Chapter 1 — Floating Market Without Water

The boat carrying An's mother's pot of porridge was stuck in the middle of the river, just over twenty meters from the wharf.

It's not because the mooring line gets in the way of the propeller. The engine still started, but the propeller only stirred up a thick layer of sludge. The waters of Moc Thuy receded so quickly that the boats that were once anchored floating on the river's surface now lay on their sides, their wooden sides scraping the bottom. A few baskets of watermelons rolled into each other, the sound of the impact was as dry as knocking on a door.

“Turn off the phone,” An's mother said. “No, it's fire.”

An jumped down first. The cold mud was knee deep, the smell of motor oil, dead fish and overripe fruit mixed together. She pulled the rope tying the bow of the boat, but the boat did not budge. Behind, Ms. Sau, head of the cooperative, stands on a motorboat, holding a speaker.

"All boats stopped selling! The main channel is no longer deep enough. Anyone who tries to run will damage the bottom of the boat."

The speaker was crackling, and Mrs. Sau's voice was torn into pieces. People on the floating market don't need to hear everything to understand. No one has ever seen water recede so quickly at the beginning of the rainy season.

Little stood on the wharf, holding his father's old camera. He was in ninth grade, his hair was blown up by the wind, his pants were rolled up. He took pictures continuously: the boat was stuck in mud, a trail of wooden stakes appeared in the middle of the river, a black line ran under the cracked mud.

An called:

“Hey, don't stand close to the edge.”

“Look at that!”

He pointed down to the riverbed. Under the mud, a few meters away from An's mother boat, a large metal ring appeared. It resembles a valve mouth, with a horizontal broken crank. The surrounding water bubbled up in waves, even though the entire river surface was almost still.

An pulled his rubber boots from the toolbox and waded back. She works as a reporter for Moc Thuy town news, but this morning she didn't have her press card; She just planned to take her mother to the market and then return to the newspaper office. The phone in my pocket vibrated continuously because of the editor's text message.

“What's the big deal?” he asked.

An looked at the mouth of the valve. "Maybe."

“Don't write without verifying it.”

"I know."

“And don't turn the townspeople into villains.”

An did not answer. She understood that this advice was not just about business. The editorial office lives on advertising from stores, including the Moc Thuy processing factory. The factory is where many people who own boats pay salaries, including Ms. Sau's younger brother.

An's mother sat on the side of the boat, scooping bowls of porridge for the last guest. She did not ask her daughter what she was taking pictures of. She just looked at the river, where the boats lined up in a motionless strip.

“If the water recedes like this, I won't be able to sell anymore this afternoon,” she said.

“Do you remember any time like that?”

"When the water is high, yes. When the water disappears, not yet."

A factory boat runs from upstream, creating small waves but not getting stuck in mud. On the boat's bow is Duy, the factory's foreign affairs representative. He wore a light-colored shirt, clean shoes, and held a stack of laminated paper in his hand.

“Everyone calm down,” Duy said through a handheld speaker. "According to meteorological station data, this is a phenomenon of low tide combined with local drought. The plant has reduced its water intake capacity since morning."

Mrs. Sau turned the speaker towards him. “Since when did it decrease?”

“Since five o'clock.”

“I asked how much before five o'clock.”

Duy looked at the people on the wharf. “The factory is in compliance with its license.”

“The license cannot answer why the river bottom is exposed.”

Duy looked at An. She had interviewed him several times and knew he always used a gentle tone when he wanted to turn a question into something unprofessional.

“An, you should wait for the official announcement. Don't let it Unclear images confuse people.”

“I haven't posted anything yet.”

"Good."

“But I have the right to photograph the riverbed.”

Duy looked at Ti's camera. “Children should not stand near the technical area.”

Ti hugged the camera to his chest. “Which technical area? It's not on the map."

A few people laughed, but the laughter quickly died down. Duy turned to Ms. Sau and said the factory would provide clean bottled water to the market during the day. Ms. Sau received the list but did not immediately accept the invitation.

“Support does not float the boat,” she said.

“But help people have drinking water.”

“Then just take it to the dock.”

Duy signaled the boat to go. When the boat turned around, An saw a black soft hose on the back side, the tip of the hose was still wet. She took out her phone and took a picture. Duy saw it, but didn't stop it.

Khai appeared later on a small cargo boat. He turned off the engine remotely and used a pole to push himself into the mud to slide to the dock. Khai used to work as a pumping station technician before switching to a boat driver. He knows how to read pressure, listen to machine sounds and distinguish the smell of water from season to season. An knows he is also a rare person who does not talk about the river as something to beautify tourism.

Khai looked at the valve mouth under the mud, his face changed.

“This doesn't belong in the market.”

“Do you know what it is?” An asked.

“Know the type of valve. I don't know who ordered it."

“Is there a map?”

“Old maps may exist.”

