Chapter 6 — Tearful Trial

Behind me there were footsteps. I didn't turn back, but I knew who it was. That feeling of presence, the cold air like winter suddenly came.

“To Van.”

Tham Ngat's voice. Hoarse than memory. I'm back. He is much thinner, his suit is a bit loose. The eye bags were clear, but the gaze was different—no longer sharp and controlling, but a tired alertness.

“Attorney Tham.” I used the strangest term, "What a coincidence."

“No coincidence.” he said, “Lam Hoai said you would come.”

“Then you should know I don't want to see you.”

“I know.” He took a step forward, stopping at a safe distance, "I'll just say a few words, then I'll leave."

I didn't answer, it was taken as agreement.

“First, sorry.” he looked straight into my eyes, “Not to ask for your forgiveness, just to tell the truth—I was wrong, I did unforgivable things.”

The river laps at the bank, making a deep sound.

“Second, I'm working as a public interest lawyer, mainly helping women in family cases. Last month, I won a case, the client got a protection order and custody of her child. When she held her child and cried, I thought of you.”

He stopped: "If you had listened to me that day, if we hadn't gone into court..."

“There are no ifs.” I interrupted, "Tham Ngac, life is not your case, you can't review it, you can't appeal."

“I know.” he nodded, "So Tuesday, I won't bother you anymore. I came today just to finish saying what needed to be said."

He took out a small box from his pocket and handed it over. I don't accept.

“Not a gift.” he said, “It's what you dropped.”

I opened the box. Inside was a wedding ring—mine, with our initials engraved on the inside. After the divorce, I left it in the apartment, thinking he had thrown it away.

“Why do you keep it?”

“Because I have no right to throw it away.” he said, “It belongs to you, only you have the right to decide your fate.”

I closed the box and held it in my hand. The metal was cold and painful when pressed against the skin.

“Are you done talking?” I asked.

“Okay.”

“Then I'll go.”

When I turned my back, he called: "To Van." I stopped and didn't turn around.

“You draw very well.” His voice was very soft, "It's really good."

I didn't answer, just walked inside. The party was still noisy. I walked through the crowd, entered the bathroom, and locked the door. Open the box, look at the ring. Under the light, the diamond still sparkled, like a frozen tear. I opened the window and waved my hand. The ring traced a silver line and fell into the Huangpu River. There was no sound of water, then it disappeared. Like love, it looks brilliant, but is so light that even if it falls into the water, there is no sound. After washing my face, I looked at myself in the mirror. After three years, I can finally look straight into these eyes—not avoiding, not appeasing, not crying for anyone anymore. Back in the lobby, Lam Hoai walked over: "Are you okay?"

“It's okay.”

“Tam Ngac him…”

“He's gone.” I said, “Won't come back.”

Lam Hoai looked closely at my face: "Can you really let go?"

“If you don't let go, you have to let go.” I raised my glass, "You can't hold the coffin and dance."

He laughed: "That's a good analogy. Because of reincarnation?"

“For rebirth.”

The two glasses collided, making a clear sound. Outside the door, the Shanghai night was thick. Millions of bright lights, under each light is a story—some complete, some broken, some just beginning. As for my story, it has finally turned the most painful page. The next page is a chapter written by myself.

28

In development In a solo exhibition in Paris, To Van displayed a new series of paintings, Seven Days. The seventh picture is an empty room, on the floor there is only a blade of ice that is half melting. The label says: "Some colds take a lifetime to melt." On the second day of the exhibition, an anonymous buyer purchased all seven paintings, under the condition—

“Please let the artist personally handle this series of works, whether by canceling or donating.”

When To Van signed the contract, she saw the delivery address specified by the buyer: Shanghai, Anh Sao Women's Legal Service Center. And Tham Ngat is there, defending a slandered wife. His opponent is a former colleague. In his defense there is a sentence:

“The law should protect weakness, not become a tool to hurt it.”

That statement was recorded by a reporter in the audience. The next day, the newspaper headline was:

“Ace lawyer's confession: I used to be a blade.”

29

The winter in Paris is bitterly cold. The Seine River was covered with a thin layer of ice, and the pigeons crouched under the flying buttresses of Notre Dame Cathedral, their feathers ruffled into gray cotton balls. But my drawing room is as warm as spring. The fireplace hums softly, seven paintings line the wall, like seven windows leading to different states of mind. Monday: Sinking Dark blue fills the entire frame, in the middle is a whale diving. Its eyes are closed, but its posture seems to be flying. The critic said the painting had “a gentle fall.” Tuesday: Decay The whale's outlines begin to blur, and small sea creatures grow on its body—barnacles, tube worms, blind shrimp. Death is transforming into life, but the process itself is painful. Wednesday: Banquet Sea creatures surround the whale carcass, holding a silent party. The tone is dark red, like blood, as well as volcanic lava at the bottom of the sea. Thursday: Skeleton The flesh and blood recede, leaving only the giant skeleton, which in the dim light on the ocean floor resembles a Gothic cathedral. Sacred but lonely. Friday: The skeleton reef becomes a coral reef, coral grows, small fish swim through. Death finally becomes a landscape. Saturday: Afterglow The painting turns abstract—only the spreading waves remain. Like the last song of a whale, echoing in the deep sea for hundreds of years. Sunday: The Toan Drum is pure white, in the middle there is only a drop of water about to fall. On the label I wrote: "Some things disappear, to become a greater existence." Madeleine came to see the final result, standing long before Sunday.

