Chapter 4 — Tearful Trial

"In my second year of college, your painting 'Deep Sea Reverberation' was in the graduation exhibition," he said slowly, "I stood in front of that painting for two hours. In the painting there is a whale sinking to the bottom, but the sea water around it glows."
He paused: "At that time I wanted to quit painting. My house went bankrupt, I couldn't pay my tuition. But your paintings told me - there are falls to illuminate a deeper place."
“But I am no longer the To Van of that time.”
“I know.” He looked at me, "So I want to see what To Van will draw now."
I turned around, facing the empty easel. Three months. Ninety days. Enough to conceive a life, enough to bury a life.
“I try.” I said.
Lam Hoai smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes relaxed: "Use comfortable materials. There is only one rule—don't ask 'is it right to draw like this'? There is no right or wrong here, only truth." He went downstairs, the drawing room was completely quiet. I picked up a charcoal pen and drew the first line on the canvas. Not a line, but a point. Black, bold, like the entrance to the abyss. Already
spread out from that point. Cracks, blood vessels, tree roots, vines… all elements that extend from the convenience store painting, but crazier, more disorderly. I drew all day long, until dusk fell and my fingers were stained black. Lam Hoai brought dinner and stood in front of the painting for a long time.
“What's its name?”
“Day one.” I said.
“Picture series?”
"Yes. Seven days." I took a sip of water, "God used seven days to create the world. And I used seven days... to say goodbye to the world."
He didn't ask anything goodbye, just nodded: "Continue." That night I slept on a folding bed in the corner of the drawing room. The moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the unfinished painting with cold white light. In my dream, I returned to the court again. But this time, standing in the plaintiff's seat is not Tham Ngat, but myself. The defendant's chair is empty. The judge asked: "Who are you suing?" I looked at the empty defendant's chair and said, "The old me—the one who believed in love."
19
In three months, I painted seven paintings. From Day One to Day Seven, from pure darkness, to the darkness that begins to glimmer with faint light, then light that swallows the darkness, finally pure white—blazing white, white to empty. Lam Hoai finished reading the last picture and didn't speak for a long time.
“How?” I asked, my voice a little tense.
“Does it need to be fixed?”
He shook his head: "Don't change a word, don't move a stroke." A week before the opening, he asked me to sign my name.
“Use your real name?”
I thought of Tham Ngat, thought of the court, thought of all the people who knew "To Van". That name was tied to so many things—a failed wife, a pitiful mother, an abandoned woman.
"Are not." I said, “Use ‘Fall Whale’.”
"Okay." Lam Hoai wrote those two words on the exhibition notebook.
Ruins and Rebirth: Falling Whale's First Solo Exhibition. On the opening day, I hid in the third floor stairs, not daring to go down. I heard sounds below—conversation, the clinking of glasses, the occasional sound of admiration or silence. Lam Hoai came up to find me midway, holding a glass of champagne: "Why don't you come down and see?"
“I'm scared.”
“Afraid of what?”
"I'm afraid they'll say I'm pretending, say I consume pain, say..."
“To Van.” He interrupted, "The only thing art needs to fear is deception. And your paintings are the most honest things I've ever seen."
He pulled me: "Go, at least take a look." We stood behind the second floor railing, looking down at the exhibition hall. The crowd moves in front of the painting like a tide. Someone stood long before the Third Day—a picture where in the black vines small golden points of light began to appear, like stardust.
“That's a famous critic.” Lam Hoai whispered, "Very picky, but I've never seen her stand so long in front of a painting."
A man in a suit stands in front of Saturday, a pure white painting. He looked for a long time, then took off his glasses and wiped the corners of his eyes.
“He cried?” I can't believe it.
“The power of art.” Lam Hoai said, "I touched a wound that they may not even realize."
In the middle of the hall, on the largest wall, hangs the eighth painting I added later—Judgment Day. More complete, more cruel than the one at the convenience store. The plaintiff's chair was still empty, but the suit hung suspended, with a ribbon-shaped pin on the collar. A young girl standing in front of the painting suddenly sat down, covering her face. Her friend quickly helped, I vaguely heard: "...like my divorce... he also looked at me like that..." I turned back to the stairs. Lam Hoai followed: "What's wrong?"
