Chapter Text
[Brussels, 1986]
Tintin hadn’t been in such an opulent and elegant hall for a very long time.
The dazzling crystal chandeliers illuminated the deep red woodwork and golden walls with a suffocating brilliance. From below, he could see exquisite marble reliefs carved along second floor railings. Everything here reminded him of that ballroom in Beijing, where he could dance night after night with the whom he once considered the love of his life.
He was still young back then, not yet stripped of his spirit by the years in prison. He had mastered several languages by the age of twelve. His mentor had called him a once-in-a-century prodigy and introduced him to a diplomat, who kindly invited him to join the foreign delegation to Beijing.
Twenty springs had passed in a blink, and now he truly was known far and wide—but not with the honor his mentor once hoped for. Instead, he had become a international laughingstock. His presence here wasn’t for receiving medals or knighthood, but to await the judge’s gavel and the final branding of a long-decided charge: treason.
The deeds of the past twenty years were undeniable. He had already failed at taking his own life more than once. His confession had been recited over and over again, until the story no longer felt like his—it had become a farce of someone else.
After all, he had lost everything a man could lose—his career, his fortune, his reputation, his wife and children...
No. He had never had a wife or children. What he had was merely a self-deceiving illusion.
He shook his head, letting himself sink once more into the whirlpool of memory—offering to the fully packed courtroom his absurd, misspent life.
[Beijing, 1964]
Tintin hurried down the stairs, apologizing to the French embassy staffer who had been waiting for some time.
“Sorry, sir. I’m late.”
“No worries, you’re young—you need to prove yourself. I heard you treat your weekly reports like works of art?” The man gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Together, they squeezed into the ocean of bicycles on the busy street, heading to a party hosted at the Swiss embassy.
“I just hope it’s not Peking Opera again,” the colleague grumbled.
“How different can eastern and western operas be?” Tintin brushed it off with a smile.
As dusk fell, foreign diplomats of all countries gradually took their seats beneath a newly erected stage. Despite their varied skin tones, they were uniformly dressed in suits and ties. Onstage, however, actors were adorned in traditional Chinese costumes and painted in vivid colors. Such contrast make them seemed to hail from another world entirely. Unlike what Tintin had imagined, the Peking Opera’s singing was vastly different from regular speech. Even with his fluent Mandarin, he could understand only bits and pieces. The other guests fared worse—many left before the show ended, and those who remained were stifling yawns.
“The little nun, just sweet sixteen,
Had her head shaved clean by her master mean.
All day long in the temple she stays,
Burning incense, fetching water, stuck in her ways.
But when the young lads play by the gate,
She steals a glance — oh, isn't that fate?
He gives her a look, sly and sly,
She peeks right back, with a glint in her eye.”
A sudden burst of clear, flirtatious vernacular made Tintin sit up straight. Such blunt and teasing lines tugged sharply at his heartstrings. The silvery voice drew his eyes irresistibly to the lead performer—it was the first time that evening he truly looked at the little nun.
She lacked the gentle benevolence of the convent sisters from his childhood. Her bright eyes were like deep pools; every smile and frown was delicate and unpretentious. The shaved head lent her a touch of boyish gallantry, a vitality that European debutantes could never quite possess.
In a daze, the male lead on stage turned into Tintin himself. Truthfully, Tintin had much in common with the young monk—sickly as a child, sent by his parents to a monastery. Though he grew stronger with time, his parents passed away tragically young. Later, he attended a boys' school, never had many encounters with women, yet always dreaming that one day, a graceful lady would steal his heart at first sight.
The lyrics no longer mattered. To Tintin, everything now sounded like Romeo’s aria—"Ah! leve toi soleil” He remained transfixed until the performance ended and the crowd dispersed. Only when his companion tapped him on the shoulder did he snap back to reality, as if waking from a dream.
“So, what were they even singing about?” the colleague asked, still bewildered.
“Off with the monk’s cap, on with the groom’s hat. You and I will be husband and wife, together till our locks turn white…” Tintin murmured.
Naturally, he made his way backstage to meet the little nun.
The opera troupe was surprised by his fluent Chinese and, with excessive enthusiasm, pointed him in the right direction. He trudged through a sea of gaudy props, pushing deeper and deeper into the corridor. Suddenly, he turned a corner and found gauzy veil right in front of himself, cutting him off from the flickering silhouette behind.
“Miss Tchang.” Tintin dared not speak too loudly, for fear of startling whatever unseen Eastern spirit dwelled there.
A soft laugh answered him. He could almost picture her smirk. From behind the veil, she gently hummed: “Bonne nuit, Monsieur.”
“You speak French?” he blurted out, astonished.
“You speak Chinese. Why can’t I speak French?”
