Chapter 5 — Music Without Chorus

Nam returned to Mach Nuoc after nearly two hours. He didn't bring a computer, just a brown envelope that was folded in the corner. Vy locked the door before he entered.

“Are you being followed?” she asked.

"I do not know."

“Is that the one you use for everything?”

Nam looked at An. “You got the message?”

“Thu Thiem ferry terminal, Saturday morning.”

“Don't go.”

“Who did you just send another copy to?”

Nam put the envelope on the table. "A person used to work as an archivist in the Milky Way. He met me at a cafe, then didn't show up. I received this envelope from the waiter."

An opened it with gloves. Inside is an optical disc, the label is handwritten "Le Chi — transfer 2". No signature, no date. She placed the disc in the external player, making a copy before playing it.

The first sound was the sound of a pen tapping on the table. Lam then said: "If you keep this part, they will say it's difficult for you to work."

Le Chi smiled. “They've been saying that since I didn't have a name yet.”

“I don't want you to sue.”

"I don't want to either. But if we don't sue, the contract will become someone else's way of naming us."

An looked at Nam. “You know this part?”

“Never heard of it.”

“But I know Lam.”

"I knew he worked very carefully. I didn't know he kept the copy."

The audio scroll continues. Lam read the list of renamed tracks. Track seven's original name is "The way back without repeating". The person responsible for mixing is listed as Lam Nguyen, while Le Chi's name is in the "voice sample" section. Nam appears in the liner notes as a “technical assistant,” even though he did the beat editing.

The male voice on the tape sounded younger. “If released, your name must be at the top.”

“Your name should be there too.”

“I haven't signed a contract with the company yet.”

“Then it's even more important to sign with yourself first.”

Sound stops. No one spoke in the room. Out on the road, a truck backed up, the reversing signal repeated steadily. An placed his hand on the table, feeling those rhythms overlapping each other.

“You said you were just an assistant,” she said.

Nam looked down at the envelope. "I said I'm not the original creator. That's true, but it's not enough."

“I put my name on the file.”

"I signed because Quang said it was a procedure. I didn't read the rights section carefully."

Vy held the optical disc and rotated it under the light. “A sound person who doesn't read the ownership is no different than a technician who hands over a key to a stranger?”

Nam did not object. "I thought if the album was successful, I would renegotiate for Le Chi. But when she left the label, I signed again to keep my job. Lam knew. He didn't say anything, just told me not to turn my silence into an excuse."

An heard the last sentence and saw that there was something more dangerous than regret: the possibility that someone else had used Nam's regret to pull him back.

“What does the sender want you to do?”

"I don't know. But this disc can prove that Lam's name was erased."

"Maybe. Not enough source evidence."

An creates a third copy, writes down the test code. She asked Nam to tell all about Lam's accident. He said Lam died on the way from the city to his hometown when his motorbike collided with a truck. Records concluded that the brakes failed due to poor maintenance. Le Chi received the news and then disappeared from the industry. Nam called her many times but could not get through.

“Did you tell Lam's family about the disc?” An asked.

“I don't know what they still have.”

“So before we get to the ferry, let's find them.”

Nam looked at An. “Are you still planning to go?”

“I was going to meet someone Posted in a public place, with Vy. You can stay outside.”

“They asked to take me with them.”

“Then I won't take you away as a trade item.”

Nam laughed very softly, for the first time since arriving in the room. “You always talk like I'm a fragile piece of equipment.”

“The device has instructions for use. I don't.”

Gia Linh called when they were looking for information about Lam's family. She said the label wanted her to post an album introduction in the evening, including the sentence "Khai Nam returns to heal after years of loss." Linh doesn't want to post it but the contract requires it.

“Can I refuse?” Linh asked.

“Have you read the section on penalties for violations?” An asked.

“Okay. I have to pay a larger amount than my parents' house."

Nam took the phone from An's hand. “Don't post for now. I will talk to Quang.”

“I've said it many times,” Linh replied. “This time he said if I don't do it, the company will use another recording to replace me.”

Nam was silent. An remembers the female voice being cut off. The company has prepared many versions, anyone can be used to cover the deleted name.

“Linh,” An said, “do you have a separate contract with the company?”

“Yes, but no electronic files. They kept the original.”

“Have you taken a picture yet?”

"Not yet."

“Take a photo before signing any addendum.”

Linh sighed. “You sound like a lawyer.”

“I sound like someone who once signed a paper without reading it carefully.”

The call ended. Nam stood up and went to the window. The late afternoon sun shined on the electrical wires outside, turning them into tangled lines.

“You don't need to get involved in this,” he said.

“I touched track seven. From that moment on I was hooked.”

“If the album fails, your Mach Nuoc may lose customers.”

“If the album succeeds with stolen data, I will also lose myself.”

Nam turned back. “Do you believe music can change people?”

"Are not. But one can use the music to remain unchanged. I don't want to help them.”

Vy placed the map on the table, marked the ferry terminal and an address in Long An found from Lam's old file. “Go to the ferry on Saturday. Sunday looking for family. Remaking the album tonight, but not using track seven yet.”

An opens the demo. She cut off the hidden voice, preserving the space. Nam sat down next to her, not asking what she was doing. The two of them listened to a piece of music with only strings, low drums and Gia Linh's breathing. There are no repeated sentences.

