Chapter 5 — Tearful Trial

"I'm talking about the artist's private affairs and it's not convenient to reveal them. But they kept asking to contact me, saying Tham Ngat had something important to send you."
I looked at the river, the wooden barrel had disappeared.
“I got it.” I texted, "Send him a message: once the gift is received, I'll throw it into the Seine River. There's no need to send it anymore."
Send it. The water flows quietly, carrying my past towards the deep ocean.
22
Shanghai, deep in an old alley in Hongkou district. Tham Ngat pushed open the rusty iron door, above which hung a handwritten sign: "Starlight Women's Legal Service Center". The room is less than thirty square meters, filled with four desks, files stacked to the ceiling. A young girl wearing glasses looked up from the computer: "Hello, I'm looking for..."
“I'm looking for Chief Tran.” Tham Ngat said, "It's three o'clock."
The girl looked at him—tailored suit, Italian leather shoes, discreet watch but enough to buy the whole building. "You are lawyer Tham, right? Ms. Tran is inside, please wait." Tham Ngac nodded and did not sit. He looked around: the handwritten duty board on the wall, the pots of withered betel leaves on the sill, the smell of old paper and coffee dissolving in the air. Unlike anywhere he's ever worked. No panoramic glass windows, no leather sofas, no assistants wearing suits walking precisely. Here everything is rough, honest, full of life's folds. Door
The inner room opened, and a woman in her fifties stepped out, wearing a faded shirt, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
“Lawyer Tham, my pleasure.” She shook hands firmly, "I'm Tran Tinh. I didn't expect you to come to such a small place."
“Just call me Tham Ngat.” He said, “I want to be a volunteer.”
Tran Tinh motioned him to sit: "The center mainly helps women in difficulty, mainly family cases—divorce, child custody, domestic violence protection orders. A lot of work, almost no compensation. Are you sure?"
"Sure."
"Why?" She looked straight at him, "With your background and fee, one hour is enough to cover our entire month's operating costs. Being a volunteer is too expensive."
Tham Ngat was silent for a few seconds.
"Lately I've been thinking," he chose his words, "what should the law serve? Is it protecting perfect processes, or protecting real people."
“Is there any conclusion yet?”
"Not yet." He said frankly, “So I wanted to come here and see.”
Tran Tinh looked at him for a long time, then nodded: "Okay. But I'm not a big lawyer here, just a new volunteer. I have to consult, prepare documents, run to court and submit papers. Can you do that?"
“Can do it.”
“So today starts.” She handed over a stack of documents, "First guest, Ms. Ly Tu Lan, four o'clock in the afternoon. The documents are here, you have one hour to prepare."
Tham Ngat received the file. The paper is cheap, the printing is blurry, but each letter is as heavy as lead.
23
Ly Tu Lan is forty-two years old, a garment worker in a clothing factory. The fingertips were covered with needle marks, like small constellations. She sat opposite Tham Ngat, not daring to look him in the eyes.
“I… I want a divorce.” The voice is as light as a mosquito.
"Reason?" Tham Ngat opened his notebook—his familiar gesture, using writing to create order.
“He hit me.” Ly Tu Lan rolled up her sleeves, her arms were covered in bruises, "Since last year, it's gotten worse and worse. Last time I had cigarette butts..."
She couldn't continue speaking.
“Did you call the police?”
“Already reported three times.” Next to Tran Tinh, he said, "Every time the police come, her husband apologizes and writes a statement. When the police go, it gets worse."
Tham Ngat continued to write: "Are there any medical records?"
"Have." Ly Tu Lan pulled out the medical record from the cloth bag, the paper was wrinkled, "This was last week, cracked ribs."
Tham Ngat looked at the diagnosis paper, his pen stopped for a moment.
“What about children?”
“Two girls, one fourteen, one ten.” Tears fell from her eyes, "When he beat me, the children were in the room crying... I couldn't bear it anymore, because my children also had to get a divorce."
“Your request?”
“Divorced, my two children are with me, he pays for the support.” She paused, "And... the house was left to me by my parents, I can't give it to him."
Tham Ngat looked at the house documents. Former public house, under Ly Tu Lan's name.
“This request is reasonable.” He said, "But we need evidence. Evidence of violence, assets, ability to raise children."
“I brought it all.” Ly Tu Lan took out another stack—photos, court reports, salary slips, and certificates of merit for her child.
