Chapter 10 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

One week after the meeting with Mr. Dien, preliminary assessment results from the heritage conservation laboratory that Duy Khoi sent paper and ink samples to were available. He brought the report to Vong Chu shop one afternoon, his face both excited and tense, placing the stack of documents on Lam's desk.

"The analysis of the paper and ink composition shows a date consistent with the early sixties," he said, his voice trying to maintain scientific objectivity even though he was clearly emotional. "This type of paper was discontinued according to the old formula in the late sixties, and the ink composition also matches the Parker ink popular at that time. In other words, it cannot be a recent counterfeit."

Lam held the report, skimmed through the technical terms that she did not fully understand, but clearly felt its weight. "So does that mean we have enough evidence?"

"Enough to be sure that the manuscript is real, dated exactly as we speculate," Duy Khoi replied, then hesitated. "But it's not enough for an official announcement. Scientific evidence about dating only proves old paper and ink, not who the real author is. Academically, we need more analysis and comparison of handwriting by a recognized handwriting expert, we need more witnesses, we need a complete and strict record, not allowing anyone to refute it."

He told Lam about a person he thought of - Tieu Ngoc Lam, a famous ancient book researcher in the world, who had collaborated with several major museums in assessing ancient manuscripts. "She has very deep expertise and a high reputation in the industry. If she confirms, the weight of the conclusion will be completely different."

"Do you trust this person?" Lam asked, unable to hide his reservations.

"I took a seminar with her a few years ago and appreciated her expertise," Duy Khoi replied, "but honestly, I'm not sure what her current relationship is with the publishing world. This is a risk we have to consider — if we approach the wrong people, the news could get out before we're ready."

The two sat in silence for a moment, pondering. Finally Lam spoke up: "I think I should still try. I can't keep it a secret forever, sooner or later there will have to be more people to independently confirm it to be convincing enough."

"Okay," Duy Khoi nodded, took out his phone to take notes. "Let me compose a letter inviting her to look at the documents, but I won't say anything about Ung Boi Chau right away. I'll just say that it's an ancient manuscript that needs to be assessed for its age and handwriting style, to see what her initial reaction is."

"How long do you think it will take for a response?" Lam asked.

"Fast can take a week, slow can take a month, depending on her schedule. There are not many ancient book researchers, but everyone is busy with piles of their own projects." Duy Khoi closed the notebook and looked at Lam with somewhat guilty eyes. "I know waiting is the hardest thing in this matter, but if you rush, it's easy to reveal loopholes."

Lam nodded, understanding the necessary caution, although in her heart she was still impatient to have everything clarified as soon as possible, especially as each day passed, the clearance notice outside the alley seemed to get one step closer.

While the two discussed, Mr. Vinh came out of the house, holding another stack of papers - not the stack of papers found in the spine of the book, but new pages, seemingly written recently, the writing was more scribbled but still readable. He gave it to Lam, his eyes both worried and as if a burden had been lifted.

Lam read, her heart beat fast. Those are the lines that Mr. Vinh has patiently written over the past few days, pieced together from his fragmentary memory - fragments of memories about his grandfather that he has never told, perhaps because before there was no strong enough reason to break the silence that had lasted his entire life.

"Grandpa. Often. Cry. At. Night. Alone."

"There were. Times. He. Said. 'Dad. It's. It's. To. You. Me.'"

"You. Keep. A. Wooden. Box. Don't. Let. Anyone. Touch."

Lam looked up at his father, his voice choked. "The wooden box in the attic, do you know what's in it?"

Mr. Vinh shook his head, then wrote more, his handwriting trembling even more with emotion: "Mr. No. When. Opens. Before. Dad."

Duy Khoi, sitting quietly observing the exchange between father and son, spoke softly: "Uncle, I think maybe it's time to open that box. Maybe the inside will help clarify a lot of things, both emotionally and with evidence."

Mr. Vinh looked at Duy Khoi for a long time, then nodded, slowly but decisively. He signaled Lam to take the box down right then and there, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time, just needed someone by his side brave enough to face it with him.

Lam climbed up to the attic, brought down the wooden box, and placed it on the table under the light. The lock had rusted over the years, so she had to ask Duy Khoi to use a small pair of pliers from the workshop's toolbox to gently pry, being careful not to damage the surrounding wood. After a few minutes of trying, the lock popped open with a dry "click".

Inside the box was not what Lam imagined. There are no more manuscripts, no more letters from Thuc Hien. Instead there was a small diary, with a worn leather cover, a few yellowed black and white photos, and a tarnished silver hairpin, simple but delicate in shape — an object that clearly belonged to a woman.

Lam looked through the previous photos one by one, his hands shaking slightly with excitement. The first photo shows a group of young people standing in front of a used bookstore, including a skinny guy with an angular face, standing in the left corner - Lam immediately recognized that it was her grandfather in his youth, even though she had never seen a photo of him at that age before. Standing next to him, slightly backwards, was a girl wearing a simple white ao dai, her hair tied in a high bun with a silver clip, a delicate face, bright and somewhat stubborn eyes. No one in the photo noted their name, but Lam didn't need anyone's confirmation to know who it was.

The second photo was taken of the girl alone, standing next to an old tree, holding a small notebook, perhaps the same notebook she used to copy poetry. On the back of the photo are some faint handwritten words: "For Mr. Tuyen, to remember an unforgettable summer." Lam read that line, feeling like he was touching a part of the vivid life of a person who once truly existed, no longer just abstract names on a page.

Lam picked up the hairpin, her hands shaking. She understood, without needing anyone to explain, that this was probably a keepsake that her grandfather had kept from Thuc Hien - not just a manuscript entrusted to her by a friend, but perhaps also something much deeper in his heart, something that he had carried with him all his life, not daring to say it, not daring to forget.

She opened the diary and flipped to the first page. Her grandfather's handwriting, strong but somewhat hurried, was completely different from the image of the quiet old man she once knew. The first line is dated August 1965, just a few months after The Smoke of Lac Ben was published.

"Today I did something that I will probably regret for the rest of my life."

Lam looked up at Duy Khoi, then at his father. All three of them were silent in the small workshop, the yellow light illuminating their moody faces, while outside, the sound of the afternoon rain began to patter on the corrugated iron roof, as if a sign that what they were about to read in this diary would open a whole new chapter in the story — a chapter not only about Thuc Hien, but also about his grandfather, about what he really did, and the price he paid. had to pay for his silence for more than forty years.

Mr. Vinh raised his trembling hand touch the photo of the girl in a white ao dai, his fingers tracing the outline of her face as if trying touch a memory that he himself only knew through his father's patchy story many years ago. He looked up at Lam, his eyes filled with tears, then wrote one last line before closing the notebook, saving his strength for what still had to be faced ahead.

"Read. Go. I. Dad. Listen. Together."

Lam squeezed the diary in her hand, feeling its weight not only in the number of fragile pages inside, but in everything it was about to reveal - a secret that had been dormant for sixty years, now about to be awakened by three people sitting under one roof who had witnessed three generations growing up with the bookmaking profession, with pages carrying heavy memories that no one wanted to forget.