Chapter 12 — Music Without Chorus

An called Le Chi at noon, when Mach Nuoc was empty. She did not turn on the recording. The person on the other end of the line heard a hoarse and slow voice, not like the singing in the recordings. Before An introduced, Le Chi said:

“You're the one wearing the vibrator, right?”

"Yes."

"Mrs. Diep told me. She said she didn't like being called brave."

“I don't like being called on.”

Le Chi smiled softly. “Then we have something in common.”

An talks about the album, track seven, the teaser and the company's use of her voice. She did not call Nam a good or bad person, just described what was in the data. Le Chi listened, occasionally asking when the file was created, the source of the device, and who was keeping the copy.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“I want to know how you want the recording handled.”

“Don't you want to take me back to the stage?”

“No. I don't know if you want to come back or not.”

There was silence on the line for quite a while. An heard the sound of a child reciting musical notes, then the sound of a chair being dragged on the cement floor.

“I don't want the record to turn into a moral lesson,” Le Chi said. "I also don't want my name to be used to promote someone else's album. If the music is still valuable, let it be heard as an unfinished work. Don't put a false ending on it."

“So we keep space?”

"You call it the void. I call it the part that other people aren't allowed to talk about."

An wrote that sentence in the notebook. “What about Nam?”

"He has to answer you himself. I've answered him many times, it's just that he chose to listen to the pleasant thing."

“Do you want to meet him?”

"Not yet."

“I will be respectful.”

“Do you believe him?”

An thought. "I believe what the data shows. With humans, I need time."

Le Chi laughed again. “That's the right way to do things.”

Before finishing, she sent An the name of a folk song once recorded by Lam in the West. "If you want to understand the transition, listen to the real sound of water. Lam did not write the melody in a closed room."

An asked for the location. Le Chi mentioned the name of a ferry port in Long An, where Lam once recorded the sound of engines and oars. She didn't send the recording, just the coordinates and a message: "Don't listen with the company speakers."

Nam went to Mach Nuoc after An called. She talked about the conversation, not giving Le Chi's phone number.

“She doesn't want to see me yet,” Nam said.

"Correct."

“What did she say about the music?”

An repeats the main idea. Nam turned away and took a water bottle from his bag.

“I promised I wouldn't let anyone finish it for her,” he said. “Then I did the exact opposite by staying silent.”

“Are you going to tell everyone?”

"Necessary."

"Not if necessary. If that's the part you know."

Nam nodded. “I will write a report on August 16.”

“Write down the whole story about the key.”

"Okay."

He sat down in front of the electric piano. Don't turn on the power, just put your hand on the key. "Le Chi once said that the transition is where the song decides whether she is honest or not. I thought that was what the artist said. Later I found out she was talking about the contract."

An looked at his fingers. “When did you know how to play the piano?”

"Since my mother bought me an old guitar. I didn't have money to learn, so I listened to the tape and copied it down."

“Did you copy Le Chi's passage?”

"Once. But that copy was at my house, I never gave it to the company."

“Do you still have it?”

Nam did not respond immediately. "I do not know."

“I don't know.”

“I have stored a lot of things at mom's house. After she passed away, the house was sold.”

“So the copy may be lost.”

“Or in the buyer's warehouse.”

An does not force. She had learned that other people's pasts were not archives open on request.

Tung called and reported that the green book had been confirmed to be a copy from the old accounting system. In the book there are "artist consulting fees" transferred to a company in the name of Duc Minh's younger brother. Hanh prepares to request the bank to provide documents, but needs the signature of Le Chi's representative.

“She doesn't want to meet yet,” An said.

“So we have to find another way,” Hanh replied.

Gia Linh offers that path. She sent a photo of the contract to Hanh, including the terms that the company committed not to use other people's recording data without a written document. She agreed to ask for an explanation.

“I'm scared,” Linh said over the call. “But I'm more afraid of being the one to sing for someone who wasn't consulted.”

Thank you An. Nam said he would bear the legal costs. Linh refused.

“I don't want anyone to tell me I was saved by you.”

Nam smiled sadly. “I don't want to either.”

That afternoon, they arrived at Long An ferry according to the coordinates sent by Le Chi. There are no romantic sights; The water is murky, the embankment is full of oil stains, and trucks are waiting to cross the river. An placed the recorder on the railing and used a contact microphone to record the vibrations of the bridge deck. Nam recorded the sound of an old boatman's oars.

“Lam used to stand here?” Nam asked.

“It seems.”

“I don't understand why the engine sound is important to the song.”

An gave him the vibrating pad. “Put it on your wrist.”

She played a very small demo. The vibration of the drum mixed with the vibration of the ferry bridge, creating an irregular but lively beat. Nam looked at the water.

“The middle doesn't need to be filled,” he said.

“It needs something real enough to stand next to.”

They recorded an hour of sounds: pulling chains, diesel engines, children calling for their mothers, oars hitting the side of the boat. No one said much. An saw that Nam worked differently in the company office; he doesn't try to control everything, just notes and waits.

