Chapter 12 — Summer After the Rain

Linh and Minh went to the old bridge to find traces of gate number three, cycling through the dusty red dirt road under the noon sun. The bridge is restricted to trucks, the rusty railings creak every time the wind blows, but there are still fishing children sitting on both sides of the bridge and popcorn sellers pushing carts back and forth. Minh brought along an old camera, three sandwiches wrapped in newspaper and a crumpled map in his raincoat pocket.

The map was drawn by Linh's father, the pencil strokes were faded but still readable, marking the water line during the flood night. An ink mark runs from the dike gate to the old factory, then around to the south bank, like a miniature river accurately charting its path of destruction. If gate number three opens as ordered, water will rush through the residential area, exactly what happened.

They met Mr. Sau, a former rescue boat driver, sitting mending nets under the shade of a rice tree next to the foot of the bridge. He remembered Linh's father trying to close the gate, but the lock had been changed not long before. Mr. Hai ordered the boat to go toward the factory to save the goods. Phuc then followed, but did not stop, just stood and watched with an expression on Linh's face, unable to imagine what he was thinking at that time.

“Why didn't you tell?” Linh asked.

Mr. Sau said he once made an application, but it was returned because it lacked a signature, an absurd administrative reason that he never understood. Then his wife got sick, he needed money for medicine, and an unexpected grant appeared just when he was about to make a big deal of it. The truth is sold in small sums, each one enough to make a person silent, he said, his voice filled with bitterness as he looked down at his calloused hands.

Minh sat on the railing, his legs dangling over the edge of the bridge, asking if selling popcorn here required a license. Mr. Sau said he needed it, then asked if he had any corn. Minh confessed that there was only bread. They ate bread and chili sauce sitting side by side, and Linh realized that serious investigations were always ruined by hunger, no matter how heavy the story they had just heard.

In the bridge gap, they found a piece of metal engraved with the South Shore symbol, rusted but still recognizable as a familiar wave shape. It could be the part that locks the gate, but it's not enough to be conclusive. Linh took a photo with her phone and put it in her evidence bag along with other pieces of evidence that were growing thicker and thicker.

Returning to the theater, they saw that the back wall had been painted red: "Sell in peace", the paint was still wet and smudged as if it had been written not long ago. Hau reported that Phuc had hired someone to measure the land. Mrs. Nam held a broom to chase them away, her hand swinging the broom fiercely as if she were fighting an enemy, but one person turned back and threatened to cut off the power. His voice was so cold that it made the whole group silent.

Minh wanted to confront him, his fists clenched until they turned white. Linh held his hand. She said the theater needs proof, not a new tragedy. He looked at her hand, then let go of his fist, letting out a long sigh as if trying to extinguish a fire burning in his heart.

That night, Minh confessed that he knew Linh's father was threatened but did not say anything. He was just a seventeen year old boy, afraid that his mother would be implicated. Linh was angry at him, saying everyone used fear as an excuse, her voice was harsher than she intended.

“I don't need you to be perfect,” she said. “I need you to stop hiding important things from me.”

Minh nodded, his eyes lowered. The next morning, he placed a notebook in front of her, the leather cover worn from being turned over many times during the night, writing down everything he knew. There are uncertain lines, lines that are crossed out over and over again, and one last line: “I'm afraid you'll leave before I can say I want you to stay.”

Linh finished reading but did not answer. She closed the notebook and put it in the closet with her mother's letter. Her hands shook slightly as she closed the closet door.

Minh's notebook is not a beautiful confession. There are pages that just say "not sure", there are pages that circle things he heard from adults and then cross them out because he doesn't know whether it's true or not, the handwriting is sometimes clear and sometimes scribbled like the writer's mood. Linh read the part where he was seventeen years old and stood outside the meeting room, listening to her father arguing with Phuc through the thin wooden door. Minh saw his mother give Mr. Khai a bag of documents, but he didn't know what was inside. That night, his mother made him swear not to tell anyone, holding his hand so tightly that it left a mark.

“Why did you keep it a secret all these years?” Linh asked.

"Because I think silence will make everyone safer. After my mother passed away, I realized that silence only makes people not know where they are."