Outside, the cicadas in the garden abruptly fell silent. The candlelight flicked, its warm yellow light whooshed into a wisp of smoke. The suddenly wind billowed the veil high into the air, revealing a slender figure in a porcelain-white qipao, her hair somehow grown back, falling lightly over her shoulders, softer than moonlight. Her face seemed glowing faintly, was like a painted portrait of an Oriental lady brought to life.
Something beyond his control made Tintin recite the few lines he still remembered from the opera:” The man has a heart, the woman does too, what fear have we of mountains or rivers to get through?”
Tchang’s brows fluttered slightly. Rising, she continued: “Let’s meet beneath the moon and flowers in bloom. When two hearts are true, there’s always room.”
Her gestures bore none of the haughtiness of a Western lady. Instead, there was a quiet strength about her—a uniquely Eastern grace, tender yet resilient, never servile, never arrogant. The more he looked, the more captivated he became.
“But I still don’t know the name of this man who has the heart,” she said, lips curling into a faint smile.
“I am…” He paused. “Tintin. Miss Tchang, would you grant me the honor of walking you home?”
Chapter Text
[Brussels Courthouse, 1986]
“And just like that, she made me believe that he was a woman.”
People lowered their heads and whispered among themselves. But the judge furrowed his brows, clearly unconvinced by the story.
“Will the prosecution’s cooperating witness, Mr. Tchang Tchong Jen, please take the stand.”
Tintin had no time to react to the name before a loud crash erupted behind him. It wasn’t just the courtroom doors that were thrown open, but the floodgates to his deepest, most painful memories. The psychological defenses he had spent the past three years building crumbled instantly. He could only stare blankly toward the source of the sound.
Gasps rose from the seats behind. Standing in the doorway was a man in a neatly tailored suit. His features were sculpted and handsome—by either Eastern or Western standards—and his posture was tall and poised. With his clean-cut hairstyle and steady stride, he radiated a charm that handcuffs could not conceal. One might have mistaken the guards at his side for personal bodyguards rather than escorts.
Unshaken by the courtroom’s reaction, Tchang strolled in calmly, looking at no one. He walked past Tintin without a glance. The affectionate turns of the past were gone; all that remained was coldness—and the smug satisfaction of a deception well played.
So this was what he truly looked like.
Yes, there was no mistake. It was her. It was him. The one who had called himself Tintin’s spouse, who had deceived him for twenty years... Tchang Tchong Jen, Tchang Tchong Jen—the name Tintin had whispered to himself over seven thousand nights. In the early days after his arrest, all Tintin felt toward him was hate. But every time he attempted to take his own life, it was always Tchang Tchong Jen’s face in the white lights before losing consciousness.
Now, all that Tintin could do was hate the part of himself that still longed for him, that still could not look away.
“Seeing you now, I fail to understand how the defendant ever mistook you for a woman.”
Tchang’s voice was way too theatrical for a courtroom. “Your Honor, female roles in Peking Opera have always been played by men. They are called dan. It’s unfortunate the defendant speaks fluent Chinese yet never learned that.”
“But you were not a real woman—how did you manage to deceive the defendant for twenty years?”
Tchang lowered his eyes. “Your Honor, precisely because I was not truly a woman—I play the women men dream of. Perhaps tomorrow, all of Europe will be in moral uproar over this statement, but allow me: only a man can be the perfect lover for another man, because only a man understands what kind of woman a man desires.”
Every movement and expression Tchang made was calculated perfectly, designed to elicit exactly the reaction he intended. The courtroom burst into chaos. Men shouted in fury, while women covered their mouths in shock.
“Order!” the judge shouted.
Silence fell immediately. The judge continued. “At the time of your first encounter with the defendant, were you already cooperating with the Chinese government?”
Tchang let out a soft laugh—the same as when he had posed as a woman, yet now it matched flawlessly with his masculine appearance.
“No. Before that, I had never received any formal training in espionage. I was simply an actor who spoke French. And haven’t you already verified that my past has no connection to this case?”
The judge leaned over to confer quietly with his colleagues. At last, they nodded. Tchang Tchong Jen’s statement was confirmed.
“Very well. Then tell us what happened after you met the defendant.”
[Beijing, 1964]
“Orders from above are for you to get closer to him.” Tchang Tchong Jen’s adoptive father Wong reclined in his chair, his thick beard concealing most of his expression.
“Why me?”
“Even the bravest heroes fall for a beautiful face.”
“But I’m a man.”
“Orders are: if he doesn’t know that, then don’t let him find out.” Wong took a sip of tea.
Tchang Tchong Jen knew he had no choice. His family had once been wealthy merchants in Republican-era Shanghai. After the founding of the People’s Republic, they were relocated to Beijing. With no remaining assets and a politically “unfavorable” background, if they couldn’t contribute something to the party, they wouldn’t even be able to hold on to the life they had now.
