Chapter 12 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

In the days after reading the diary, Lam felt like she was carrying two people in her heart at the same time — herself, with her daily life outside the bookstore window, and a part of her grandfather, whom she now understood more deeply than anyone else in the family, including her father. She began to look at Vong Chu shop with a different eye, realizing that every little corner, every old tool bore the traces of a man who had spent his whole life atoning for his own silence.

Duy Khoi, while waiting for a response from researcher Tieu Ngoc Lam, continued to search for more clues about Thuc Hien's fate after she left Tra Lang. He contacted several old civil registration centers and asked to look up marriage registration records for the period 1964-1965 with the name Thuc Hien, although he was not sure if that was the full name or just an intimate name.

One afternoon, he called Lam, his voice both excited and cautious. "I found a clue. There is a marriage registration file dated 1965, the bride's full name is Doan Thuc Hien, twenty-three years old, married to a man surnamed Trinh, owner of a fabric trading company in another province, quite far from Tra Lang. If it is indeed her, it means that after leaving her hometown, she lived there."

"Did you find out any more information about her life after that?" Lam asked, his heart beating fast.

"Not much, but I'm asking a friend who works at the provincial archives to look up more," Duy Khoi replied. "There is a sad detail: the records state that she died in 1978, when she was only thirty-six years old, the cause of illness is unknown. She left behind a son, born in 1966, but according to documents, this son had his father's surname - Trinh - and her husband's family then almost cut off contact with his maternal hometown. I tried to follow that direction, but by the time of my grandson, that Trinh family had moved to another place with no known whereabouts. It might take a long time to find it."

Lam was silent for a moment, a heavy feeling rising in his heart. Thuc Hien passed away a long time ago, only living thirteen more years after leaving Tra Lang, after giving up his words and his real name. A short, quiet life, unknown to anyone in the literary world, while her poems continued to be praised under another name, sixty years after she was no longer alive.

"So is it a deadlock?" Lam asked, his voice somewhat disappointed.

"Not quite yet," Duy Khoi said, his voice filled with hope again. "I tried another direction - looked up the family name Doan, to see if there was anyone else in her original family in Tra Lang. It turned out that she had a younger brother, six years younger than her, who remained in Tra Lang all his life, working as a teacher. He also passed away, but there is a niece - his son's daughter - who is currently working as a librarian in a town about three hours away. She is named Doan, calling Thuc Hien her aunt."

"A niece named Doan," Lam repeated, feeling a new glimmer of hope. "So she may be the only descendant who still retains the bloodline and surname of Mrs. Thuc Hien."

"That's right," Duy Khoi replied. "But we have to be careful, Ms. Lam. If she never knew her aunt was a poet, our sudden approach could cause a big shock to her current life. We need to approach very tactfully and respectfully."

A few days later, Duy Khoi's friend at the archives sent more complete information: the niece's name was Doan Nha Ky, in her thirties, currently living and working in a small town library about three hours away from Tra Lang. Her life was quiet, and there had never been any signs that she knew about her family's literary connections.

This news makes Lam both happy and worried. She told her father about it, and this time, Mr. Vinh's reaction was different from the previous times - he appeared eager, quickly writing in the notebook: "Go. See. Soon."

"You're not scared anymore, Dad?" Lam asked, a bit surprised by the change.

Mr. Vinh shook his head, then wrote more, his handwriting much more certain than in the first days: "Grandpa. Grandpa. Waited. Long enough."

That sentence, although brief, contained a big change in Mr. Vinh's heart - from a son who only knew how to keep a distance from family secrets out of fear all his life, he is now ready to face it, and even proactively push his daughter to find the truth to the end. Perhaps, rereading his father's diary, hearing it narrated in his daughter's voice, aroused in him something that had been dormant for too long — a sense of responsibility that had never been fully realized.

That evening, after Lam had recounted everything Duy Khoi had found, Mr. Vinh also wrote a longer paragraph than usual, which took nearly half an hour to complete, his scribbled but determined handwriting flowing down the page.

"Grandpa. Once. Talked. To. Dad. One. Question. Dad. Didn't. Understand. When. Little."

He paused, panting with exertion, then continued writing, slowly word by word.

"Mr. Speaking. The. Profession. Making. Books. Is. The. Occupation. Of. People. Who. Know. Waiting."

Lam read that sentence over and over again, feeling the profound meaning that perhaps his grandfather, when he uttered that sentence many years ago, did not expect that one day it would become the key for his granddaughter to fully understand her entire life. The job of someone who knows how to wait — waiting for a book to arrive at the right time to be repaired, waiting for a customer to return to receive the book, and perhaps, waiting for a descendant patient enough to unravel a carefully wrapped secret, waiting for the right moment to reveal it.

While waiting to arrange a trip to meet Thuc Hien's grandson, Lam and Duy Khoi continued other verification work: more closely comparing the poems in the found stack of papers with the entire published volume Smoke Suong Lac Ben, marking every difference, every sentence that had been "re-edited" in a way that obscured the personal traces of the real author.

"The more I compare, the more clearly I see one thing," Duy Khoi said during a working session at Vong Chu shop, his eyes still glued to two manuscripts placed parallel on the table. "The editors of these poems did not simply change a few words to make them better. They deliberately erased every trace that could make readers think of a female author, a specific situation of a woman forced into marriage, deprived of the right to speak. Every specific image was blurred into general, universal metaphors, so that no one could follow the trail and find the truth."

"So that means Ung Boi Chau didn't simply borrow the name," Lam said, his voice low. "He also deliberately concealed and erased all clues."

Duy Khoi nodded, his face heavy. "It makes it even harder for me to accept that I've spent my entire career praising his talent. But the truth is still the truth, no matter how much it hurts."

He looked at Lam, his eyes both tired and determined. "The deeper I got into this, the more I felt like I couldn't turn back anymore. Not only because of academic responsibility, but because I began to care about this story with all my heart, no longer just a dry research topic."

Lam looked at him, clearly feeling the change in that voice, and in her heart, a feeling of warmth and anxiety rose at the same time - warm because she was no longer alone on this journey, anxious because she understood that the deeper they went, the more both of them would have to face greater risks, not only in terms of their careers, but perhaps, in terms of what they were gradually building between each other.

Before leaving that day, Duy Khoi stopped at the factory door and looked at the old wooden sign with the three words "Tiem Vong Chu" above his head for a long time. "Echoing words," he muttered, as if he were tasting each syllable. "This name is so good. It echoes ancient words. Perhaps the old man gave this name not only because of his love for books, but also because in his heart he always echoed a voice he never dared to speak."

Lam looked up at the sign, having never thought of it that way. "I've never thought about it that deeply. To me, it's simply the name of the store, the name I grew up with, so familiar that I no longer pay attention."

"Sometimes the closest things are the things you understand the least," Duy Khoi said, turning to look at her, his eyes gentle in the sunset that was dyeing the small alley yellow. "Like me, sometimes I don't fully understand myself."

That sentence made Lam confused. She didn't know how to respond. She just bowed her head slightly and let the afternoon breeze blow to cool down the heat on her cheeks.