Linh walked around the projection room, her footsteps echoing on the old wooden floor. She wanted to be angry with him, but the anger was no longer intact. It was mixed with fatigue and the fear that if everyone told the truth, she would have no one left to blame, no single name left to bear all the blame.

Minh took out a copper key from his pocket, the metal surface was dull. He said his mother used to hide it behind a photo frame, saying it was the key to the locker at the old station. An Binh station has been abandoned for a long time, the tiled roof collapsed in one corner, but the night train still stops there when there is heavy rain. Mr. Khai used to use gas to move film rolls and files out of flooded areas, a link in a chain of silent actions that no one had ever thought of.

They arrived at the station in the afternoon, the sunlight slanted through the broken glass windows, creating streaks of light on the floor. Hau came along, carrying three sandwiches and a self-drawn map with random arrows, which he insisted was a "tactical map". Locker number 17 was located behind the waiting room, covered with spider webs. The lock was rusty, Minh had to use machine oil and patiently turn it little by little. When the door opened with a squeak, there were no records inside. There was only an old film camera, a roll of blue ribbon and a train ticket with the date of the flood.

Linh held the camera, her hands were cold. The film inside is not yet developed. On the scroll's cover were mother's words: "Don't watch it alone."

“Your mother wants witnesses,” Minh said.

“Or are you afraid that you will change your mind?”

On the way home, the afternoon breeze blew coolly across her face, Linh said she didn't need him to hide her fear to appear strong. Minh said he would try. She asked how long it would take. He replied until she chased him. Linh turned away, but the corner of her lips curled up, a smile she didn't want him to see.

The next morning, she put the film in a moisture-proof box and called a film developer in the city, her hands shaking as she read the phone number. The cost is more than a week's worth of ticket sales. Mrs. Nam silently opened the donation box and put her savings in there without telling anyone. Hau posted a notice asking for support, this time without using the word "drama", instead writing a rather touching paragraph that surprised even him with his writing ability. By evening, the amount was enough to pay the coating fee. Linh looked at the list of contributors and realized that there was also the name of someone who wrote online that her father was a thief.

She understands that the truth does not make everyone agree immediately. It just gives them a reason to sit back and watch the same film, even though each person carries a different set of prejudices when entering the theater.

When sending the roll of film for development, Linh signed the delivery slip with both hands, as if just one hand wasn't steady enough. The room staff asked if I needed to buy insurance. She responded, even though the fee was almost the same as the rental fee. Minh stood next to him and said this time they wouldn't let something precious pass through the city without a trace, his voice was strangely determined.

On the way back to the station, Linh asked what if the movie broke. Minh said they still have the accounts, records and each other. She heard that sentence and knew he wasn't saying it to comfort her, but to remind her that the truth never lies in just one roll of film, but in everything they have collected together over the past few days.

Waiting for the results of the film development were the longest days Linh had ever experienced since returning to An Binh. She tried to keep herself busy by rearranging the props, labeling each box by year, but her hand kept stopping every time the phone vibrated, her heart pounding and then disappointed when she learned it was just a text from Hau asking if she could eat the remaining popcorn. Minh noticed that restlessness and started making up tasks that weren't really necessary just to get her out of the box office: repainting an already painted corner of the wall, re-counting the number of chairs that had already been counted three times, checking the spare light bulbs even though he was sure they were still good.

“You're trying to keep me busy so I can forget to wait for the phone,” Linh said one afternoon, when Minh suggested counting the number of tickets sold that week for the second time.

“Does it work?”

“Not really. But I appreciate the effort.”

Minh smiled and scratched his head. He admitted that he was equally restless, because that roll of film might contain the last images of his mother that he had never seen, moments that he, a panicked seventeen-year-old boy that night, had not had time to remember. Linh remained silent, realizing that their waiting was not exactly the same, but equally heavy.

Mrs. Nam, seeing that the two of them kept coming and going uneasily, decided to cook a large pot of sweet soup to "calm the spirits of the whole neighborhood", even though no one asked. The whole group sat around a pot of hot tea in the middle of the theater yard that night, no one mentioned the film, just told trivial stories of the day, and Linh realized that was exactly what she needed: a warm silence between the heavy days of waiting.