Neatly arranged, clearly prepared for a long time. Tham Ngat looked at each thing. In the photo, the wound on the woman's face makes people dare not look at it; On the criminal report, the police signature was scrawled as if it were an oversight; On the payroll, monthly income is three thousand two hundred yuan; On my certificate of merit, it was written: "Third good student." Those pieces of paper piece together half of a woman's life: violence, poverty, things
confusion, and a fragile glimmer of hope. He suddenly thought of To Van. When you divorce, what do you bring as evidence? Looks like there's only a diary, and a few odd photos. And he told his assistant: "Recording personal feelings has limited probative value." At that time, the assistant asked: "Should we remind her to collect more evidence?" He said: "No need. This case is not necessary." Now I understand—it's not that I don't need it, it's that I don't want to look.
“Lawyer Tham?” Ly Tu Lan cautiously asked, "Did you win?"
Tham Ngat looked up and found that he had unconsciously drawn a simple whale in his notebook. He quickly crossed it out.
"Okay." He said, “I will help you.”
When that sentence came out, he felt an unfamiliar weight. Not the pressure of winning rate, but responsibility for one's destiny.
24
The consultation ended, Ly Tu Lan thanked her profusely and left. Tran Tinh stepped forward: "How does it feel?"
"Heavy."
“This is the first person.” Tran Tinh patted his shoulder, "But remember, we didn't come to feel the heaviness, but to lighten it."
Tham Ngat nodded. When cleaning up the files, he saw that Ly Tu Lan had forgotten a photo—a family photo, probably taken many years ago. The couple was young, their two daughters were held in their arms, the four of them were smiling. On the back is a ballpoint pen inscription: "Tet 2009, everyone is happy." Tham Ngat looked at the text for a long time. The whole family is happy. It turns out that all the broken pieces were once intact.
25
When I left the center, it was already dark and rain began to fall. Tham Ngat didn't bring an umbrella—he always has a spare umbrella in his car, but today he took the train. Standing under the awning, he hesitated whether to call a car or run to the station. The phone rang. It's mother.
“Tieu Ngag, where are you?”
"Outside."
"Chu Man is here, waiting for you to have dinner." Her voice carried a smile that refused to refuse, "His father's birthday is next week, I want you to be my friend. I told someone to bring the formal dress, try it on to see if it fits."
Tham Ngat looked at the rain: "Mom, I won't go."
“What did you say?”
"I will not marry Chu Man, nor will I attend her father's birthday." He said every word, "You and Chu Man, never will."
There was silence on the line, then suppressed anger: "Tham Ngac, do you know what you are saying? Cooperation between the two families..."
“It's business, not marriage.”
“Marriage is business!” His mother raised her voice, "I spent a lot of effort to arrange it! What is not good about Chu Man? Education, family background, appearance, what is not worthy of you? What is not better than To Van?"
Rainwater splashed on Tham Ngat's face, cold.
“Nothing wrong with To Van.” He said, "You're not worthy."
"You—" Mom choked, "Are you still thinking about him? Tham Ngac, wake up! He's been gone for a long time! He lives brilliantly in Paris, his paintings sell so expensively, how can he miss you!"
I know. He knew that To Van's paintings were being exhibited in Paris, knew that she was called "Oriental Frida", knew that she no longer needed alms from anyone. Because he knew, he couldn't forgive himself.
“Mom,” his voice cracked over the sound of the rain, “why did you fake the evidence?”
The line suddenly went silent.
“What…what did you say?”
“The maid Tran said.” Tham Ngac closed her eyes, "Mom told her to put the jewelry receipt in To Van's pocket, falsely testify that she was having an affair, mom even..."
“Mom does everything for me!” She interrupted, her voice sharp, "That To Van is not suitable for the Tham family! From a small background, with unrealistic dreams, he—"
“She is pregnant.”
The rain is getting heavier and heavier.
“What…what did you say?” Mom's voice changed completely.
“The day the trial opened, she had a miscarriage.” Tham Ngat said, "Our daughter is dead. Because of the perfect divorce that you orchestrated."
There was a long silence, only the sound of the rain and the background noise.
“I don't know…” she finally said, her voice weak, “I really don't know…”
“Whether you know it or not is no longer important.” Tham Ngat said, "The important thing is that you participated. You are the executor, the blade."
