Chapter 7 — Tearful Trial

Seven wooden crates, carefully sealed, labeled Monday to Sunday. Open the first crate, Sink appears. The deep blue seems to overflow from the frame, the whale is diving, eyes closed, but as if looking at the viewer. Tran Tinh took a breath: "This is... a painting of Falling Whale?"

“Yes.”

“Why are you…”

“I buy it.” Tham Ngac said, "Or more accurately, I wanted to buy it."

He opened the accompanying letter. To Van's handwriting is thinner and stiffer than before:

“Tham Ngac:

You bought the painting, the right to handle it belongs to me. I decided: these seven pictures, give to Starlight Women's Legal Service Center. Not for me, but for all the women who need light. Their stories deserve to be remembered. To Van” PS: “No need to reply. This is the end.” Tham Ngat's fingers slid across the paper, stopping at the word "finish". Yes, it should be over. He turned to Tran Tinh: "Do we get it?"

“Of course!” Tran Tinh looked at the paintings with emotion, "These paintings... hang here, it's so luxurious."

“Not a luxury.” Tham Ngat said, “That's what they deserve.”

It took them all afternoon to hang the picture. Seven paintings line the main wall, from Sunken to Empty, forming a complete circle. Finally hung Sunday. White canvas, water drops under sparkling lights. A woman who came for consultation stood in front of the painting for a long time, then said: "Like tears."

“What?” Tham Ngat asked.

“This drop.” she pointed, "It hasn't fallen yet, just like my tears last night—lingered in my eyes all night, and finally didn't fall."

Tham Ngac was stunned. To Van once said something similar. One rainy night, she looked at the water stains on the glass: "Tham Ngac, look, every drop is struggling—wanting to fall but doesn't want to." He then replied: "It is the phenomenon of surface tension." Now I understand. There are words that require traveling around the world, going through brokenness and rebirth, to be able to hear and understand.

31

Tham Ngat accepted a new case. The client's name is Trieu Mai, thirty-eight years old, supermarket cashier. The husband is a high school teacher, in the eyes of outsiders he is an exemplary couple. But behind closed doors, there is another face.

“He strangled me.” Trieu Mai pointed to the CT scan, "The doctor said a little more force and the larynx bone would break."

“Why?”

“Because I found out he was embezzling public money from the school.” Her voice trembled, "He said if I told him, he would kill me, then staged it as a suicide."

“Is there any evidence?”

“Yes.” Trieu Mai handed over the USB, "I secretly recorded it, and there are photos of the books on his computer."

Tham Ngac listened to the recording. The man's voice was gentle, but his words sent chills down people's spines:

“Mai Mai, you know, I have many ways to make you disappear. Besides, no one will suspect me—I'm an excellent teacher, and you're just a mentally unstable cashier. What will the police think?”

Excellent teacher. The cashier is mentally unstable. A perfect power differential. The case quickly attracted attention, because Trieu Mai's husband's lawyer was Truong Vi — Tham Nga's former partner. In court, Truong Vi still wore a tailored three-piece suit and his hair was combed neatly.

“Tham Ngac, long time no see.” Before the trial, he smiled politely, "I didn't expect to see you here."

“I didn't expect it either.” Tham Ngat edited the file.

“To be honest, I'm quite disappointed.” Truong Vi lowered his voice, "With your ability, you can't do anything, do you have to do these... charitable things?"

Tam Ngac looked up: “This is not charity, this is the law.”

“Law?” Truong Vi laughed, "Tham Ngac, people like us should be above the law, not under it."

“We are not the same type of people.” Tham Ngat said.

The trial begins. Truong Vi's defense strategy was identical to Tham Ngat's before—doubting Trieu Mai's psychological state, doubting the legality of the recording, doubting the motive for property.

“My client is a respected teacher, while the plaintiff only has a high school diploma and has been taking antidepressants for a long time.” Truong Vi said calmly, "It's clear who we should believe, it doesn't need to be said."

The audience seats had reporters taking notes. Tham Ngat knows this trial will be reported on. It was his turn to speak. He did not stand up immediately, but looked at Trieu Mai. She was twisting her hands tightly, between her nails there were still glue stains from supermarket price tags.

“Judge,” he said at last, “I want to tell a story.”

The whole room was silent.

"Three years ago, I represented a divorce case. My client was a woman, her husband said she was greedy for money, had an affair, and was mentally unstable. I prepared a perfect chain of evidence, and in court, I proved it all."

He stopped, his voice hoarse:

"I won. One hundred percent win rate, one more time. My client is very happy, the media calls me the 'ace lawyer'."

"There was only one person who lost—the defendant. She had a miscarriage right in court, losing the child. Later I learned that much of that 'perfect evidence' was fake. Did I know? I knew, but I chose not to look. Because looking closely would affect the odds of winning."