“Then… consider this my gratitude for everything you did to raise me.”
Tchang didn’t need to wait long for the young man named Tintin to knock on his gate. He prepared his expression carefully and welcomed the visitor as though this was just another performance.
He had always known that once you became an actor, the role never truly left you. Even without the costume, the flattery ran deep in your bones. Whether onstage or off, it was always about fulfilling the audience’s fantasy.
The foreigner exclaimed over every calligraphy scroll and painting in the room, even beaming with pride when he managed to read out a couplet. His gaze stayed fixed as Tchang poured the tea—eyes shining with a hunger, as if through Tchang, he saw an exciting and exotic culture he had never encountered before.
“Do you realize, your visit today might bring scandal upon me?”
A faint blush had already crept onto Tintin’s face. “I... in our country, dropping by for tea is no big deal.”
“You come from a modern land. But China is so rooted in two thousand years of tradition that even the act of pouring tea carries implications.”
Tchang listened as the tea’s gentle splash against the porcelain grew clearer and more delicate. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he left the cup just enough unfilled, as if preserving a space for something unsaid.
“Don’t fill the cup to the brim; leave some room for feeling,” Tchang Tchong Jen said, turning his head shyly like a young girl in bloom. He knelt, raising the cup above his head, unable to meet Tintin’s eyes. The other’s fingers lingered on his, reluctant to part.
“Drink this cup and then leave.” Tchang still did not raise his gaze. “My virtue cannot bear your visit.”
Clink. The teacup was set down. Footsteps approached. A warm hand touched his hair.
“No... please, don’t...”
Yet still, Tchang quietly yielded to the motion, let himself be pulled up, retreating until he was pinned to a wall. As the other’s face drew near, his body went soft, and as if helpless, he closed his eyes.
“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” After a kiss, Tintin whispered gently into his ear.
“Go… leave!” Tchang collapsed into Tintin’s arms, panting and trembling.
[Beijing, 1965]
“...We haven’t seen each other for half a year, and I haven’t heard from you. Sometimes I hate you, sometimes I hate myself, but I always... seem to miss you. I’ve already given you my shame, but your coldness is unbelievable... If you come again, I will surely drive you away...”
The letter’s signature was a small, delicate seal that reminded him of the hairpin in Tchang’s bun. He threw on his coat and rushed downstairs, heading into the night toward the alley that haunted his dreams.
The housekeeper, an old woman, opened the door yelling something at him, but he ignored her protests and barged straight into Tchang’s room.
Bang—the door swung open. Tchang was in his white qipao again, though this time it was looser; her hair fell naturally like a black waterfall.
“Let him in,” Tchang told the housekeeper.
Tintin barely had time to take off his coat before he eagerly grabbed Tchang’s arm and asked the question he had longed to hear day and night.
“Will you be my butterfly?”
“Don’t you already know the answer?”
[Brussels Courthouse, 1986]
“Stop.” The judge interrupted Tchang. The crowd held its breath, waiting for the question all of Europe had been dying to hear.
“Since you engaged in a sexual relationship with the defendant, how could he fail to recognize you as a man?”
At his words, a doctor with graying hair and beard took the stand. Under his skilled operation, a series of shocking images were laid bare before the audience.
“According to our examination, Mr. Tchang Tchong Jen suffers from a rare congenital condition called testicular feminization. This means that the male is genetically insensitive to androgens, resulting in vague male characteristics externally. Additionally, he retracts his inconspicuous penis back between his legs and pushes his testes upward into the inguinal canal.”
The thoughts and memories almost made Tintin’s brain explode. A body he had never glimpsed for twenty years was now on open display in public. He lowered his head in the defendant’s seat, staring hard at his tightly clenched hands.
No, it wasn’t like that. He had never seen Tchang naked. Even if Tchang was a normal man, he himself would still have been deceived. This had nothing to do with the case.
“But that is not the main reason.” As expected, Tchang almost eagerly cut off the doctor’s words. “It was I who told him that the Chinese prize modesty above all, never undress in bed and only make love in darkness.”
Seeing the judge’s brief silence, he added, “Your Honor, if you were a naive young man just turned twenty, raised in Catholic boys’ schools and monasteries, often hearing that Chinese are known for their modesty, what would you think?”
The judge did not press further, instead changing the question. “How many times did you engage in such acts?”
“We didn’t meet often. After all, the reporter was busy furthering his career.” Tchang said lightly, “Besides, he always saw himself as an ascetic. Taking pleasure as a sin. Of course... seeing me was his greatest sin.”
