Chapter 22 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

Duy Khoi stood up in the middle of the hall, his voice rang out clearly and calmly even though his heart was swirling with emotions. "Hello speakers and organizers. I am Tu Duy Khoi, who was in charge of the project to reprint the sixtieth anniversary of Smoke and Fog of Lac Ben. I have a question related to the origin and composition process of this collection of poems."

The host, somewhat surprised but still remaining professional, invited him to continue. Duy Khoi took a deep breath, then continued, his voice gradually becoming more decisive.

"I would like to ask the organizing committee, and the entire family of the late poet Ung Boi Chau, whether you know about the existence of a stack of handwritten manuscripts, dated earlier than the official publication year of Khoi Suong Lac Ben, signed by another author - Ms. Doan Thuc Hien - with content that matches almost completely with the most famous poems in this collection?"

The question rang out like a thunderbolt in the hall, which was immersed in a solemn and respectful atmosphere. Whispers arose throughout the rows of seats, many eyes focused on Duy Khoi, then spread to look for a reaction from the front row, where Ung The Khang was sitting. The elderly professor who had just finished his analysis stood frozen on the stage, still holding a notepad, his face showing an unconcealed shock.

Ung The Khang's face turned pale for a split second, but he quickly regained his composure, stood up, and took the microphone from the confused host. "I think this is not the right place to make such baseless accusations," he said, trying to keep his voice calm but unable to hide his tension. "If you have evidence, please contact through the official channel, do not take advantage of a cultural honor event to..."

"I have proof, Mr. Khang," Lam stood up, her voice ringing clearly, cutting him off. The whole hall turned to look at her, a young girl wearing a moss green ao dai, standing straight in the middle of the row of chairs, holding a file in her hand. "I am Khuc Thanh Lam, grandson of Mr. Khuc Van Tuyen - the person who kept this manuscript for sixty years, at the request of Ms. Doan Thuc Hien, before she was forced to leave her homeland and give up her writing."

Lam stepped out of the row of chairs and walked towards the aisle in the middle of the hall, her hands were still shaking but her voice became more and more steady with each word. "This stack of manuscripts was found in the spine lining of a first edition of Smoke and Mist Lac Ben, belonging to my family's library. It includes nine handwritten poems, eight letters, all signed Thuc Hien, dated at least one year earlier than the official publication year of the poetry collection."

She opened the file, took out an enlarged printout of the manuscript page with the clearest signature "Thuc Hien", held it up so that those sitting nearby could see, and at the same time signaled Duy Khoi to project the enlarged image on the main screen of the hall. "This is the opening poem of the collection Smoke and Mist of Lac Ben, handwritten, with some words different from the printed version - the original was sadder, more honest, before being edited to become more universal and more acceptable to the public. I believe that anyone who has loved this poem deserves to know the truth behind it."

"This is blatant slander!" An elderly woman sitting next to Ung The Khang stood up, her voice harsh. Lam later learned that she was the biological aunt of Ung The Khang, the youngest daughter of Ung Boi Chau, who always proudly considered herself the most loyal keeper of her father's memory. "Who are you to stand here and make up stories to defame a dead poet who no longer has a chance to defend himself?"

A few rounds of applause rang out from some people in the hall. Loyal readers who had spent their lives admiring Ung Boi Chau did not easily accept their idol being questioned right before their eyes. But there were also many curious eyes, waiting, not rushing to judge but wanting to hear more.

"I'm not making it up," Lam replied, her voice unflinching even in the face of public anger. "I have scientific evidence independently assessed by reputable experts, testimony from living witnesses who worked at the printing house that printed this book of poems, and genealogical confirmation from the real author's immediate relatives."

At that moment, Tieu Ngoc Lam stood up from the corner of the room and stepped forward, her voice calm but full of expertise. "Please allow me to add. I am Tieu Ngoc Lam, expert in ancient manuscript appraisal. My two colleagues and I on the independent appraisal board have carefully reviewed this set of documents over the past several months. Our general conclusion is: the handwriting, date of paper and ink, and style in the manuscript are completely consistent with a female author trained in the writing style of a girls' school before 1965, clearly different from the confirmed handwriting of Mr. Ung Boi Chau."

She held up a file with an official seal. "I know that not long ago, I wrote an article calling for caution in the face of findings of this kind. I must publicly apologize for that article — it was written under unjustified pressure from the very people who are trying to suppress the truth today. As a scientist, I cannot let my professional honor be tied to a lie, even if that lie may bring short-term benefits to my career."

That public confession made the whole hall silent for a moment, then the whispers rose again, this time with a different tone - surprise mixed with curiosity gradually turning into serious attention.

The whispers in the hall became a wave of endless discussion. A few journalists in the back area began raising cameras, recording the entire incident. The host, clearly not knowing how to handle this unscripted situation, kept glancing at the organizers sitting backstage, waiting for instructions.

Ung The Khang, whose face was no longer calm, raised his hand to signal everyone to be quiet. "Okay, if Ms. Lam has 'evidence', I suggest we pause this part and move to a private meeting, with the participation of both sides' lawyers, instead of turning a formal cultural event into an unprofessional public trial."

"I'm afraid it's too late to 'do your own thing', Mr. Khang," another voice rang out from the back of the hall. Nha Ky stood up, stepped forward, her hand clutched an old photo, her steps were a bit shaky but her eyes were as determined as Lam. "I'm Doan Nha Ky, I call Ms. Thuc Hien my aunt. In my thirty-four years of life, I never knew that in my family there was a person who wrote poems that were loved by an entire generation of readers, until Ms. Lam came to me a few months ago. I am here today, not to defame anyone, but to reclaim a name that has been forgotten for too long."

She held up the photo, the image of a young woman wearing a white ao dai, her hair tied in a high bun with a silver clip, was projected onto the big screen through a portable projector that Duy Khoi had brought and connected in advance. "This is my aunt, Doan Thuc Hien, taken in 1963, when she was still a twenty-two year old girl with the dream of writing, of being herself through every word. That dream was taken away, and I stand here today to say on her behalf, something she never had the chance to say herself in public."

The image of Thuc Hien's youthful face, bright and somewhat stubborn eyes appearing on the big screen in the middle of the silent hall created a stronger effect than any words could express. Many people in the audience, even those who initially objected the most, were now silent before the face of a real person, no longer an abstract name in a dry academic debate.

In the last row, Mr. Vinh slowly stood up, one hand leaning on a cane, the other trembling hand holding a notebook with frayed corners. The whole hall, which had been focusing all its attention on Nha Ky, now turned to look at the older man who was trying to stand firmly in the crowd, his figure was shaking but his eyes did not waver, and a different, deeper silence began to cover the entire space, as if everyone in the hall sensed that what was about to happen would carry a different weight than the previous academic debates.