“If you leave out the chorus,” Nam said, “listeners won't know when the song ends.”

“So let them choose for themselves.”

“They can leave.”

“Just like people can walk away knowing the truth.”

Nam looked at An, but she had already turned back to the screen. On the audio graph, a thin signal line appears at the end of the track. Not the voice. It was a knock four times, then a pause.

Vy noticed it first. “That's the theater's door-knocking code.”

An enlarged. The tapping rhythm coincided with the anonymous four-second sound, but this time there was a long pause. After a pause, someone said: “If you can hear it, look for the blue book.”

Nam stood up. “Le Chi's ledger.”

An's phone vibrates. The new message only had a blurry photo: a blue-covered notebook lying on a wooden chair at the ferry terminal. The text below has no accents: “Saturday morning. Alone."

An is in no hurry to go home. She and Vy sat in the control room, comparing the optical disc with tape number 07. The two versions had the same pen tapping sound, but different speeds. The optical disc is copied from a tape that has been rewound many times; background sound thinner, Le Chi's voice has a breath at the beginning of the sentence that version 07 does not have.

“One is the copy before cutting,” Vy said. “One copy is after merging.”

“So the complete version is still out there somewhere.”

“Or corrupted.”

An asked Vy not to edit the data. She created an analysis that included only graphs, so no one could say they distorted the sound. Vy carefully wrote down the device number, time and operator. The work was dry, but An knew it was the seemingly meaningless lines that would help them later.

Nam sat in the corner of the room, reading documents. He didn't intervene until An asked about the creation date of track seven.

“The company has a pilot project called 'Standing Water Season',” he said. "Le Chi wanted to use real Vietnamese language, but Quang wanted to turn it into a commercial album. Duc Minh proposed to use the transfer as the background for another singer. I think it was just an internal agreement."

“I think a lot.”

“I don't have a better way to put it.”

“Do you keep the project email?”

Nam took his old phone from his pocket. The device is not connected to the network. There is a backup folder in there, but the password is locked.

“I forgot the code.”

Vy looked at him. “Did you forget or don't want to open it?”

"Both."

An does not force. She noted the equipment, then moved on to check the verses. Le Chi's voice on the optical disc talked about Lam's rights, but at the end of the paragraph someone else called Nam's name. The sound was distorted, only "Nam, you marry..." could be heard. The back part is cut.

“It could be 'take copy', it could also be 'take away',” Vy said.

“No guessing.”

Nam looked at the screen. "I remember that sentence. Lam told me to take the record out of the room."

“Do you have it?”

"Are not."

“So the cut sentence could be ‘take a copy’.”

"I do not know."

An stops broadcasting. “You need to stop using that sentence to cover all possibilities.”

Nam was silent, then turned on his old phone. I tried a password, it didn't work. Try again, the lock screen is longer. An stopped him.

"Don't try too much. The machine can erase."

"I know."

“You know but you still do it.”

“I want to get the data.”

“Wanting is not enough.”

Nam put down the phone. "I told Lam I would keep the copy until he finished it. But after he died, I was afraid opening it would make everything real."

An did not reply. She understands that there are files that people don't open because they contain more than just sound; have a version of yourself before making the wrong decision.

Gia Linh texted that Quang had sent her a trial contract, asking to sign it within the same day. An told Linh to send a copy to Hanh. The contract includes a section that allows the label to adjust the tone and use "material related to the artist's legacy." Linh doesn't understand if this section includes Le Chi.

Hanh replied: "The phrase 'artist legacy' is too broad. Do not sign."

An called Linh, explaining each line. Linh asked if she didn't sign, would the album be destroyed.

"Maybe."

“Do you think I should take the risk?”

"I have no right to tell you to take risks. I can only say that you are signing a right that you do not know to whom you are giving it to."

Linh was silent. Then she said: “I won't sign today.”

Nam stood up and said he wanted to see Quang. An kept him.

“What are you going for?”

“To tell them not to force Linh.”

“What right do you have?”

“I'm a producer.”

“You don't have the right to decide your own version.”

Nam sat down. “So what do I do?”

"Send the report to Hanh. Find your original. Don't fight with Quang in the hallway."

Nam nodded. He wrote a report immediately, but stopped when he got to the part about the key. An did not look screen, only the sound of his pen tapping lightly.

“You can write 'I don't remember' if you really don't remember,” she said. “But if you remember, don't change it into a pleasant sentence.”

Nam continued to write.

At night, An reopened the demo one last time. She cuts away every hidden layer of voice, preserving the drums and space. The music sounds fragile, but there is no longer the feeling of being pulled back to a prepared story by someone.

The phone reported a text message from Ms. Diep: "I found the green book. The copy you have is just a photocopy. The original is where Lam kept the last recorder."

An asked for the address. Ms. Diep sent a coordinate, then added: "Don't let Nam know before you decide you can trust him."

An looked at Nam who was sleeping on the chair, the report still open on his knees. She doesn't know how trust can be measured. But she knew she didn't want to build a music based on hiding it from others.

An woke him up. "There's a new address. I'll tell you when we're with the lawyer."

Nam looked at her, understanding that she could have hidden it but did not hide it. "Thank."

"Don't thank me. Keep your word."