Tintin pressed his elbows on his knees and covered his face, only to realize that his tears had long since dried. He had genuinely thought those years were the best of his life: a flourishing career and a talented lover. What he loved the most wasn’t sex, but those wandering chats with Tchang. Tchang was also interested in European operas, though the way he sang them always felt slightly off. Yet Tintin loved it so much he recorded many an entire box of tapes. During holidays and celebrations, Tchang was his partner at parties and balls.
But one day, that gentle qipao disappeared. She swapped it for a green military uniform and a satchel. Tintin almost mistook her for a sentry when she appeared at the embassy gate.
Stripped of the feminine clothes, she was like a sheep shone of her fleece, staring blankly at him without greeting. Yet Tintin took her hand, leading her into the embassy ballroom as usual.
“You look beautiful as ever.”
He didn’t lie. That plain, colorless uniform was a hundred or a thousand times more striking than any previous guise, reminding Tintin that the first thing that attracted him was Tchang’s shaved nun look.
Once the door shut behind them, everything Chinese was cut off, as if they were in Europe, so far, so detached from the political storm on the distant eastern land.
Snap. His partner let her satchel drop, shedding the military jacket at the same time. A bright green dress caught Tintin’s eye; despite its graceful curves, Tintin felt his earlier enthusiasm had also been cast aside with the uniform.
Tchang clutched her chest. “I grew up on the stage. Everything I give others is a performance—only what I show you is real.”
How ironic. Tintin held his own chest at the memory. Nothing Tchang Tchong Jen showed him was true.
Still, Tintin instinctively wondered: wasn’t it exhausting to live one’s whole life in pretense?
The judge’s words cut through his thoughts. “Then, Mr. Tchang Tchong Jen, can you explain where this so-called ‘child’ of yours came from?”
Chapter Text
[Beijing, 1971]
This strange date had been arranged by Tintin’s superior, in the name of encouraging him to start a family soon.
“Is this your first time doing something like this?” The lady opposite him smiled sweetly, but a trace of disdain flickered at the corner of her eye.
“I’ve always been busy with work; the only woman around me is the ambassador’s wife.”
“No, since we began eating, you haven’t stopped talking about China,” his date put down her fork. “I mean—this might be your first date with a white woman.”
Her words caught Tintin off guard, almost making him spit out the kale in his mouth. Before he could respond, she hit him with another blow: “Judging by your expression, the rumors must have been wrong? Everyone says you have a Chinese lover. Such a pity—I was about to ask, do Chinese also make love in the missionary position?”
Tintin didn’t remember how he had stumbled into Tchang’s alley that day. He had drunk too much, probably bumped into several locals on the way there, and when he frantically hammered on the courtyard gate, he heard the housekeeper’s words clearly for the first time.
“Foreign devil! Why the fuck are you knocking on my door, you foreign devil!”
So, all along, she had been calling him a white devil who stole a Chinese woman.
The light was on in Tchang’s room. Tintin’s gentlemanly decorum was crushed under his drunkenness as he rushed forward and flung open the door. The wooden door slammed against the wall with a loud bang.
Under the yellow light, Tchang was painting on a spread of rice paper. As if expecting Tintin’s arrival, she simply lifted her head weakly. “Well, fiancée...”
Grief, anger, and alcohol surged up inside him. Tintin realized his shirt was soaked—he didn’t know if it was from wine, tears, or sweat.
“They demand me to marry. I can’t give up my career for you!”
Tchang gave a bitter smile, not looking at him but continuing to paint relentlessly. “The orders above... hah... I understand, I understand it all. But you’ve only just lost your freedom—while I have always been your slave.”
“You... can’t just drop it that like it is true!”
“It is true.”
“Then prove it to me!” Tintin shouted helplessly. “If you want to be my wife, then marry me by our rules...! What have you ever sacrificed for me?”
Snap—the room plunged into darkness as she suddenly extinguished the lights. Moonlight cast her face in shadows, expression unclear.
“Tintin, I’m pregnant with your child.”
What? He must be drunk, otherwise how could he hear such incomprehensible words? He had longed for many things in his life but never believed he could have a child. An indescribable impulse took hold of him; Tintin stiffly moved toward Tchang. Her blurry face in the dark gradually became clear, and Tintin realized his hands cupping her face were trembling.
“My butterfly...” His voice cracked, and then he collapsed into her chest.
“I will save you—I had failed you, but I will fight the whole world for you and our child...”
Months later, Tintin accompanied Tchang to Beijing’s train station and bought her a ticket home. They sat together in the waiting room, Tintin’s arm around her shoulders. Since he had told her she looked good in the military uniform, she had hardly worn qipao anymore. Her voice had deepened, but Tintin didn’t mind. After all, pregnancy changed many physical traits, and the military uniform was looser and practical, better suited for a pregnant woman.
“I wish I could go with you.”
“Only four months,” Tchang smiled. “By our custom, when our child is three months old, I will bring him to you.”