He hung up and walked into the rain. The water quickly soaked the suit, the fabric stuck to the skin, as heavy as armor. Street lights reflect in puddles of water in distorted patches of light, like an impressive painting. I remember a painting by To Van—Rainy night. There are no specific images in the painting, just dark blue patches and silver streaks, the critic said "that is the shape of tears." At that time, he looked at the painting at the auction, standing at the back of the crowd, not daring to get close. Now I understand. There are times when it rains and you have to soak it yourself. There is a cold
let it hit the bone. Arriving at the train station, he was soaked, his hair stuck to his forehead. The glass window reflects him—disheveled, tired, no longer perfect. He suddenly remembered a rainy night three years ago. To Van stood on the balcony watching the rain, he pulled her in: "You'll catch a cold."
“But the rain is beautiful.” she said, “Look, around each lamp there is a ring of light, like an angel's halo.”
“It's light refraction.” he corrected, “Scattering phenomenon of water drops.”
She smiled, didn't argue, just leaned on his shoulder: "Tham Ngac, do you know, sometimes scientific explanations will kill romance?" At that time he did not answer. Now he wanted to answer: "I know. I killed a lot of romance, and a lot of other things too." The train entered the station, carried by the wind. Wet clothes stuck to my body and it was cold. He walked in, leaned against the door, closed his eyes. Where the next station is is no longer important.
26
It's two o'clock in the morning in Paris, I'm still in the drawing room. The new work is called Afterglow. On the surface is an empty courtroom, the plaintiff and defendant chairs are empty, only on the judge's chair is a baby - eyes closed, stomach with a stitch. The background is dark blue, like the deep sea, as well as the night sky. I draw very fast, almost frantically. Brush dabs, wipes, scratches, coats. The fingers are covered in pigment, the nail beds are filled with lead gray. There was a knock on the door. It's Madeleine, in charge of the residency program, a French woman of about
sixty years old, gray hair tied in a neat bun.
“The whale fell, I worked continuously for eighteen hours.” She brought in a cup of red tea, "Rest."
“I'm almost done.”
“Once this picture is finished, there's another one.” She put down her cup, “Art is a marathon, not a sprint.”
I ordered the brush, received the cup. The tea has honey, the warmth spreads from the throat to the stomach.
"Thank."
Madeleine looked at the painting: “It's very painful.”
“What?”
“This picture.” She said in French, “It itself is screaming in pain.”
I was silent.
“But pain is not the end, my love.” She patted my shoulder, "Frida painted pain all her life, but I look at her self-portraits—her eyes always looking straight, not avoiding. That is the power transformed from pain."
“You still don't have that power.”
“I will.” Madeleine said, “Time will give you.”
She left, I continued drawing. But the pace slows down, each stroke becomes more careful. When drawing the baby's face, I hesitated. Who should I draw like? Like Tham Ngat? Like me? Or like a completely new life, belonging to no one? Finally me
Draw a blurred face—only outlines, no senses. Because I don't know what she looks like. And will never know again. The phone lit up and there was a message from Lam Hoai: "A domestic art magazine wants to interview you. Accept it?"
"Topic?"
“Women Artists: Trauma and Creativity.”
I looked at the word "trauma". It's jarring, it's too easy to package pain into a marketable subject.
“Not accepted.” I answered, “My work is not about trauma, it is about rebirth.”
"Understood. I refuse to help you."
Putting down the phone, I looked at the picture. The stitching on the baby's belly I outlined with silver, in a deep blue background like a faint ray of starlight. Perhaps Madeleine is right. Pain is not the end point. But transformation takes time. What I have left is only time.
27
Three months later, I returned to Shanghai to handle tax matters. Lam Hoai insisted on organizing a small party: "Just a few people in the circle, I know you don't like noise, but people who need to meet should still meet." The party was at a private club on the Bund,
Outside the glass window is a brilliant river scene. Guests included curators, critics, collectors, all dressed "properly" in fashion. I wore a simple black dress, no jewelry. Compared to the sparkling women around me, I was like a nun lost in the wrong place. Chu Can was also present, she hugged me: "How is Paris?"
"Very good."
“New work?”
“Drawing.”
“Still so few words.” she laughs, “But that's what artists should do—let their work speak.”
Halfway through the party, I went to the balcony to breathe. The early autumn night wind was a bit cold, the neon lights on the other side of the river reflected into the water, breaking into floating pieces of light.