Chapter 2 — Pottery Kiln Fire Keeper

The person stepping out of the ash-gray car was taller than Van Khe remembered, with broader shoulders and a more mature gait than the image of the skinny teenager she had seen flickering at the district pottery market many years ago. But his face was still the same - deep eyes, straight nose, and the way he looked at everything around him as if he were measuring and evaluating, a habit that Van Khe remembered honing from the rare times the two families met each other at the village communal house during festivals, when the ancestors tried to maintain a polite appearance while everyone knew that underneath was a bottomless pit.

— Chiem Duy Khang, — she blurted out, her voice unable to hide her surprise and caution.

— It's been a long time, Van Khe. — He nodded in greeting, smiling slightly but his eyes were somewhat probing, not quite friendly nor quite distant. — I heard that Mr. Vong's health is not good lately, so I stopped by to ask.

That sentence made Van Khe pause slightly. Since when did Chiem Dac Nguyen's son - who is gathering land and factories for the whole village day and night - care about her father's health? She tightened her grip on the notebook she still held in her hand, an unconscious self-defense reflex, then replied, trying to keep her voice calm:

— My father is still healthy. Thank you for asking. But it's late now, do you have anything to do?

Khang was silent for a moment, his eyes swept across the factory yard, past the row of jars and jars, past the silhouette of a gourd tree hidden behind a bamboo grove, which under the dim moonlight looked like a giant sleeping animal. There was something fleeting in his expression—not contempt like Van Khe had always imagined about the Chiems, but almost a nostalgia, a quiet appreciation that confused her.

— I've only been back two weeks, — he said, his voice slow. — Studied ceramic design in Kyoto for six years. Coming back, I saw that my village had changed so much, the wood-fired furnace factories kept decreasing, but the gas furnace factories of... - he hesitated for a moment - my company's factories were growing like mushrooms. I stopped by here, partly because I heard that Mr. Vong was sick, and partly because I was curious to see if Vong Nguyet furnace was still there.

- Still. — Van Khe replied curtly, her voice somewhat thorny. — And it will last a long time, no matter how hard your company tries.

Khang didn't seem angry, just looked at her for a long moment and then nodded slightly, as if that answer was not unexpected.

— I don't represent my father's company, — he said, sounding serious. — I returned home with a different plan. But that's for another time. It's late at night, I won't bother anymore.

He turned around to walk towards the car, but then stopped, as if suddenly remembering something.

— Van Khe, — he said, not turning his head completely, just glancing over his shoulder. — My grandfather still talks about your grandfather often. He once said that if anyone could keep the Vong Nguyet furnace burning, that would be the only thing that would make him feel... a little less guilty.

That sentence was like a small needle penetrating the night, penetrating straight into a mysterious corner of Van Khe's heart that she had not yet had time to define. Anxious? Khang's grandfather, whom she only vaguely knew as an old man who lived in seclusion in a large villa at the end of the village and rarely went out, had any guilty relationship with her grandfather?

She was about to ask more, but Khang quickly walked out to the car, started the engine, and the car disappeared behind the bend in the dirt road, leaving Van Khe standing still in the middle of the yard, her mind filled with questions that had not yet had time to form.

*

— Who is it, child? — Her father asked when she returned to the house, the oil lamplight casting a yellow halo on his thin face.

— Chiem Duy Khang, son of Mr. Nguyen in Tan Tho. — Van Khe replied, sitting down next to her father, still dazed. — Dad, he said his grandfather often talked about his grandfather, saying he felt guilty about something. Dad, do you know what's going on?

Mr. Vong's face suddenly darkened, his already tired eyes became even more gloomy. He was silent for a long time, his hands tightening on the hem of his shirt, to the point where Van Khe thought he was about to have a heart attack from emotion.

— It's an old story, — he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, carrying a nuance that Van Khe had never heard from his father — defense mixed with deep sadness. — Your grandfather and Mr. Truong over there were once close friends and considered each other as brothers. But then something happened, and the two families have not been together since then. Don't ask any more, I don't know the details, your grandfather never told me everything.

