Chapter 9 — Old Book Repairer In A Small Alley

Mr. Vuu Khac Dien lives in a small house on the outskirts of Tra Lang, about half an hour's drive from the city center, an area that still retains many fruit orchards between rows of newly built houses. Duy Khoi contacted the group of students who had interviewed him in advance, asked for the phone number of the son who lived with him, and fortunately, he was still lucid and willing to talk when he knew someone wanted to ask about the printing profession in the past.

Mr. Dien's house is small but neat, the front yard is planted with a trellis of bright red bougainvillea flowers, and on the porch is a set of wooden tables and chairs that have become shiny with time. He sat on a rattan chair, his body was thin but his back was still straight. Although his eyes were dim due to age, his gaze was still sharp when listening to guests explain the purpose of their visit.

"At that time, Tinh Hoa Printing House," Mr. Dien began, his voice hoarse but clear, "was located right on the corner of Old Market Street. Now that place has become an electronics store. I worked as a typesetter there since I was twenty years old, nearly forty years, until the printing house closed because offset printing technology replaced all lead type."

Lam took out a copy of the book Smoke Suong Lac Ben from her bag and placed it in front of him. "Yes sir, do you remember this book? Printed in 1965."

Mr. Dien took it, brought it close to his eyes, looked at it silently for a long time, then nodded. "Remember? This book of poems was printed twice. The first time it sold so well that I had to print more. At that time, the printer rarely printed poetry, mostly printed textbooks and sales books, but for this book, the publisher personally brought the manuscript and told him to make it beautiful and solemn."

"Do you remember Mr. Ung Boi Chau?" Duy Khoi asked, trying to keep his voice calm even though he was clearly nervous.

"Remember, the handsome, well-spoken young man who often stopped by the printing house to check on the progress and treated his fellow workers to coffee and cigarettes properly." Mr. Dien smiled softly, his eyes far away as if he were lost in a past time. "But..."

He stopped, did not continue immediately, his hazy eyes looked out at the front yard, where the afternoon sun was dyeing the bougainvillea petals yellow. Lam and Duy Khoi exchanged worried looks, afraid that he had forgotten the story, but then he continued, his voice slower.

"One time, I remember very clearly, he brought the manuscript, his hands were shaking, his face was pale, not like usual. The printer owner asked what was going on, he only said that this manuscript was very important, it had to be kept secret, no one could see it before printing, not even people in the printing house were allowed to tell the story. At that time, the typesetters and I kept wondering, what was in the book of poems that had to be kept so secret, until..."

"Until what?" Lam asked, unable to contain his impatience.

"Until a girl came to the printing house and asked about the manuscript," Mr. Dien said, his voice lowered. "She was young, probably only twenty-something years old, dressed simply but with something very... elegant, like a well-educated child. She asked me if I had seen a poetry manuscript called 'Lac Ben Smoke and Mist', saying it was hers, and someone took it away and printed it without asking."

Lam's heart seemed to stop beating for a beat. "Do you remember her name?"

Mr. Dien shook his head, regret clearly visible on his wrinkled face. "It's been so long, I don't remember her exact name, but I remember she cried a lot, kept talking, but the printing house owner refused to let Mr. Ung Boi Chau meet, only saying that this was a matter between the author and the publisher, outsiders were not allowed to interfere. She stood crying outside the printing house gate all afternoon. I felt so sorry, I went out to ask a few questions, she only said she was a close friend of the person who gave the manuscript to the printing house owner, that person promised to return it but then never returned it. The poetry collection was printed under a different name."

"Do you remember how the printer's owner reacted when she came to ask?" Duy Khoi asked further, still writing continuously in the notebook he brought with him.

"The owner of the printing house at that time had no blood left on his face," Mr. Dien said, his voice slow, as if he was going through each film of memories covered with dust over time. "He chased all the workers out, closed the office door, and talked to the girl alone for a long time. When she left, her eyes were red, and the boss stood idly at the door for a long time. Then he called me in, telling me over and over not to tell this story to anyone, not even family members, saying that this was the publisher's private matter and the workers should not get involved."

"Will the printing house print any other books by Mr. Ung Boi Chau after that?" Lam asked, trying to piece together more pieces of information.

"Yes, after Smoke and Mist Lac Ben, he released two more volumes, but none of them were as well received as the first," Mr. Dien replied. "I still remember the typesetters often gossiping behind his back, saying that the first volume was the best, but as time went on, his poems became weaker and less soulful like the first volume. At that time, we simply thought that he was out of inspiration, no one could have guessed the real reason."

Duy Khoi and Lam exchanged a look of understanding - if it is true that the best poems in Ung Boi Chau's career came from the pen of Thuc Hien, then the gradual decline in the quality of his poetry after she stopped sending manuscripts is indirect but powerful evidence, a detail that any serious literary critic can hardly ignore.

"The person who gave the manuscript, who are you talking about?" Duy Khoi asked, his voice more urgent.

"Ah, I remember that clearly," Mr. Dien nodded firmly. "He was a young bookbinder, working at a large bookstore in the city, often going to the printing house to receive books for binding. His name was Tuyen, Khuc Van Tuyen, later it was said that he opened his own small bookbinding shop in the Do Paper Alley area."

The room seemed suddenly silent. Lam felt her hands and feet go cold. Although this information was not completely surprising - she had partly guessed her grandfather's role in the story - but hearing it confirmed from the mouth of a living witness, the feeling was still completely different from just reading the handwritten words in the letter.

"That's my grandfather," Lam said, his voice trembling.

Mr. Dien looked at her intently, then nodded as if he had just understood something. "So that's it. You're very similar to that aunt, with the same quiet sitting posture, the same eyes that often look far away when thinking. Back then I kept feeling guilty because I couldn't help her, I could only stand and watch her cry and then leave. After that, I never saw her again, I didn't know where she went, or how she lived or died."

"Did Mr. Tuyen ever return to the printing house after that?" Duy Khoi asked.

"Yes, but it's different from before," Mr. Dien replied. "Before that, he was happy and chatty, but after that time, he became quieter and quieter. He only came to pick up books and then left immediately. He didn't linger like before. One time I asked him, he just smiled sadly, said nothing, and then moved on to other things. I also didn't feel comfortable asking more questions. Everyone has their own concerns, so we shouldn't pry."

That afternoon, when saying goodbye to Mr. Dien and leaving, Duy Khoi recorded the entire conversation, carefully asked his permission before starting, and he also agreed to sign a short report confirming what he had just told, in case it needed to be used as official evidence later. On the way home, the two hardly said much, each lost in their own thoughts, but when the car stopped at an intersection waiting for a red light, Duy Khoi suddenly turned to look at Lam.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Lam nodded, but her eyes were already filled with tears. "I was just thinking, she stood crying outside the printing house gate all afternoon, no one could help, even my grandfather - the only person who could stand as a witness - also chose to stay silent. I don't blame him, he probably had his reasons, his own fears. But I just imagine how lonely she felt at that time."

Duy Khoi didn't say anything, just reached out to gently hold Lam's hand on his thigh, a simple gesture of comfort but enough to make Lam feel less lonely on this increasingly heavy journey. The green light turned on, he quickly let go and continued driving, but they both knew, from that moment, something between them had silently changed, they could no longer go back to the way they were before.

For the rest of the way, Lam looked out the car window, watching the roadside trees pass by in the sunset, her heart feeling both heavy and strangely relieved - heavy because Thuc Hien's story now had a clearer shape than ever, no longer abstract lines on paper but a real person, once standing and crying at the gate of a strange printing house; relieved because she knew she no longer had to carry that burden alone.