“Have you seen it?”

Khai used a pole to push mud around the metal ring. Next to the valve are exposed three wooden stakes, each stake is studded with a small piece of copper. One piece is engraved with the letter "M", the other piece only has two strokes left.

“Don't touch,” he said.

“Why?”

Khai looked around. People on the wharf were looking at them. “Because if it is still connected to the pipe, opening it wrongly can suck mud into the whole channel.”

An recorded that sentence.

Khai turned around. “Are you recording?”

“I'm a reporter.”

“Today I am the son of a porridge seller who got stuck in a boat.”

“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

Khai did not argue. He used a string to tie the light to mark the valve position, then told everyone to back up. Ms. Sau requested that no one arbitrarily dive in. Mr. Nam Luc, a retired boat builder, stood on the wharf and looked for a long time.

“Old pipeline,” he said.

“You know?” An asked.

“I know there are drawings. I don't know where it is still located.”

A cracking sound echoed from the riverbed. The mud below the valve collapsed, revealing a large steel pipe running upstream. Black water spurted through the crack, carrying white foam and a pungent smell.

An's mother closed the lid of the porridge pot.

“Don't come down anymore.”

An looked at the black water streaks spreading between the muddy trenches. Her phone vibrated again. The editor sent a short line:

“If you have pictures, send them immediately. But remember: don't call it a factory pipe without proof.”

I clicked another photo. On the small screen, behind the valve mouth appears a line of white painted words that can only be seen when the mud is flowing:

“OPEN WHEN THE MARKET HAS NO WATER.”

An told Ti to send the photo to her phone and then immediately moved the original to a separate folder. She didn't adjust the colors, didn't cut the corners, just recorded the camera time and dock position. The editorial office often asked for a beautiful photo, but this time what she needed was a photo that no one could say had been made more beautiful.

Khai took the pole and placed it across the valve's mouth, preventing others from coming forward. He said he had to call the waterway management agency before it got dark. Ms. Sau said that after calling, there would be a blockade order, and the blockade order caused all the goods on the boat to be damaged. The two argued not loudly, but each sentence pointed towards a different damage.

“If Open the valve, will the boat float? asked a fruit seller.

“I don't know,” Khai replied.

“What if it doesn't open?”

“I don't know either.”

Everyone looked at him, annoyed that someone who used to work in engineering wouldn't give them a solid answer. Khai bent down and used the pole to brush away more mud around the valve mouth. A steel pipe runs upstream, but it doesn't lie close to the bottom; it is placed on old concrete pedestals. If opened incorrectly, the pressure can suck mud into the pipe and make the water more cloudy.

An asked Mrs. Sau if she had a key to the project. She searched her bag and brought out a key chain with three keys. The largest one is engraved with the word "berth", the second one has no label, the third one has a broken head.

“Since when did you keep it?”

“Since taking office.”

“Have you ever used an unlabeled one?”

Mrs. Sau looked at it. “I don't remember.”

Khai accepted the broken piece and turned it under the light. There is a layer of new machine grease on the groove. “This was just used.”

An took a picture. Duy stood on the factory boat far away, no speaker in hand. He looked at them for a moment then turned the boat back upstream. An wanted to call, but seeing her mother gathering the cooled pot of porridge, she put down the phone and helped her.

An's mother did not ask about the words on the tube. She just said there were fewer customers today, but the remaining people had paid enough. An old man gave her a crumpled bill and told her to keep it, because he had eaten all the porridge even though there was no fish.

“Are you scared, Mom?” An asked.

“Afraid of the boat capsizing. Fear of dirty water. I'm afraid that if I write, people will say that we're ruining the market."

“I don't know what to write yet.”

“So don't write for me.”

I understand. She could write down the incident, but she couldn't use her mother's fear as a conclusion.

It was dark and a survey team arrived at the dock. They don't carry nameplates, just flashlights and measuring coils. Khai asked which unit they belonged to. The leader said "technical coordination", did not give paper. Ms. Sau asked them to leave the valve area.

The other person pointed to the mouth of the tube. “If this project is not inspected, it will be dangerous for everyone.”

“Then decide to check,” An said.

“Who are you?”

“Someone records what you are doing.”

The survey team did not proceed further, but they stood at the shore for ten minutes. I took a photo of the car parked outside the gate, the license plate was partially covered by mud. When the team left, a red rope was tied to a wooden stake.

Khai said the red wire is a warning sign from the old pumping station. Ms. Sau said no one in the cooperative uses that color.

An sent a short news report to the editor: the water receded abnormally, the market channel got stuck, underground works were exposed, the authorities were asked to check. She did not use the word "factory", only included a photo of the pile and valve opening.

Ten minutes later, An's phone received a notification from a strange account: "Don't open the thing that saved the market."

An looked up. The river lies still, but under the mud, something is still active.