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: “Bonsoir monsieur, je suis heureux de te voir. Je peux parler français, comme vous pouvez voir.”
“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?”