Chapter 8 — Cartographer of Lost Roads

Kha Duy Thinh arranged to meet them at a small restaurant located deep in an alley in the working-class neighborhood in the south of the city, where most of the residents were families who had to relocate from many different areas through urban gentrification over the past decades. The shop has no sign, just a few sets of plastic tables and chairs under a corrugated iron awning, an old lady sitting selling tea, iced tea, and some country cakes wrapped in banana leaves.

Van Khue arrived with Duy Khanh on Saturday afternoon, right on the appointment time. Kha Duy Thinh was already sitting at a corner of the table, a man in his thirties, with a stocky build and the tanned skin of someone who often worked outdoors - he worked as a small boat repairman in a workshop near the river wharf, according to his self-introduction, a job that he jokingly said "still retains a bit of the atmosphere of the old days, even though the wharf is no longer the same".

"Mr. Khanh told me you two are learning about Van Dang," Thinh said, his voice straightforward, without beating around the bush. "I have to say first, my family, and many other families in the group, are not always willing to talk to strangers about this matter. There have been people who came to ask questions, promised to help, then disappeared, or worse, reported the story to people who should not know, causing some families to have difficulty with land documents in the resettlement area."

"We understand your caution," Duy Khanh said. "We do not represent any agency, and have no intention of making anything public without the consent of the families involved. Our aim is to find out the truth, and if possible, help restore a part of the memories that have been unfairly erased."

Thinh looked at both of them for a long time, his eyes searching but not hostile, then he nodded, seemingly deciding to trust, at least enough to start the story.

"My grandparents lived in Van Dang for three generations," he began, speaking slowly. "My father was born there, in 1994, and was only twelve years old. He recounted that one day, a group of officials came down to announce that the whole village had to relocate within six months for safety reasons, the land was in a landslide danger zone, and had to build an embankment to prevent floods. At first, people protested and gathered together to petition, because everyone knew that land had been stable for many generations, there had been no landslides. But then, the group of officials returned to the police, With the enforcement order, anyone who does not comply will be punished according to the law. Many families are only compensated with a very small amount of money, not enough to buy a small piece of land elsewhere, so they have to borrow more to have a temporary place to live.

"Do you know who directly directs the enforcement?" Van Khue asked, although in her heart she had already guessed part of the answer.

"My father remembers a man named Bon, a certain position in the city's land management department, who often came down to directly give instructions, his voice was very cold, and he never listened to what people had to say," Thinh said. "Later, when I grew up, I learned more and found out that he was the father of the owner of the corporation that is building an apartment complex on that very land now. Thinking about it, my grandparents were attached to that land all their lives, and in the end it became the private property of the person who chased them away."

The atmosphere around the table became heavy. Van Khue looked down at the glass of iced tea in front of her, the drops of water on the outside of the glass rolling onto the plastic table, and she felt more clearly than ever the weight of what she was pursuing - this was no longer a dry documentary problem, but a real pain, lasting over three generations of a specific family, sitting right in front of her.

"My grandmother passed away in 2003, when I was still young, but I still remember every time it was windy, she would sit on the porch of the resettlement house, looking at the river in the distance, not saying anything," Thinh continued, her voice dropping. "When I grew up, I understood that she was missing her old home. She kept a small wooden chest all her life, in which there were only a few items - an old apron, a rotten roll of netting thread, and a handful of soil that she wrapped in cloth, saying it was soil taken from the floor of the old house before being forced, to take with her in case she died and be buried with her, so that her soul would remember the way home. When she passed away, her family did as she wished, burying that handful of soil with her. From then on, I started to pay attention to find out, and then set up a new home. group, it's like doing the work she didn't have time to do while she was alive - find out more clearly, see what really happened to her neighborhood."

The story about the handful of soil wrapped in cloth made the whole table silent for a long time. Duy Khanh put down his pen, did not take any further notes, just quietly looked at Thinh with eyes of deep sympathy. Van Khue felt a lump in her throat, imagining the scene of an old woman holding onto the land of her homeland for decades as if holding a part of her soul that could not be regained by any amount of compensation, no matter how big or small.