“I didn't expect…” I leaned against the wall, “I didn't expect there to be many people with similar wounds.”
“Pain is a universal language.” He said, “And you found a way to translate it.”
Downstairs there was applause. Lam Hoai looked at the phone: "The critic wants to meet you."
“I don't…”
“Must meet.” He insisted, "This is an opportunity, To Van. Not for you, but for the people who see themselves in your paintings."
I took a deep breath and followed him down. The critic is a woman in her fifties, with short silver hair and sharp eyes.
“Falling Whale Teacher.” She shook hands firmly, "I'm Chu Can of Art Review. Your paintings remind me of Frida."
A terrifyingly high compliment. I don't know how to respond.
“Especially Judgment Day.” She continued, “The ability to turn personal pain into a universal metaphor… how do you do it?”
I looked at the ribbon pin in the painting.
“I just paint what I see.” I said.
“What do you see?”
“A system.” I said slowly, “A system built by reason, law, evidence—how it gently kills a person.”
Chu Can's eyes lit up: "Continue."
"There are no bad guys in that system. Everyone does the 'right' thing—defense lawyers, trial judges, witnesses. But the result is a human being crushed. What's scariest is that the crushing is legal, even... elegant."
The whole room was silent.
“So the name ‘Falling Whale’,” Zhou Can asked, “means that this death will become nourishment?”
“It means there are deaths that are so huge, they change the entire ecosystem.” I said, “One person dies, but her death lights the way for others—look, here there is a reef, here there is an abyss, here there is a violence that looks like love.”
The applause rang out again, this time louder. Lam Hoai leaned into my ear: "You succeeded." I looked at the crowd around me, the unfamiliar faces, the eyes that resonated with my paintings. Yes, I succeeded. But why is my heart still empty?
20
The exhibition lasted a month, all works were sold out. The most expensive painting Judgment Day was bought by an anonymous collector for one million. When Lam Hoai gave me the check, his hand shook.
“Mine.”
I looked at the number 0, it didn't feel real. Three years ago, I bought Tham Ngat a watch for three hundred thousand and still had to save for a long time. Now one of my paintings costs a million. How ironic.
“The gallery takes thirty percent.” Lam Hoai said, “The rest is enough for me to live in Paris for three years.”
“Paris?”
“Chu Can introduced.” He handed me an envelope, "Paris international artist residency program, one year, only selects twelve people worldwide. She wrote a letter of recommendation."
I received the envelope. Heavy.
“I need to get out of here.” Lam Hoai said, "It's not about hiding, it's about... breathing a different atmosphere."
I get it. Shanghai is so small, so small that every step can step on the shadow of the past.
“Let me think.”
That night, I packed up my things in the gallery, preparing to move into my new rented apartment. Lam Hoai helped me pack the painting tools and suddenly said: "Ah, there's something I want to talk about."
"What?"
“During the exhibition, one person came three times.” He stopped, "Every time I only watch Judgment Day, I always stand until the door closes."
"Who?"
“Tham Ngac.”
The air freezes. Lam Hoai observed my expression: "Do you need me to block him later?"
“…Did he say anything?”
"The first time he didn't say anything. The second time he asked the staff if the artist's last name was To. The third time," Lam Hoai hesitated, "he asked if he could meet you."
“What do you say?”
“You said artists don't meet people.” Lam Hoai shrugged, "That's right, I said I didn't want to meet anyone."
I continue to pack up my brushes, one by one, sorted by color.
“What does he look like?” the question popped out, I immediately regretted it.
Lam Hoai was silent for a moment.
“Not very good.” He said, "He was much thinner, his eyes were full of blood. The third time it rained heavily, he didn't bring an umbrella, so he stood soaking wet in front of the painting... like a man who had lost his way."
I put down the brush. Outside the window, it was raining in Shanghai in early summer. Neon lights burst into colored spots in a puddle. In three years of marriage, Tham Ngat has never been exposed to rain. Always have an umbrella in the car, and always avoid bad weather on your schedule. He once said: "Rain will mess up plans." Now do you know how to get wet in the rain?
“Don't be soft-hearted, To Van.” Lam Hoai suddenly said, "Some people got soaked in the rain because they finally stepped out of the greenhouse. But that's not my responsibility."