The train whistle blew. Tchang suddenly turned and planted a swift kiss on his cheek. Tintin covered his face, standing there, stunned.
“It’s the first time you kiss me.”
Tchang picked up her luggage and looked back with a smile. “You’ll dream of me, won’t you?”
“I will.”
[1972, Ili, Xinjiang]
“Can’t you just tell him I lost the infant by accident?” Tchang slammed a cup onto the table, ignoring the broken porcelain sliding through the dusty floor, “I’ve sacrificed my youth for this ridiculous task! Am I expected to pose as a woman forever?”
Wong Didi lowered his head, unwilling to look at his adoptive brother. Their father had died long ago, narrowly escaping exile, but their mother and Didi were still banished to this place, far from the capital.
Bang! A chair overturned, that was one of the few decent pieces of furniture in the place.
“Do you think I am merely enjoying wealth and luxury in Beijing? Don’t forget why I was allowed to stay there in the first place—Father gave me to them! I have never lived like a real person! Did any of you ever truly see me as a son, a brother, a man? And now you want to drag a child into this!”
Wong Didi remained silent. Then, he knelt before Tchang with a thud, sending dust swirling from the floor.
“These children are all orphans, they won’t live like people either, but only if you let them stay here. Take one to Beijing. Let him be that foreign devil’s son, at least he’ll have food and clothes.”
This man—who’d fought the Japanese with a broadsword during the war, kneeling only to heaven and his mother—grabbed his adoptive brother’s calf.
“Take them. It’s a karmic merit.”
[1986, Brussels Courtroom]
“Prosecution witness Jean‑Baptiste, please take the stand.”
All eyes followed the young man. Many were surprised at how ambiguous his racial appearance was—reddish-brown hair, deep-set eyes, yet cheekbones not as prominent as typical Europeans. He bore some resemblance to both main figures in the courtroom. The boy kept his slim lips tightly pressed and his gaze low, appearing very reserved, yet Tintin recognized that was Tchang’s usual calm demeanor.
“Do you have any memory of your biological parents?” the judge asked.
“No. Even the orphanage doesn’t know who they were.”
Tintin noticed that since their last meeting, Baptiste’s voice had deepened, and he had grown significantly taller.
“Tchang Tchong Jen confessed that you are a Uyghur adopted from Xinjiang. He used your Central Asian features to convince the defendant you are their mixed‑race son. Do you confirm that?”
He nodded, but looked silently at Tchang, who immediately answered before the judge spoke again: “Yes. The government arranged several children for me. I chose the one with the reddest hair.”
“Where did the other babies go?”
“Orphanages, probably. I have no way to control that, and I don’t know.”
The judge turned back to Baptiste and softened his tone: “Son, do you know that your foster father is a man?”
“I… know. But in China, men’s and women’s clothes are often very similar. My mother performed both male and female roles on stage, more females—she specialized in dan roles.”
“Mother?” Not just the judge. The entire courtroom shifted forward, as if to confirm they heard correctly.
The boy paused for a second. “Whether he is a man or a woman, or as some insidious ones put it—a sexual deviant—he is always my mom.”
Some in the audience made disgusted sounds, but a few women reached for handkerchiefs to wipe away tears. A flicker of emotion flashed on the judge’s face. Tintin, desperate to see Tchang’s reaction, finally dared look toward his direction.
Tchang stared at Baptiste. Tears glittered in his eyes. His lips trembled. The composure he’d worn moments before had vanished.
Tintin didn’t know whether to feel moved or envious. Even before the arrest, he had resented the closeness between Baptiste and Tchang, after all, Baptiste had lived with Tchang for over a decade. Baptiste was Tchang’s accomplice, his real son. Tintin was the outsider, the victim of both of their deception.
“Do you know your mother’s real motive for posing as a woman?”
Baptiste shook his head. “She told me she is both man and woman. If others found out, we’d have to leave Europe.”
The judge considered the boy’s answer, letting the murmurs of the audience fuel their wild curiosity. After a long silence, he spoke.
“You are still young, powerless over what had happened to you. I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through. Those who gave you a shattered family and a distorted worldview will be held accountable. You may go now, child. And by the way—you speak French very well.”
Baptiste blinked. “Dad often says that, too.”
Dad.
Yes. Despite all Tintin’s frustration at Baptiste’s clear favoritism over Tchang, the boy had called him father for years. Tintin had hated, resented, cursed Tchang Tchong Jen, but he could never bring himself to be angry at this child. Once he learned they weren’t blood-related, the faint feeling of being a father somehow turned real.
Tintin saw his son off with overwhelming emotion. He had hoped to petition for custody after his release, but even that could not be guaranteed—the court preferred placing the boy under Tchang’s care, who had raised him for over a decade, then deporting them both.