— What is so serious that no one dares to mention it, father?

— Dad said he didn't know! — Mr. Vong growled, rarely did he raise his voice to his daughter like that, startling Van Khe into silence. Realizing he had just said too much, he sighed, rubbed his temples, and his voice softened. — Sorry, child. I just... what's the point of bringing that up again? It's been a long time. Go to sleep, you have to go to the beach early tomorrow.

Van Khe looked at his father, clearly realizing there was something he was trying to hide, an old wound that just the slightest touch was enough to cause him pain. She did not ask further, but in her heart, the seed of curiosity began to germinate, creeping into every thought.

That night, she returned to her grandfather's room, intending to take the worn leather notebook she had found earlier to read it carefully, but searched endlessly through the pile of papers on the table but couldn't find it anywhere. She clearly remembered that she had placed it neatly on the table before going out to meet guests, but now it had disappeared without a trace, as if it had never existed.

Did her father put it away? Or did he not know the existence of that notebook, and was it taken by someone else?

*

The next morning, Van Khe woke up early as usual, but her mind was still filled with questions from last night. She went to the clay field along the Boi Giang river, where her family has been mining materials for many generations, carrying a hoe and a bamboo basket. The ground in the morning is covered with a thin layer of dew, the first sunlight shines through the bamboo leaves, creating shimmering streaks of light on the water surface.

Digging clay is not as simple as outsiders think. Not every place along the river has suitable soil; It must be a layer of soil about a meter deep below the ground, where the silt has been compacted over decades, smooth, free of grit, and flexible enough to shape without cracking when dry. Her grandfather used to mark the best land locations by placing small bamboo poles, and Van Khe still keeps that habit, although now the old bamboo poles are mostly rotten and broken, she has to remember the location using memory and experience.

She dug up each layer of soil, carefully removed tree roots and crushed gravel, then put them in a bamboo basket to carry back to the workshop. Although this step was difficult, it was when she felt closest to her grandfather - every blow of the hoe, every handful of soil in her hand, reminded her of him squatting on the riverbank, scooping up a handful of soil, smelling it, tasting a little with the tip of his tongue to evaluate the salinity and impurities, then nodding in satisfaction or shaking his head in disapproval.

"Good or bad land, you can't see with your eyes," he once said. — You must feel with your hands, with your tongue, and with your nose. Earth is the mother of pottery, and mothers must understand their children to love them.

Thinking of this, Van Khe suddenly remembered her mother, who passed away when she was only eleven years old. Memories of her mother have faded over the years, leaving only a few fragmentary images - her mother's hand stroking her hair before going to sleep, her soft lullaby voice on rainy nights, and the scent of jasmine that she still puts in her hair every time she goes to the market. Since her mother's death, her grandfather and father have been the only two pillars that raised her, and perhaps that is why her love for pottery and the Vong Nguyet kiln is also the love she has for those two men - those who sacrificed their lives to keep the fire from going out.

Carrying the soil back to the workshop, Van Khe met Khac Ben waiting, holding an important-looking piece of paper in his hand.

— Ms. Khe, this morning someone from Tan Tho company brought documents and left them on your desk. I saw my uncle's face turn pale after reading it, he didn't say anything, he just sat there in a daze.

Van Khe quickly put down her burden and ran into the house. On the table, a sheet of paper with the title of Tan Tho company lay flat, with bold letters offering to buy back the entire area of her family's factory land and riverside clay yard, accompanied by a number that made her have to read it twice to believe her eyes - a number enough to pay off all her debts, enough for her father to treat his illness comfortably, enough for both father and son to live comfortably for the rest of their lives without having to worry about anything.

But attached to that number was a single condition, printed in bold at the bottom of the page: the entire Vong Nguyet furnace would be razed within thirty days of the contract being signed.