." He suddenly said, “The theme of the new exhibition is 'Ruins and Rebirth', but I can't draw it. The gallery said that if the manuscript is not submitted, the exhibition will be canceled.”

“So go to the convenience store for inspiration?”

“Inspiration is in life.” He smiled, a bit bitterly, “But what kind of life do you count as? Every day when I open my eyes it's an attempt to draw, and when I close my eyes it's a deadline.”

17

I didn't answer. Everyone has suffering in the world, but my suffering has overflowed to the point that there is no more room to contain other people's.

“Do you still draw?” he asked.

I looked outside, it was starting to get light. “Long time no drawing.”

“Unfortunately.” Lam Hoai said, "I still remember the painting 'Deep Sea Echo' when you graduated. The professor said it was a talent I had only seen in ten years."

Naturally gifted. A luxury word. Like in a previous life.

“I'm off work.” I said.

“Wait a minute.” He took out a business card from his pocket, "My gallery, on Mac Can Son street. If you... if you want to draw, just come. The empty drawing room is also empty.”

The business card is dark gray, has only one line of address and phone number. I don't accept. Lam Hoai put the business card on the counter, turned and left. At the door, he turned around: "To Van, some things die to let other things live." The door closed, a "ding" echoed in the empty store. I looked at the business card. The edges of the paper were worn and had clearly been in his pocket for a long time. Ruins and rebirth. I kept my business card and put it in a drawer with my change.

18

Two weeks later I went to the gallery. Not because I thought it through, but because the landlord increased the rent, and I needed a new, cheaper place to paint. Lam Hoai's gallery is larger than I expected, a three-story loft space, with his paintings hanging on the walls—abstract, broken, but faintly lit. The largest wall in the middle is blank, probably reserved for "Ruins and Rebirth".

“I'm here.” Lam Hoai came down from upstairs, holding a color palette, "It's later than I thought."

“How did you know I would come?”

“Intuition.” He pointed up the stairs, “The drawing room is on the top floor, facing south, the light is the best. Normally no one uses it.”

“How much is the rent?”

He smiled: "Please help me with something, consider it as rent."

“What?”

“Replace me with the exhibition.” He said softly, as if saying "buy me a cup of coffee", "'Ruins and Rebirth', I drew it."

I was stunned: “You?”

“I understand the ruins better than you.” Lam Hoai put down the palette, "And I believe you can draw reincarnation."

“I can't…”

“Just try.” He interrupted, "At worst, it's just destruction, like my current situation. What if there is a miracle?"

His eyes were serious, there was no pity, only trust—the trust of an artist for an artist. I followed him upstairs. The drawing room on the top floor is a transparent space, with large ground-level windows, sunlight pouring on the wooden floor, dust flying in the light column. The corner of the wall is filled with canvas, shelves of every color. In the middle stood an empty easel, as if waiting for someone.

“Three months.” Lam Hoai said, “Three months before the opening day, this place is mine. Don't worry about eating at the gallery, there's also a living allowance every month—don't refuse, consider it an advance on your share of the work's profits."

“If it can't be sold, then Star?"

“It's considered a failure in your investment.” He shrugged, “I always fail anyway.”

I walked to the window, looking down at the street below. People are like ants, cars are like rivers. The world still operates normally, even though my world has stopped.

“Why did you help me?” I asked.

Lam Hoai was silent for a long time.