“This one,” she said finally, “is the most painful.”

“Because it's empty?”

“Because it's full.” She turned to me, "You fill up all the space, then use the emptiness to ask: so where is the love? Where is the hatred? Where are the memories? Where do they go?"

I can't answer. The exhibition is scheduled for March next year, Paris's laziest season. On the day of hanging the painting, Lam Hoai flew from Shanghai to help.

“The art world in the country is waiting for your new series.” He said as he hung the painting, "Chu Can wrote a long article, calling you 'the person who uses wounds to illuminate the abyss'."

“Too exaggerated.”

“But yes.” Lam Hoai adjusted the angle of the lamp, "To Van, have you ever thought about why your paintings touch so many people?"

I shook my head.

“Because I don't lie.” He said, "You show the pain but don't sell it. You paint the pain but don't glorify it. That kind of honesty is rare."

Honestly. This word reminds me Tham Ngat. You will probably never understand, sometimes honesty is more important than perfection.

“Ah,” Lam Hoai remembered, “an anonymous buyer contacted the gallery, wanting to buy the entire Seven Days series.”

“All seven pictures?”

"Yes. The price is very high, but there is one condition—" he hesitated, "the buyer wants you to handle this series of paintings yourself. Cancel, donate, or... it's up to you."

I frowned: "What do you mean?"

"The ownership belongs to them, but the right to decide belongs to you." Lam Hoai handed over the contract, "Strange terms, but the lawyer said it was legal."

I flipped the contract. The amount of money was shockingly large, enough for me to not worry about my livelihood for ten years. The last page states the receiving address: China, Shanghai, Hongkou District... Starlight Women's Legal Service Center Recipient: Tham Ngoc The tip of the pen stopped, the ink spread into a small spot.

“He knew you would see.” Lam Hoai said softly, "That's his way of apologizing."

“Using money?”

“Use your rules.” Lam Hoai said, "I once threw my wedding ring into Huangpu. Now he returns the painting to me—if you want to throw it, throw it, if you want to keep it, keep it. The choice is yours."

I looked at the address line. Hongkou, the old alley, is only two streets away from my old rented room. The man who once said convenience store coffee was “bad for your health” now works in a public interest legal center. The person who once said "emotions are variables" now uses the clumsiest way to understand what regret is.

“Tell him,” I closed the contract, “I will handle the painting. But the money will be returned.”

“To Van…”

“I don't need his money.” I said firmly, “I need him to understand—there are things that cannot be bought back.”

Lam Hoai nodded: "I will tell." That evening I stood alone in the drawing room, before the Seven Days series. Seven pictures, seven stages, seven rituals of saying goodbye to the past. Phone vibrates. Message from unknown number, just two words:

“Thank you.”

I did not answer. But the finger stopped on the delete button, and finally did not press it.

30

Shanghai, Starlight Legal Service Center. Tham Ngat was arranging files, sunlight filtered through the curtains, cutting into light and dark streaks on the old wooden floor. Ly Tu Lan's case was won. The court declared a divorce, her two children followed her, the house belonged to her, her ex-husband had to pay child support, and an additional compensation for mental damage. On the day of sentencing, Ly Tu Lan hugged her two daughters and cried until she couldn't stand.

“Lawyer Tham, thank you… really thank you…”

Tham Ngac supported her: "You're a strong sister."

“No.” Ly Tu Lan shook her head, tears falling on the sentence, "If it weren't for you, maybe I... maybe I would have..."

She didn't continue, but Tham Ngat understood. Maybe he gave up, maybe he continued to endure it for his child's sake, maybe he was seriously injured in some violence, or even lost his life. The law is a threshold that some tall people cannot reach. His job is to help them get through. Tran Tinh brought two cups of tea: "Let's rest a bit. A new volunteer will come for an interview this afternoon."

“Okay.”

Tham Ngac lifted his cup and looked outside. In the alley, old men played chess, children ran after each other, and clotheslines hung with colorful bedsheets. Ordinary, petty, honest. It was a world he had never really seen in thirty years. The phone vibrated, Lam Hoai texted: "To Van agreed to handle the painting, but the money was returned. She said 'no need'." Tham Ngat looked at those three words for a long time before answering: "I know."

“You're not trying anymore?”

“Trying is not respecting respect her.” he typed, “She said no, which means no.”

He put down the phone and continued to file documents, but his mind drifted away. What does To Van's studio in Paris look like? What expression does she have when drawing? Do you still have the habit of biting the tip of your pen when thinking, or singing softly when satisfied? I don't know. You have lost your right to know. The person who came for the afternoon interview was a third-year law student, with a ponytail and bright eyes.

“Why do you want to come here?” Tham Ngat asked.

“Because of my mother.” she said, “Last year my mother finally got divorced, and the lawyer is a volunteer here. I want… I also want to help people like mom.”

“It will be very difficult.”

“I know.” she nodded, “But it's worth it, right?”

Tham Ngat looked at those eyes, remembering himself many years ago—when he first entered the law faculty, believing that the law was a sword that cuts off all injustice.

“Worth it.” he said, “It was worth it.”

After the interview, Tran Tinh walked in: "There is your parcel, very large, sent from France." Tham Ngat's heart stopped. Working room.