On the way home, Nam received a call from Duc Minh. He asked for a private meeting, saying he had the original and wanted Nam to withdraw from the album in exchange. Nam turned on the speakerphone.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop digging.”

“You used Le Chi's voice illegally.”

“Do you have proof?”

"Have."

“So you know your name is on the file.”

An looked at Nam. Duc Minh smiled on the phone.

“A song without a chorus will not save the dead. But one contract can cause the survivor to lose everything.”

Nam asked: "Where is the original?"

“Bring An alone. I will show it.”

Nam turned off the phone. An opened the map and marked the phone number he had just called. Tung can trace the source later.

“I'm not going,” An said.

“I know.”

“Did you just say go alone?”

“I was going to ask Hanh.”

An looked out the car window. The river flows against the afternoon light. She didn't believe Nam completely, but this time he didn't hide the call. It's a small change, not enough to forgive, but enough to move on.

A message from Duc Minh arrived shortly afterward: a photo of an old recorder, labeled "room B — August 16" on the side. Behind the machine is a hand with a scar identical to the one on Nam's wrist.

After the call with Le Chi, An wrote a memo and did not send it to anyone. She wrote down what she wanted, what she did not allow, and the parts that were unclear. She titled it "Don't turn absent people into characters". Vy read and told the security guard The topic is a bit long but not edited.

Nam came with a bag of documents about his mother's old house. He has found a buyer for the shared warehouse, but hasn't opened the cartons yet. An went with Tung, not because they wanted to check on him, but because they needed witnesses when opening the data.

The warehouse is located behind a materials store, the smell of cement and damp wood mixed together. The manager took them to a row of boxes with Nam's mother's name on them. In the first box were fabric, hospital bills, and a few books. The second box contains a small cassette player and a black-covered notebook.

Nam holds the cassette player, his hand stops on the open button. “I remember my mother listening to this tape.”

“Do you want to open it yourself or let Tung take the minutes?” An asked.

“Take minutes.”

The tape has the sound of Nam's mother teaching children to sing, the sound of an iron door and an awkward piano part. There is no Le Chi. But at the end of the tape, his mother said: "Don't keep what people ask you to keep if they no longer have the right to take it back."

Nam turned off the phone and turned away. Tung didn't ask.

The black-covered notebook is a copy of the melody. Nam writes the date, but the middle page is torn. On the other edge, An saw place names that matched Lam's notes: ferry terminal, market, hospital, theater.

“Your mother kept Lam's books too?”

"Maybe Lam sent it to me and then I gave it to my mother. I don't remember."

“Don't guess.”

Nam nodded, but his eyes still looked at the page.

Tung used his camera to take pictures of each page. An invoice is in the middle of the book, with Lam's writing on the back: "Nam, if I can't make it in time, don't give it to the company. Give it to someone to listen to."

Nam sat down on the warehouse floor. An did not touch him. She handed over the water bottle and put it next to her hand.

“I don't deserve this sentence,” he said.

“That sentence doesn't belong to you.”

“But Lam wrote it for me.”

“Then you have to return it to his family.”

Nam nodded. They made records, sealed books and cassette players. Lam's family is invited to view before using. Nam does not keep the original alone.

On the way back, Tung said that the transaction on the day Lam died had another recipient, the shipping company. That company once hired Bay. Hanh can request route records. Nam sat still, looking at the car trunks.

“What are you thinking?” An asked.

"I think Lam tried to send everything through many people because he didn't trust anyone. Maybe he's right."

"Information does not have to be divided equally. It can be decentralized and inspected."

“You did that to me.”

“I do that to everyone.”

“But you give me one.”

An did not deny it. She shared her report, collection schedule, and difficult questions. Not complete trust, but a way to give the other person a chance to act right.

Le Chi agreed to let them use the classroom language in the album. She asked them to come and listen directly before deciding which part to keep. Hanh said she needed a document, but An understood that she wanted to know how the work was treated, not just read the terms and conditions.

They made an appointment to return to Bac Lieu after the hearing. Nam asked if he should go. An said only if Le Chi invited.

In the evening, Gia Linh sent a new recording. She wrote about a girl standing in front of a locked door, not knowing if there was a song or a person inside. An listened and realized Linh no longer used general words. She writes with details: bus tickets, the smell of hand sanitizer, a broken watch at the ferry terminal.

“This song is different,” Nam said.

“Because she doesn't sing for anyone else.”

Linh asked if she could release an independent version if the company terminated the contract. Hanh replied not before making an agreement. Linh agreed, but requested that the author's full name be recorded.

An receives an email from an anonymous number: "The black notebook is not the last thing. Ask Khai Nam's mother why she kept it."

Nam's mother has passed away. That question cannot be answered directly, but in the cassette tape there is a voice of her mentioning a person named Thuan. Nam said Thuan is Duc Minh's older brother and used to work as a driver for the company.

An wrote his name on the witness list. The network is no longer a straight line; it is that many people have kept a part and then passed it on to the next person.