Chapter 6 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

The Literature Department's office is located on the third floor of an old building on the university campus. The hallway is tiled with peeling tiles, and the pale yellow whitewashed walls are mottled with time stamps, not much different from the walls in the Vong Chu shop. Lam stood in front of the wooden door with a small sign "Tu Duy Khoi — Lecturer, Department of Modern Vietnamese Literature" for a long time before having the courage to knock on the door.

The person who opened the door for her was a tall man in his thirties, with thin glasses, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a red pen in his hand as if he had just stopped grading papers. He looked at Lam with slightly surprised eyes, clearly not used to having strangers come to the office at this hour.

"Hello, who are you looking for?"

"Hello, I'm looking for you, Tu Duy Khoi." Lam was a bit confused, her hand clenching the document envelope. "I saw the conference flyer, it says your name is the host of the research project on Lac Ben Smog."

"I'm here." He invited her in, pointing to the chair opposite the desk filled with books, papers, and a stack of unfinished manuscripts. "Are you... a reporter or a research student?"

"No, I'm a bookbinder. I have a shop that restores old books in Do Paper Alley."

Duy Khoi's eyes flashed with a hint of curiosity and slight suspicion. He sat down, folded his arms, and waited. "So why are you looking for me?"

Lam took a deep breath, then began to tell, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible: about the first printed copy of the book Smoke Suong Lac Ben in the family's library, about the unusually thick spine lining, about the stack of handwritten papers signed by Thuc Hien found inside. She pulled out a few copies from the envelope, placed them on the table, and pushed them towards him.

Duy Khoi picked it up and at first just glanced at it with politeness, but after just a few seconds, his eyes changed completely. He sat up straight, held the paper closer to his eyes, then took a small magnifying glass from the table and carefully examined each handwriting.

"Are you saying this is just a photocopy?" he asked, his voice was different from before, no longer the initial indifference.

"Yes. I keep the original at home, keep it safe."

"This writing..." Duy Khoi muttered, his eyes still not leaving the paper. "This poem is almost exactly the same as the opening poem in Smoke and Mist Lac Ben, only a few words differ in the third and seventh verses. But the signature at the end of the poem is not Ung Boi Chau."

"Yes, signed as Thuc Hien." Lam nodded. "Have you heard this name before?"

Duy Khoi shook his head, his expression clearly tense. "No. Never. I have read almost every document, every criticism, every memoir related to Ung Boi Chau during the six years of working on my thesis and now this reprint project. There is not a single line mentioning a person named Thuc Hien related to this collection of poems."

He put down the paper, looked straight at Lam, his voice still holding the cautious tone of a scientist. "Do you understand what I'm saying? If this is true, this is not a small discovery. This is something that could rewrite an entire chapter in the modern literary history of this entire region."

"I understand," Lam replied, her voice more certain than she expected. "That's why I came to you, instead of posting it myself on the internet or in the press. I don't want to do anything rash, I don't want to falsely accuse anyone, I also don't want..." she hesitated for a moment, "I don't want to be denied by people just because I don't have enough expertise to prove it."

Duy Khoi stood up, walked to the wall-closed bookshelf behind the desk, and pulled out a thick hardcover book, the spine of which was frayed from flipping through it many times. "This is the version I used for comparison, an edition of Smoke Suong Lac Ben reprinted in 1990, with a few pages of appendices transcribing Ung Boi Chau's handwriting from the family posthumous document provided to the publisher." He opened it to the appendix page, placing it next to Lam's photocopy for comparison. "Look here, his handwriting writes the word 'dew' - upper hook, long tail. But in the version I gave you, the word 'dew' is written seamlessly, without hooks, these are two completely different styles of writing."

He sat down on the chair, rubbing his hands on his face as if trying to calm himself down. "I spent six years of my life on my doctoral thesis on Ung Boi Chau's poetry, then another four years building my reputation associated with him. If you're right, it's like I have to rewrite from the beginning everything I ever believed in, ever announced, ever stood up on the podium to talk to students." His voice was somewhat bitter but did not avoid it. "But if I knew the truth and remained silent, I would no longer be worthy of standing on that podium."

Duy Khoi was silent for a long time, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop in an uneven rhythm, a sign of a person thinking intensely. Finally he said, his voice slow: "I have to tell you the truth, this is a very difficult situation for me. The sixty-year anniversary reprint project I'm leading is partly funded by Tinh Hoa Publishing House - the same unit that published Smoke Suong Lac Ben, the same unit currently run by Ung Boi Chau's family. If you're right, it means the entire foundation of the project I'm working on will collapse, and maybe even my career will be affected. serious."

"I'm not trying to force you to believe right away," Lam said. "I just hope you can help me verify, with your expert eyes. If after careful consideration you find this unfounded, I will accept it and not bother you anymore."

That statement, perhaps because of its straightforwardness and lack of insistence, made Duy Khoi's attitude soften a bit. He picked up the paper again and read it carefully again, this time without the defensive skepticism but with a real academic focus.

"This handwriting," he said, speaking more to himself than to Lam, "is very different from Ung Boi Chau's handwriting that I have seen in the manuscripts stored at the publishing house. He writes upright, strong strokes, slightly tilted to the right because he is left-handed but was forced to write with his right hand when he was young according to the old educational style. As for this handwriting," he pointed at the paper, "it is softer, left-slanted, clean, this is the handwriting of someone who was taught to write that way. another, probably a female student at an all-girls school at that time."

Lam felt a wave of hope arise in her heart. "So that means you think it's possible?"

"I think there is a possibility worth investigating further," Duy Khoi corrected his sentence, still maintaining the inherent caution of a researcher. "But a few copies of paper are not enough to conclude anything. I need to see the original, need to compare it with other handwriting samples of both people, need to check the date of paper and ink if possible, need to find more historical documents about that period."

He stopped and looked at Lam with eyes that were both serious and a little guilty. "I also have to say frankly, if I participate in this, I will have to be very careful about how I announce it, about when I announce it, and perhaps for a while I will have to keep it a secret, even from my dean, until there is enough solid evidence. Are you ready for a process that may be long, may be risky, not only for you but perhaps for me as well?"

Lam nodded without hesitation, even though in her heart she clearly understood the risks he had just mentioned. "I'm ready. This isn't just about a book anymore, honey."

She told him more, briefly, about the notice to clear Do Paper Alley, about the name Ung The Khang, and about the worry that her family might be being targeted not only because of the alley but also because of the secret her grandfather had kept for half a century. Duy Khoi listened, his face fell, and Lam saw in his eyes that the initial academic curiosity was now mixed with something much more serious — perhaps the realization that this was no longer simply a story of literary research, but a real investigation, with real people at stake.

"Okay," he said finally, standing up and extending his hand to shake Lam's hand out of professional courtesy. "I will help you verify. But we must do it very carefully, step by step, and absolutely not reveal it until we have enough evidence."

As Lam left, cycling along the tree-lined path on campus, she felt a strange sense of relief for the first time since the day she discovered the stack of papers in the spine of the book. She is no longer alone. Although the road ahead is still long and there are still many unknowns, at least now she has a companion who is knowledgeable enough to help her find the truth — and perhaps, even though she hasn't dared to think that far ahead, someone who can be trusted in the midst of the storm that is gradually forming around the small alley where she was born and raised.