I know you're right. But a certain corner of my heart still aches a little. Not love, but habit—his three-year habit of always paying attention to everything.
“I won't see him.” I said, “Never.”
Lam Hoai nodded and continued cleaning. Late at night, I stood in front of the gallery door waiting for the car. The rain has stopped, the air smells of damp earth. A black car slowly drove by and stopped across the street. The glass door is covered with film, so you can't see inside clearly. But I had a feeling—you were there. The car was parked for a long time, so long that the driver got out to smoke, the tip of the cigarette turned red and then went out in the night. I turned back to the gallery. When I went upstairs, the phone rang. Strange number, but I know who it is. The message was just three words: “Sorry.” I did not answer, nor did I
block. Just leave that sentence in the mailbox—like a little tombstone. To commemorate the person whose heart was softened by those three words.
21
Fall in Paris comes so suddenly that there's no time to prepare. After just one night, the leaves of the sycamore turned from dark green to yellow, covering the paved road on the left bank. I live in the attic of an old building in Montparnasse, with a slanted skylight facing the Eiffel Tower—during the day it's as silent as metal, at night it sparkles like a lie. The first week of the residency program, I didn't draw anything. Every day just sit
in front of the window, watching the clouds drift by, watching the pigeons land on the sill, watching the people in the cafe downstairs chatting, hugging, kissing. French flows in my ears like a river I don't understand. Lam Hoai texted: "Are you okay?" I replied: “It's getting better.” Actually I don't know how to be okay. People in Shanghai—a convenience store clerk, a divorced woman, a mother who lost her child—are like old skin that cannot be shed, tightly wrapped around the newly born “Whale Fall artist.” The second week, the manager brought in a package
row.
“From China, by sea, it takes two months.”
The wooden box was nailed shut and unusually heavy. The sender field has only one word: "Tham". I looked at that word for a long time, so long that the manager asked: "Do you need help opening it?"
"Are not." I said, “I did it myself.”
When he left, I took the crowbar from the toolbox. The nails screeched loudly, the wooden panel burst open, revealing what was inside— Painting tools. Not the normal kind. Windsor & Newton expert line watercolors, Rembrandt oil wax, Dutch canvas, squirrel and sable brushes... dishes
Everything is high-class, every dish is shockingly expensive. On top put a letter. No address, no signature, just one printed line:
“Draw what you want to draw.”
I picked up an ultramarine blue tube and screwed on the cap. The color is as thick as the frozen depths of the sea—a blue Tham Ngat will never understand; In his eyes, colors are only "office green", "tie green", "appropriate green for the situation". After three years of marriage, he gave me many gifts. Jewelry, handbags, limited-edition fountain pens—each item is expensive and rightfully so, like a bet
your life. But I have never given a painting tool. Because drawing is "unrealistic", "a waste of time", and "does not create clear profits". Now I give it to you. Too late. I screwed the lid back on and started emptying the bin. There were so many painting tools that it was completely filled, and at the bottom there was still something left - carefully wrapped in foam. Opened, was a sketchbook. My notebook. During college, the cover had coffee stains and the corners of the paper were curled. The first page is a nineteen-year-old sketch: a sycamore tree outside the library door. The next page shows the back of the professor, the profile of a classmate, and a stray cat in the yard
school. The last page is the unfinished manuscript—the deep sea, the whales, the light slanting downward like a god's finger. The right corner has small text: "Like a whale facing the sea, there is no way back." That is the initial sketch of the graduate work Deep Sea Echoes. After the painting won the prize, the professor said: "To Van, your future is in the deep sea." As for me, I chose to go ashore, towards the perfect iceberg named Tham Ngat. Closing the notebook, I carried the wooden box downstairs. The apartment is three streets away from the Seine. At sunset, visitors said,
Empty riverbank. I placed the box on the stone railing and pushed it down with force. The wooden barrel fell into the dark blue water, the bubbles quickly subsided. It didn't sink immediately but floated for a while, like a body that didn't want to die. Then slowly sank, swallowed by the water. Like my marriage, my children, and my old life. Phone vibrates. Lam Hoai: "Received strange news. Assistant Tham Ngat asked the gallery if I arrived in Paris safely."
“What do you answer?”