"How many members does your group 'Van Dang Memories' have?" Duy Khanh asked, changing the conversation to a lighter one.

"About more than a hundred people, mainly descendants of old families, are now scattered everywhere," Thinh replied. "I founded the group two years ago, after accidentally finding some old photos of my grandparents. I wanted to find out if anyone still kept the photos and stories, so that in the future our children and grandchildren would know their origins. I didn't expect the group to grow so quickly. Many people came to tell stories and share photos. Some people even kept old documents, although not many."

"Does anyone in the group still keep documents directly related to compensation and enforcement?" Van Khue asked, hoping to find more specific evidence to compare with what she already had.

Thinh thought for a moment. "There is a person, Mrs. Huynh Thi Net, who is over eighty years old. Back then, she was one of the fiercest protesters. I later heard that she still kept some old papers and a photo of the whole neighborhood before the clearance. She now lives in a resettlement area quite far from here, outside the district, and rarely goes to the city. I have her son's phone number. If you two want, I can contact you and ask for permission for you two to visit."

"We look forward to meeting you," Van Khue said immediately, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

Thinh nodded, took out his phone and immediately called Mrs. Net's son, spoke for a while in a friendly local accent, then hung up and turned to the two people with a light smile. "It's done. He said you're free next weekend and can come visit. But he told you that you're old and weak, so you two should talk lightly, don't let you get too emotional."

"We will be very careful," Duy Khanh pledged.

Before saying goodbye, Thinh also showed them on his phone a few old photos scanned and shared by group members - the scene of a small market held at the beginning of the neighborhood every morning, the scene of children bathing in the river at noon in the summer, the scene of fishing nets being pulled up, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Looking at those photos, Van Khue felt her heart sink in a strange way - she realized she had begun to love a place she had never been to, never seen with her own eyes, only through fragmentary memories preserved and passed down by others.

On the way home, sitting on the back of Duy Khanh's motorbike - she had left her bike at home today, accepting his invitation to take her for convenience because the distance was quite far - Van Khue looked at the streets of Kim Xuyen passing by in the sunset, her heart was heavy because of the story she had just heard, and she had a strange warm feeling sitting behind the man who was quietly driving her to find a lost part of the city's memories.

"Thank you for today," she said, her voice loud enough to drown out the wind.

"I'm the one who should thank you," Duy Khanh replied, without turning around, but his voice was somewhat warmer than usual. "If it weren't for what you found from the archives, I would probably still be struggling without finding any clues solid enough to approach Mr. Thinh's group. You gave this story a solid skeleton to rely on."

Van Khue smiled in the dark, did not respond, just slightly tightened her hands clinging to the side of the car, letting the afternoon wind blow across her face, carrying the damp smell of the river flowing somewhere nearby, as a reminder that their journey, even though it had just begun, had no turning back.

The car stopped in front of her house when it was completely dark. Van Khue got out of the car and stood looking at Duy Khanh for a moment before he started the engine and turned around, the yellow street light shining on his face, revealing a fleeting look of fatigue that he had tried to hide all afternoon because he had to maintain the group's morale. She suddenly realized that behind the calmness and patience he always showed, Duy Khanh also carried a significant emotional burden every time he had to listen to heartbreaking stories like the story of Thinh's grandmother's handful of soil wrapped in cloth - but he had learned not to let it show in front of people who needed to rely on his steadfastness.

"Be careful when you get back," she said, her voice small but sincere.

"You should go home and rest too," he replied, the smile returning to his lips. "Next weekend, we'll meet again at Mrs. Net's house."

She stood and watched the shadow of his car disappear behind the corner of the street, then turned back to the house, her heart still lingering on the story of the small wooden chest and the handful of soil wrapped in cloth, wondering if somewhere in her house, somewhere was hiding a similar memento, a piece of memory that no one dared to bring to light.