Truong Vi frowned: "Lawyer Tham, this has nothing to do with the case—"

“Relevant.” Tham Ngat interrupted, “Because I was the exact role that lawyer Truong is playing—using legal techniques to hide the truth, using my advantageous position to crush weaker voices.”

He turned towards the council:

"Today, my client, Trieu Mai, has a high school diploma, cashier, takes antidepressants. And on the other side, university teacher, elite title, high social status. On the surface, who should we trust?"

“But the law should not look at appearances. The law should look at evidence—real evidence, not cleverly selected evidence. Law should protect weakness, not become a tool to hurt it.”

He held up the USB: "In here is a recording of the defendant threatening to kill the plaintiff. There are also photos of books proving that the defendant embezzled public funds. These evidences may be 'imperfect' - noisy recording, unclear photos. But they are real."

“Reality is more important than perfection.”

The last sentence he said was very quiet, but like a stone falling into flat water. In the audience, a reporter took notes. Truong Vi's face changed completely. During break time, Tham Nga was surrounded by reporters in the hallway.

“Lawyer Tham, was your last statement a repentance?”

“Is the case you mentioned three years ago your divorce case?”

“How do you view your previous career?”

Tham Ngat didn't answer anything, just said:

"The law should serve people, not people serving the law. If one day, in pursuit of the 'perfect case', we hurt real people, then we have betrayed the original purpose of the law." law."

That statement became the front page headline the next day.

“Ace lawyer turns around: I used to be a blade.”

32

I did not attend the opening of the exhibition in Paris. Madeleine understood: “I don't want attention. But at least tonight, come see the gallery. When the night is deep, the painting belongs only to you.” So, at midnight I pushed open the gallery door. The Seven Days series is almost sold out, with only Sundays and Thursdays left. In the empty space, the spotlight covers the painting with a warm halo. I stand before Sunday. That floating drop of water, in the stillness, seemed to actually be trembling. Behind him, footsteps sounded. I didn't turn back, but I knew who it was. Paris is so big, with so many galleries, but you can always find me.

“The exhibition was very successful.” Tham Ngat's voice echoed in the wide space, "Congratulations."

“Thank you.”

He stood next to me, keeping a polite distance. We looked at the pure white picture together.

“I received the painting.” he said, “Hanging in the center. Many women who came for consultation stood in front of the painting for a long time. Some say it's like tears, some say it's like hope.”

“Is that so.”

“Thank you.” He paused, “Not for me, but for them.”

Finally I turned to look at him. Parisian winter leaves its mark on the face—the corners of the eyes have wrinkles, the sideburns have a few gray strands. But he looked more like three years ago… more like a human being.

“Why did you come to Paris?” I asked.

“There is an international public interest legal conference.” he replied, “By the way… want to see your exhibition.”

“Are you done watching?”

“It's done.”

We were silent again. Only the gentle sound of the air conditioner remained.

“Tham Ngac,” I suddenly said, “I forgive you.”

His body trembled slightly.

“It's not because of you, it's because of me.” I continued looking at the painting, “Carrying hatred is so tiring. I want to move on lightly.”

“To Van…”

“But forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting.” I turned back to face him, "I forgive, but I won't go back to the past, won't start over, won't give you any chances. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his eyes reddened: "Understood."

“That's good.” I walked to another picture, “Go away. This is the last time we meet.”

He didn't move.

“I have one more question.” he said, “Just one sentence.”

I stopped.

“The baby…” his voice trembled, “Our daughter… may I know her name?”

The air freezes. A long time later I said: “Tham Tri Ha. 'Tri' is knowing, 'Ha' is summer."

“Tham Tri Ha.” he repeated, as if tasting bitter candy, “Very beautiful name.”

“If I were still alive, I would be in kindergarten by now.” I looked into the distance, “You will love to draw, just like me. Will be tough, like you. I was born in the spring, so I called you Tri Ha—knowing summer is coming.”

Tears finally fell from the corners of his eyes. I don't wipe.

“Sorry.” he repeated those three words like a prayer, "Sorry, sorry, sorry..."

“That's enough.” I said, “Three times is enough. Say more, I can't hear anymore."

He nodded, wiping his tears hard.

“I'm leaving.” he said, “Take care, To Van.”

“Take care, Tham Ngat.”

He turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway. I stood still until the door automatically closed, until the gallery became quiet. I walked back to Sunday, reached out and gently touched the drop of water. The color is dry and hard. It turns out that the softest thing, when frozen, becomes hard. Like the heart.

33

One year next, spring auction in Paris. My new series Facing the Sea reached record prices. This time I did not use a pen name, but signed with my real name: To Van. After the press conference, the reporter asked: "What does it mean from 'Falling Whale' to 'To Van'?"

“It means I no longer need metaphors.” I said, “I can face myself—my past, my pain, and my name.”

