Chapter 12 — Cartographer of Lost Roads

On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Lam chose the time after lunch, when the whole family had finished eating, and Van Khue's mother brought tea to the porch as usual. There was an underlying tension in the atmosphere that only those involved could feel — Mr. Tuyen was still sitting in his familiar rattan chair, sipping tea, unaware of the upcoming conversation that would change everything.

"Dad," Mr. Lam started, his voice trying to stay calm but still unable to hide his trembling. "I want to ask you something, Dad. I hope you answer me honestly."

Mr. Tuyen looked up at his son, a flash of caution flashed through his eyes, as if he had a premonition that something bad was about to happen. "What's going on?"

"Dad, were you born and raised in Xom Van Dang?" Mr. Lam asked directly, there was no other way to beat around the bush. "And dad has a younger sister named Nhai, who has been lost since the liberation in 1994, right?"

The tea cup in Mr. Tuyen's hand trembled slightly, a small drop of tea spilled out and fell onto the tile floor. His face, in that moment, went through a series of changes that Van Khue, standing quietly in the door frame, had never witnessed in him before - from shock, to panic, to a deep pain that seemed to have been suppressed for thirty years, now just ready to spill out.

Outside on the porch, the afternoon breeze blew gently through the bougainvillea trellis, shaking the dry leaves left over from last week's pruning and falling onto the brick yard. The sound of someone's bicycle bell in the alley echoed, far away, lost in the heavy atmosphere that surrounded the whole family. Van Khue stood still, her hands clasped tightly on the door frame, clearly feeling her own heartbeat beating as fast as her grandfather's, even though she was just an outsider observing a moment that should only have happened between father and son.

"You... you know everything already," Mr. Tuyen muttered, almost talking to himself rather than answering his son's question. He looked down at his old hands, the blue veins clearly visible under the aged skin, as if searching for traces of a distant youth, when those hands still held a pen to paint the alleys and rooftops of his homeland with all love and devotion.

"Who told you that?" he asked, his voice hoarse, almost soundless.

"Van Khue found it out, through his work, through the people still alive in Van Dang in the past," Mr. Lam replied, his voice choked up. "Dad, what happened? Why did you hide it from me all these years?"

Mr. Tuyen put the tea cup on the table, his hands clasped together tremblingly, his eyes looked down at the tile floor, not daring to look directly at his son. "There's nothing to say," he said, his voice trying to be firm but clearly wavering violently. "It's a long time ago, why repeat it?"

"Dad," Van Khue walked over and knelt down next to his chair, her voice pleading. "I met Mrs. Huynh Thi Net. She told me about her neighborhood, about teacher Khoat, about how dad was the best student in the neighborhood, received a scholarship to go to school at the age of fifteen. She told about sister Nhai, about how everyone in the neighborhood loved and was proud of him. I didn't come to blame him. I just want to understand, want to know the truth, so I can help him, if he needs it."

Hearing Ms. Net's name, Mr. Tuyen's shoulders seemed to collapse, all the toughness he had tried to put up for so long suddenly disappeared. He sat silently for a long time, breathing heavily, then from the corners of his wrinkled eyes, tears began to roll down, slowly, soundlessly, like a dam that had been under pressure for too long finally began to leak.

“Is Ms. Net still alive,” he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oh my god, she's still alive."

"She is eighty-one years old this year, living with her son in a resettlement area outside the district," Van Khue said softly. "She speaks of you with so much love, sir. She doesn't blame you at all."

That sentence seemed to be the last drop of water that overflowed the cup. Mr. Tuyen burst into tears, a choked, painful cry of a seventy-eight-year-old man, who had suppressed it for nearly thirty years, and now had no strength to hold it back anymore. The whole family, Mr. Lam, Mrs. Bich Nguyen, and Van Khue, were all silent before that scene, no one could say a word, only his cry rang out in the quiet afternoon, mixed with the chirping of sparrows on the roof, and the sound of vehicles in the distance on the street.

"Dad," Mr. Lam said, his voice filled with tears, reaching out to hug his father's shoulder, a rare gesture between father and son who were not used to expressing affection. "Dad, tell us. No matter what happened, we're still your family. Nothing can change that."

Mr. Tuyen nodded, wiped his tears with the back of his shaking hand, trying to regain his breath. "Not today," he said, his voice still choked but somewhat steadier. "I need time to... sort it out in my mind. I've never fully told this story to anyone, not even your grandmother when she was alive. I need to mentally prepare."

"Yes, dad, just take it slow," Mrs. Bich Nguyen said, walking over and sitting down next to him, holding her father-in-law's shaking old hand. "We will wait for you, dad. No one is rushing you."

Mr. Tuyen nodded, stood up from the rattan chair, walked slowly into the house, his hunched back in the sunset looked even more fragile, as if just a strong wind was enough to make him collapse. Van Khue looked at his shadow disappearing behind the door, her heart filled with an indescribable pity, mixed with a vague relief - even though she did not know the whole truth, she felt that the silent door that had been closed tightly for thirty years, now, had finally opened a small crack.

Dinner that night took place in almost absolute silence. No one was in the mood to chat like usual, everyone just ate their food, eyes occasionally glancing towards Mr. Tuyen's door, where the light cast a thin streak of light under the door. Mrs. Bich Nguyen intended to bring him rice into his room as usual, but Mr. Lam stopped him, shook his head slightly, signaling that he should leave his father alone for the time being.

That night, Mr. Tuyen entered the room earlier than usual, closed the door, and did not eat dinner. The whole family respected his privacy, no one came in to disturb him, even though everyone was nervous and worried. Van Khue sat in his room, looked through the door, saw the light in his room still on until late at night, occasionally heard a small noise, like the sound of someone rummaging through an old wooden cabinet.

Near midnight, when Van Khue was almost asleep, she heard a light knock on the door. She sat up, opened the door, saw Mr. Tuyen standing there, his face was puffy from crying, but his eyes carried an unusual calmness, like a person who had just gone through a big storm and now, although exhausted, was ready to face what was left.

"Please wake up your father and mother," he said, his voice hoarse but firm. "I want to tell everything, tonight, before I lose my courage."

Van Khue looked at him, her heart pounding both from anxiety and from an indescribable feeling of relief - finally, after so many weeks of groping in the dark, after so many layers of secrets peeled off bit by bit through yellowed pages and the stories of strangers, the last door, the most important door, was about to be opened by the person who held the only key.

"Yes, I'll call right away," she said, then hurriedly ran to her parents' room, waking them up in the middle of the night, so that the whole family could gather in the living room, preparing to receive a story that had been buried for nearly thirty years, and was now about to be spoken out loud for the first time.

Mr. Lam and Ms. Bich Nguyen quickly put on more clothes and walked out to the living room with sleepy faces but their eyes were completely alert when they realized the seriousness of the situation. The whole family sat around the small wooden table in the middle of the living room, a place that was only used to serve meals on Tet holidays or important death anniversaries. Mr. Tuyen sat at the head of the table, his hand clutching something wrapped in an old brown cloth, long and round in shape, which Van Khue recognized immediately - it was the shape of a large scroll, something her father had described many days ago.

The fluorescent lights on the ceiling cast a cold white light, making everyone's faces look even more serious, almost solemn like at a ceremony. Outside, it was late at night, Kim Xuyen city was in a rare silence, only the chirping sound of insects echoed from the small garden behind the house, like a quiet background music for the story about to be told.