The judge turned again to Tintin. “When did you first meet this child?”
“When he was still an infant—and the second time was after I brought both of them to Belgium.”
[1973, Beijing]
Tintin ran up the stairs, clutching Tchang's letter to his chest. This letter was unusually short, offering no explanation as to why Tchang had disappeared for over half a year when he was supposed to return in just four months. He slipped into the alleyways, trying to find Tchang's home from memory, but was instead met with rows of newly built concrete apartment blocks.
Sighing, he searched them one by one, and finally, after passing dozens of green-tiled sanitation walls, he spotted a figure on the staircase, someone in a blue Zhongshan suit and headscarf.
Tintin stopped in his tracks. The figure looked up and raised a swaddle in their arms, their voice heavy with melancholy: "I told you I would give you a child. This is your son."
It felt like a dream. Tintin took the baby into his arms, and in that moment, all doubts and worries vanished. The child's cheeks were round and plump, skin pink and tender. The wisps of reddish-orange baby hair crowned his head; his bright eyes locked Tintin in place. When the baby saw the man holding him, he smiled with innocent joy.
"His name is Tchang Ran Bo. Jean-Baptiste."
"God, just look at what You've given me." Emotion overwhelmed him to the point he could hardly breathe. "Tchang, I swear to myself. If you come back safely, I will never let you leave me again."
Tintin leaned against Tchang's shoulder. They had a child—their child—cradled between them. But when he turned to meet Tchang's gaze, his heart plummeted into an abyss.
"It's okay. I'll marry you. I'll take you away from China..." he pleaded.
"But I can't." A tear fell onto the baby's face. As if sensing something, Ran Bo began to cry.
Urgent footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Several men with red armbands appeared before them, looking down at the three curled up in the corner with cold, superior stares. They said nothing—they didn't need to. In that silence, despair drowned Tintin's heart.
"I'm sorry, Tintin. While I was gone, all opera performers became criminals..."
Hearing Tchang speak in French made the men glare more fiercely. Tchang ignored their hostility, burying her face into Tintin's chest. Her calloused hands gently stroked Ran Bo.
"I begged them for just a few more minutes... But our love has already borne fruit. I only hope that one day, Ran Bo can truly carry your name."
Suddenly, Tchang snatched the baby from Tintin's arms, trembling as she rose to her feet.
"No matter what, Tintin, the days I spent with you were the only days I truly lived. So," she switched to Chinese, clearly speaking to the newcomers,
"Take care of yourself."
Chapter Text
[1986, Brussels Courtroom]
"So, the people who took you away were part of the plan too?" the judge pressed.
But this time, Tchang shook her head bitterly. "No. That part was real. That was the lesson—Don’t place your life on the whims of the people above. And besides, a monster like me was destined to be 'reformed.'"
"Monster?"
"Yeah, Niu—Gui—She—Shen," Tchang enunciated in Chinese, stretching the syllables as if he was speaking to a child. "Performing operas from the old times, reading books from the western world, corrupted by a white devil and becoming ‘sexual deviant’—of course I had to be re-educated through hard labor."
The courtroom fell into silence. The judge considered Tchang carefully.
"I can understand not reading Western works or performing old operas, but can hard labor ever make you a man?"
Tchang suddenly laughed, sharp with sarcasm. "Whether you're a man or a woman is never up to you—others decide that for you. So, Your Honor, what do you think? Was I successfully remade into a man?"
"That's not for this court to decide," the judge replied swiftly. "So, when did your re-education end?"
"Ah... that was in 1978. I returned to Beijing with Ran Bo—Jean-Baptiste. In 1982, I met someone from my old troupe who introduced me to cultural exchange programs in Europe."
[1982, Brussels Suburbs]
It had been ten years since Tintin returned to Belgium. Once hailed as a genius, he had since faded into mediocrity. He avoided old colleagues and social gatherings, dodged the responsibilities of adult life, never considering marriage and children, and moved into a one-bedroom flat.
Somewhere along the way, he began visiting bars. Not to drink, but out of boredom—to talk to strangers. Their drunks' stories were more exciting than the news he once reported.
He met a reeking Englishman who claimed to be a former sailor. The man downed whiskey after whiskey while Tintin barely touched his drink but never stopped talking.
"Back then, in China—I was different."
The man, named Haddock, shot him a glance. "Of course you are. You were white."
"No, it was her..." Tintin's voice turned somber. "My spiritual wife. After losing her, my whole life fell into decay."
A sudden commotion outside interrupted them. The bartender grumbled angrily, "Damn it! Those Flemish nationalists again. How long will the strike last this time? Hah, and they say Europe is better than China. Go outside now, it might as well be Beijing!"