“Your works often have images of whales. Why?”

I thought for a moment: "Because the fall of a whale is the most majestic death of the deep sea, and also the longest lasting nourishment. It sinks into darkness, but illuminates the abyss. I hope I can do the same—turn the darkness that has passed through into light for others."

“Last question,” the reporter smiled, “Are you happy now?”

I looked out the window at Paris. Spring has come, the sycamore trees are budding, the cafe is full of people basking in the sun.

“Happiness is a big word.” I said, "But I'm at peace, free, and doing what I love. For me, that's enough."

The press conference ended, Lam Hoai waited for me behind.

“There's something for you.” He handed over an envelope, "Tam Ngac asked me to deliver it."

I opened it. A rough printed booklet, the annual report of the Starlight Center. The front page is a photo of Ly Tu Lan and her two daughters—they opened a small tailor shop, smiling brightly. Page two, Trieu Mai—she left the supermarket, became a volunteer, helping other abused women. Page three, page four... each page is a story, from broken to rebuilt. The last page is the center photo. Seven Days hangs on the wall, with sticky notes underneath:

“Looking at this picture, I decided to divorce.”

“Thank you, Falling Whale. Your painting saved me.”

“I want to be like a whale—sink to the bottom and then surface.”

My vision blurred. The back of the cover has the handwritten words:

“To Van, you're right. There are colds that take a lifetime to melt. But that melting process is the beginning of warmth.

Thank you for helping me understand. Tham Ngat” I put away the notebook.

“How is he?” I asked Lam Hoai.

“Still working as a public interest lawyer.” he replied, "Last month won a difficult case, helping a falsely accused wife regain custody of her children. The press called him 'the man who wields the sword for the weak'."

“That's good.”

“Don't ask about your personal life?”

“It doesn't concern me anymore.” I said, “We're all going our own way.”

Lam Hoai nodded and did not say more. I left the hall, the Paris afternoon breeze was gentle. Walking along the Seine River, I stopped at the place where I once threw a box of painting tools into the water. The river remains the same, carrying countless stories forward. I took out my phone, opened the "Sorry" message from last year, and pressed delete. Then open your contacts, find his name, delete it. Not because of hatred, but because of letting go. There are people who pass through our lives, not to stay, but to teach us something—about love, about pain, about how to be ourselves. Tham Ngat taught me: don't leave your deep sea for anyone else. I taught Tham Ngat: the law must have a temperature, people must know how to repent. We're even. The phone rang, Madeleine: “Darling, the celebration is waiting for you!”

“I'll be there soon.”

I turned around and walked towards the light. Behind us, the Seine River flows quietly, entering the English Channel, then out into the Atlantic Ocean. Like a whale facing the sea, it cannot be avoided, there is no way back. But this time, I swam to my own deep sea—not to sink, but to belong.

34

Shanghai, Bund Museum of Fine Arts.

“To Van Retrospective Exhibition” opens, displaying all works from the early Deep Sea Echoes to the latest series Facing the Sea.

The stream of people is bustling, the flash lights flash continuously. I was in the second floor break room, looking down at the crowd through the one-way glass. Many people stood in front of Seven Days—a set of paintings borrowed from the Starlight center, notes still attached. A man in a suit entered the gallery, stopping before Judgment Day. It's Tham Ngat. He is a bit older, but his eyes are calm. Next to her is a girl about ten years old—Ly Tu Lan's eldest daughter, now an intern at his public service organization. The little girl pointed at the painting and said something. Tham Ngac bent down to listen and nodded. You can't see me behind the glass. That's very good. We don't need to meet again, we don't need dialogue, we don't need reconciliation rituals. We were on our own trajectory, becoming better versions. That's enough.

“Miss To,” the assistant knocked on the door, “it's time to speak.”

I took one last look down at the showroom. Tham Ngat has left Judgment Day and entered the series Facing the Sea. In the latest picture, the whale is no longer sinking, but swimming calmly in the deep sea, surrounded by microorganisms glowing like stars. He stood there for a long time. Then turned around and melted into the crowd. I adjusted my shirt and walked out of the room. The light shined directly on me, applause rang out. I walked to the podium, looking down at countless faces.

"Hello everyone, I'm To Van."

My voice through the sound system echoed throughout the space—clear, steady, no longer shaky.

“Someone once asked me what art is.”

I smiled.

"Now I want to say, art is my way of dialogue with the world. It's the lamp I light myself after going through the darkness. It's the whale that falls into the deep sea, but makes the whole abyss have light."

The sound of applause arose. I looked beyond the crowd, as if I saw the girl who stood on night duty at the convenience store, the woman who lost everything in the courtroom, the woman crying alone in the Paris studio. I nodded slightly at her. You did it. We did it. The exhibition will last three months. As for life, there are still countless springs ahead. RUN OUT OF