Chapter 13 — Language is Wings

In the evening, the whole group ate at the hotel. While eating, Phuong Vien texted.

“The boss asked if you were doing okay today.”

I replied: "It's okay. No need to worry." Phuong Vien continued:

“The president said if you need anything, he is in his office on the 58th floor, Burj Khalifa.”

I don't answer. The phone rang again. This time it's you.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

"Dubai food is not very suitable for your taste. If you want to eat Chinese food, Jumeirah area has a Sichuan hot pot restaurant—"

“Why are you saying these things to me?”

"Care about."

"I don't need it."

"Okay. Then don't worry anymore. Good night."

He hung up. I looked at the screen for a while. Photographer Tieu Duong sat next to him and stopped by.

"Miss Lam, who called you that? Lover?"

“No. Customer.”

“Customers ask if they have eaten yet?”

“Customers are free.”

He laughed. The next two weeks, I traveled with the group from Dubai to Abu Dhabi, then to Istanbul. In Istanbul, I used French to interview an archaeologist working at the site of Troy. He said:

"The Silk Road is not a road. It is a dialogue. People speaking different languages, sitting together, using goods to exchange beliefs."

When I translated that sentence into Chinese, my voice suddenly became a bit hoarse. Because… my dad once said almost the same thing. Behind the camera, Vuong Tranh gave a thumbs up. On the flight from Istanbul to Berlin, I received an email. Sender: To Uyen Tinh. Title: (blank). The content is only one line:

"After you left, the company cut both the French and Spanish groups. Because Trinh Hao Nam said you alone were enough. Seven people lost their jobs because of you. Are you happy?"

I looked at that email for a while, then deleted it. Tieu Manh's message arrived almost at the same time.

"Don't believe her! Those two groups are inherently inefficient, cutting back is a matter of sooner or later. It has nothing to do with you!"

“Are you okay?”

"Nian Cao is fine. But he's gotten fatter. Please go home quickly, I can't take care of him anymore."

I laughed. Third stop of the journey. I lived here for a year when I was twelve years old. When the plane landed, looking at the blue-gray city under the window, my heart beat a beat faster. That summer, my father took me to the Brandenburg Gate to eat ice cream. The sky is very blue. In Berlin this time, the group filmed a part about the history of Sino-European trade. The interviewee was Professor Schmidt of Humboldt University—specialized in researching the end point of the Silk Road in Europe. He is over sixty years old, has white hair, speaks slowly, and his German is so standard that there is no background noise. In the interview, he mentioned a detail— In Berlin there is a private collector who keeps a batch of Ming Dynasty ceramics, which are said to have followed the Silk Road into Europe.

"The original owner of the collection was a Chinese diplomat who passed away five years ago. His daughter inherited it but has never appeared."

My hand stopped.

“What is his name?”

The professor turned over the documents.

“Lin… Lin Zhenguo.”

My heart seemed to skip a beat. Lam Chan Quoc. My father's name.

“Where is that collection now?”

"In a private warehouse in Berlin. Storage fees paid by a law office in Switzerland for five years."

Attorney Chu. Turns out... in addition to money and house, dad also left this behind. I never knew. He also never said it. At the end of the shoot, I sat alone on Berlin Street. The smell of pistachio ice cream when I was twelve years old… like is still there somewhere. Phone vibrates. Co Than Chau

“Have you been to Berlin?”

"What's wrong? Your voice isn't right."

"No problem."

"I'm in Berlin. Just flew in this afternoon. If you're free—"

“Why do you always appear right where I am?”

"Because your schedule is in the hands of President Khuu. And I invested in that project, I have the right to see it."

“Sounds like stalking.”

"It's called caring. Different nature."

I was silent for a few seconds.

"I found something my father left behind. A batch of... ceramics. In a warehouse in Berlin. I didn't know about it before."

“Need me to come with you?”

The next afternoon, Co Than Chau accompanied me to a private warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin. The warehouse is not large, but has very strict temperature and humidity control—the type used specifically to store antiques. When the door opened— I saw three rows of shelves. Full of ceramics. Thanh Hoa, pastels, monochrome enamel... about more than forty items. Each item displays a handwritten tag. My father's handwriting. On it is written in both Chinese and English: name, date, origin. I picked up a card.

“Ming Dynasty vine-patterned Qinghua plate. Purchased at Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, 2008. Accompanied by Tieu Dao.”

Go with Tieu Dao. When I was eight years old. That time, my father took me to Istanbul's big market. I whined for Turkish ice cream, but he told me to finish looking at this stall and then eat it. That counter... is where these items are sold. I no longer remember. But he remembers. Not only did he remember— He also brought each item, from all over the Silk Road, gathered it up, noted it carefully, and kept it here. I sat down in front of the wooden crates. Tears fell. I hid everything—their language, their memories, their past. I think just by not touching... I can pretend they never left. But actually…