On a whim, Tintin joined the protest, snapping photos well into the night. When he finally returned to his apartment building, he found a figure shivering in the cold at his doorstep.
Thinking it was a homeless man, Tintin approached to offer his coat—but as he got closer, he heard a voice that haunted his dreams.
"Tintin..."
He tore away the scarf in shock. The face from his memories overlapped with reality—Tchang's face was lined with wrinkles now, like his own. Strands of gray peppered her hair, though it still flowed smoothly like silk.
Tchang's voice trembled in the cold. "I only hoped... you'd still remember me."
"Remember? How could I forget? Of course I remember!" Tintin pulled her into his arms. He was terrified he might melt her with too much warmth—or that she'd vanish like a snowflake if he let go.
"Come back with me... I'll make sure our son takes my name. That’s my promise to you."
"But... don’t you have a wife? It’s been ten years. " Tchang sobbed into his ear.
"I do," Tintin whispered.
“Where is she?”
Feeling like he was in heaven, Tintin responded. "She's right here in my arms."
[1986, Brussels Courtroom]
"I arrived in Belgium in 1982. Tintin and I got married, and he acknowledged Ran Bo as his son. I lived a comfortable life for the next two years—I performed all over Europe..."
The prosecutor stood abruptly, his gaze sharp. "What about the espionage?"
"At first, it wasn’t much. The Chinese intelligence service wasn't exactly keen on parking ticket statistics. Eventually, under my urging, Tintin got a job as a courier..." When it came to espionage, Tchang’s gaze flickered. Clearly, truth-telling wasn’t his forte.
"Did he know what those documents were for?" the prosecutor asked.
"I told him the Chinese government was holding his son hostage. If we ever wanted to see Ran Bo again, we had to do something first."
The prosecutor stared at him for several seconds. "And how did the defendant react?"
"He cried. Said nothing. But one day, he came home with a diplomatic pouch for me..."
Tchang trailed off, then choked up. "In that sense, Tintin... he was the perfect father."
Tintin could no longer bear it. He buried his face in his hands, leaning on the railing. For the first time in several years, he finally had tears.
"Do you believe the defendant understood he was committing espionage?"
"I don’t have any opinion."
The prosecutor's raised an eyebrow. "Allow me to approach from another angle. Why not talk about some other aspects of your case…For example, even after living with him, did he ever realize you were a man?"
Tchang answered without hesitation. "No. He never saw me naked. Not once."
"Forgive me, but how is that possible between a couple?"
"He believed deeply my 'Oriental lovemaking,'" Tchang lowered his eyes, seemingly lost in memory. "I built him a paradise, an escape from all his disillusionment with the West. That paradise was too beautiful. Why would he tear it down himself?"
The prosecutor paced, shaking his head. "Still, you haven’t answered the question. Forgive me but, are you a man or a woman?"
Tchang laughed. This time, there was no bitterness or sarcasm—only a hint of pride. "I am a perfect actor. A successful spy."
The crowd erupted into discussion again, but Tintin heard none of it. When the judge finally sentenced him to six years in prison, it was the first moment of relief he had felt in over forty years.
[1987, Brussels]
Tintin never thought he’d find himself feeling slightly grateful for prison life. Tedious as it was, the rigid rules and routine sometimes helped him forget the past twenty years of betrayal. Baptiste came to visit him a few times. Each time, Tintin waited eagerly for his son’s arrival, but after every visit, he was left with regret. As a man burdened with guilt and treason, he had so little to truly teach his child anything.
Nor did he expect to be released so soon. In the spring of 1987, eager to improve diplomatic ties shortly after establishing relations with China, the Belgian government granted a special pardon to both him and Tchang Tchong Jen. Still, Tintin was denied custody of his son. What was more ironic was Baptiste was now living in the very orphanage where Tintin himself had grown up.
Tintin hadn’t moved out of the apartment he and Tchang had once shared. He knew Tchang was still in the country, and that one day, he’d come back.
This time, he wasn’t wrong. Within a few months, he received a letter from Tchang. A few days later, Tchang arrived at the apartment just as promised.
No greetings, no explanations. He pulled out a file folder and handed it to Tintin.
“You’re not planning to go back to the old business, are you?” Tintin didn’t know why he still had the mood to joke. He took the folder and shook his head. He knew what was in there far too well.
“I knew you kept my diary… When did you read it?”
“Back in Beijing. You were so obsessed with me dressed as a woman. If I hadn’t stumbled on it, I never would’ve guessed. Turns out you were just bothered by your desires with your fellow schoolboys and was desperate to find a woman to prove you were straight.”
“Those schoolyard romances were nothing but youthful foolishness. They don’t compare to my twenty years with you.”
“There you go again, joking.”
Tintin turned and leaned on the railing. The atmosphere between them felt almost like casual conversation.
“And you never told anyone? I thought a successful spy would use something as scandalous as homosexuality to blackmail his victim.”
It had been so long since he’d written those words in the diary, so long Tintin could now say them without trembling.
Slowly, Tintin stood up and, just as Tchang had once poured him tea so many years ago, poured a cup —leaving the rim unfilled— and placed it before Tchang.
“Was it because forcing me to admit I liked men would mean your performance had a flaw? That you were no longer the perfect actor. Or… was it because you were the same as me?”
Tchang took a sip of tea. “And you? When did you finally realize I was a man?”
“Sorry to disappoint. It was after you got to Brussels. When it comes to spinning and unraveling lies for someone else, I really can’t match you. I was a genius in fooling myself, though, only came to terms with my sexuality after I found out you were a man.”
Tintin picked up his own cup and nibbled on an osmanthus cake.
“It tastes amazing,” Tchang said casually.
“Of course it does. You taught me how to make this, remember? It hasn’t been that many years. Forgotten already?”
Tchang didn’t answer that. “I could tell you were suspicious. But even after recognizing I was a man, you still played along with my act. Couldn’t bear to let me go, could you?”
Tintin swallowed the bite of osmanthus cake — it was too sweet. He remembered Tchang preferred the subtle bitterness of natural herbs and flowers.
“Wasn’t it you who blurred the line between act and truth? You fell for me. You knew your I had suspicions but still refused to leave.”
“Fall for you? Don’t be ridiculous.” But the tea in Tchang’s cup rippled, and his voice trembled slightly. “Being a spy is like walking a tightrope — you don’t just walk away. Even time prison didn’t teach you that?”
“Fine. But I love you.”
Tintin put down his cup. He no longer trusted himself to hold it steady. This was a gamble — he was betting that Tchang’s feelings for him outweighed his pride.
Tchang froze. Then he took the untouched piece of osmanthus cake from his mouth. Just as Tintin had guessed, he hadn’t eaten a single bite after all.
“If you’d been honest with me from the start, maybe we could’ve run away together. Changed our names and lived like a real family in South America. But now… it’s our child who suffers. Two fathers, and not a drop of fatherly love.”
“You dare use him to threaten me?” His voice was taut with suppressed anger, but he still tried to stay composed.
“I’m not threatening you. He’s my son too. When he first came, I questioned him. He’s just a kid. Didn’t take long before he told me all. But I assured him, no matter who he was before, he’d always be my son. Ever since then, Baptiste has trusted me more.”
Tchang snapped, breathing heavily, and slammed the teacup lid onto the table with a loud “clang.” Porcelain shards slid across the table. Tintin instinctively grabbed his wrist.
“Careful! Don’t hurt yourself.”
Slap—Tchang flung Tintin’s hand off him. “Still pretending to care about me, even now?!”
“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? Abandoned as a child. Forced to play female roles. Pimped out by people you trusted. Humiliated in public by Europeans. Then, outed as a spy when China and America established ties. You wanted a lover. A family. You craved dignity — to not be treated like a specimen, a sex toy, or a diplomatic pawn! Are we really that different?”
Tchang grabbed his coat and stormed out.
“You don’t know anything about me!”
Tintin ignored the spilled tea on the floor and ran after him.
“We spent three years together, day and night. You dropped your guard. Your real personality came through. Why can’t you accept that I care? Why is your whole self-worth tied to ‘playing the perfect woman and fooling me completely’? Haven’t you realized that goal has twisted you beyond recognition?”
Tchang came to a sudden halt. He turned, ready to retort, but no words came out.
“Why can’t you admit you had feelings for me? Even young nuns fantasize about love… You really think you’re some acolyte under Bodhisattva, and you must restrain yourself from earthly desires? But even if you won’t admit you fell into the world of mortals — after all the things you had done to me—do you really think you can still reach enlightenment?!”
Tintin’s voice echoed down the corridor but faded just like the sound of Tchang’s footsteps. Just like fifteen years ago, Tchang disappeared without a trace.
Six months later, Tintin received an envelope. The delivery time didn’t match the usual postal schedule, and there was no address. Inside was a plane ticket to Argentina — and a cassette tape.
Tintin placed the cassette into the player. As the reels began to hum and whir, a female voice sang gently through the speakers:
“The man has a heart, the woman does too,
what fear have we of mountains or rivers to get through?
Let’s meet beneath the moon and flowers in bloom.
When two hearts are true, there’s always room.
Off with the monk’s cap,
on with the groom’s hat.
You and I will be husband and wife,
together till our locks turn white…”
YoongMaster on Chapter 4 Thu 14 Aug 2025 11:22PM UTC
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VOTAPVBLICA on Chapter 4 Fri 15 Aug 2025 04:12AM UTC
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