Chapter 14 — Summer After the Rain

Ms. Nam decided to organize a town meeting, using Hau's speakers, which were purchased from an electronics liquidation fair. The speaker only has two modes: too small and makes the windows vibrate. She chose the second mode, reading the announcement about the Ha Vang theater in a voice that the whole neighborhood could hear, to the point that the dogs next door barked along with every sentence she said.

People came in large numbers, sitting all over the front yard of the theater on plastic chairs brought from home. Some people want to keep the theater, some want to sell it because of the high compensation price, both sides are whispering in two corners of the field like two football teams warming up before a match. Linh doesn't blame them. She said everyone has the right to need money, but the decision must be made after knowing the history of the land. Her voice was strong enough for both sides to listen quietly.

Minh presented the revised version, holding cardboard sheets with scribbled diagrams. After showing the video, which showed him slipping off the ladder last week, laughter erupted from the crowd before someone reminded him to continue watching the data. Everyone laughed, then seriously listened to the data about roof repair costs and electricity bills. Aunt Tam suggested turning part of the yard into a weekend market to generate revenue. Mrs. Nam said to leave room for the cat, a request so serious that no one dared to object.

A man stood up in the crowd and asked Linh if she would stay. She said she didn't know, but she wouldn't let someone else decide for her while she hadn't read the entire file. Those words made some people speechless, because they used to see her as a city person who just came back to sell her house and then disappeared, and now they have to reconsider that stereotype.

The meeting ended with a volunteer sign-up sheet, the sheet of paper gradually growing longer as it was passed from row to row. Forty-two people signed, including Mr. Sau, the boat driver, and his former secretary. Mrs. Nam assigned Minh to hold the speaker, but he pressed the wrong button, making the wedding music sound while everyone was seriously discussing. Everyone laughed until tears flowed, and the heavy meeting suddenly turned into an unexpectedly warm evening.

That night, Phuc called Linh, his voice was cold and steady as if reading a verdict. He said if she didn't sell, the company would sue because the theater was in the planning area. Linh asked him if he had been in An Binh during the flood. Phuc was silent for a long time. He said that talking about the past cannot change the planning.

“But it changes the reason people aren't allowed to delete this place,” Linh replied.

Phuc hung up the phone without a response. Minh said she is learning how to hang up before other people. Linh told him not to be too happy, she still needed him to hear her every complaint when she was tired.

In the warehouse, under the flashlight, they found a tape recording Ms. Xuan's voice, wrapped in a layer of old, yellowed plastic. She said Phuc's name, Mr. Hai's name and the dike maintenance fee in a trembling voice as if she were recounting a nightmare. The tape was hesitant, but the last part was clear: "If something happens, take Linh and leave."

Linh sat down on the floor, her legs no longer had the strength to stand. Minh let her lean on his shoulder. This time he didn't give me a towel. He just sat still, until the trembling in her hand subsided, his breathing steady like a wordless reassurance.

Lawyer Mai, Hau's old classmate, came to the theater with a suitcase full of documents, an agile gait and sharp eyes. She watched the film several times, asking when the camera filmed it, who kept the original, and if anyone touched the roll of film after it was developed. Hau answered very quickly that there was only one cat, but the cat didn't have an ID card, making Mai laugh while trying to keep a serious look.

Mai smiled, then became serious again, placing the notebook on the table. She said the images have reference value, but need to be compared with records and testimony. If Phuc sues Linh violates the contract, they must prove that he hid information about the origin of assets. If the town wants to preserve the theater, it needs to create a community heritage record, not just relying on sentiment, no matter how genuine that sentiment is.

Linh asked how long it would take. Mai said it could take a few months, maybe longer. She did not promise a quick victory. She just promised not to let them be pushed out of the meeting room because they didn't know how to use legal terms, a simple promise that made Linh feel much more relieved.

That evening, the group held a session to collect testimonies. People lined up in front of the box office, each carrying an item associated with the theater: old tickets, wedding photos, popcorn receipts, a jacket forgotten from 2004 that still smelled faintly of camphor. Aunt Tam brought a ladle that she used to cook ginger water for people to avoid floods. The handle of the ladle was worn smooth from many years of use. Hau interviewed each person but kept asking "what were her feelings when she saw the hero return", causing Mrs. Nam to throw him a pen amid the laughter of the crowd lining up.

Linh heard an old lady say her husband watched the last movie before he passed away. He didn't die in the theater, but the theater was where he sat still for a long time after he knew the house had drifted away, his hands clenching the chair so tightly that his fingernails dug into the wood. She said Ha Vang gives people a place to hurt without having to hurt alone. Her voice trembled but her eyes were strangely peaceful.

These stories make Mai's profile thicker day by day. Not every story helps sue Phuc, but all prove that the theater has its own life, a life that cannot be converted into money on any contract. Linh began to understand that saving Ha Vang did not mean keeping every chair intact. Maybe they have to replace the roof, repair the walls, change the way they operate. What needs to be preserved is the right of the people to decide what this place will become.

Late at night, Minh sat on the stage, his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden floor. Linh asked him if he ever thought they would fail. He said he thinks every day, but still fixes it because failure cannot be a reason to further damage something that is trying to live.

“What you say sounds like a love confession,” Linh said.

“I'm talking about the projector.”

“I'm also talking about the projector.”

The two of them laughed together, the laughter echoing softly in the empty space of the theater at night, but the distance between them was shorter than before, both literally and figuratively.

Mai asked everyone to sign confidentiality agreements with witnesses, not to lock them out but to prevent documents from being unintentionally released. Linh read each line under the desk lamp, correcting a sentence that was too broad with a red pen. She said that all memories cannot be called the property of the theater, because memories belong to the people who lived them, not to the four walls.

“You're starting to look like a lawyer,” Mai said, somewhat admiringly.

“I just started to fear small letters.”

Minh heard it and stuck a piece of paper on the projector: "Do not read small letters while climbing stairs." Linh took it down, but still laughed, unable to help but see his adorable ridiculousness.

Mai said Minh's joke should be kept on file as proof that the group is still human in the midst of a heavy incident. Linh put it in the “marginal notes” section, then added that no one should use it as an excuse to ignore safety, a serious clause wedged between humorous lines.

Before leaving, Mai pulled Linh to a private corner, her voice lowered. She said that in all the cases she has ever received, this is the first time she has seen a community willing to step into the light at the same time, instead of leaving the main victim alone to confront an entire machine. She warns Linh that the road ahead will not be easy, that Phuc and those behind him have more resources than they think, but she also adds that resources cannot always overcome a town that has decided not to forget anymore.

Linh saw Mai out to the gate and watched her car disappear around the corner. When she returned, she saw Hau sitting huddled at the ticket counter, her eyes red with emotion after hearing stories all evening. He asked Linh if she thought they would win. Linh did not answer immediately. She looked around the lobby, at the empty seats, at the white curtain waiting for another show, and said that winning or losing was no longer the only question. The more important question is whether they still dare to look straight at the truth, regardless of the final outcome.

Hau nodded, remained silent for a moment, then stood up and turned off the lights in the lobby, leaving only a single desk lamp where Linh still sat and rearranged the stack of files. Outside, the night wind blew through the door, bringing with it the moisture of the river, and Linh, for the first time after many stressful days, allowed herself to let out a long breath, as if releasing some of the burden she had been carrying since her return.

Minh locked the warehouse door, then turned around and sat down opposite Linh, not saying anything, just quietly helping her put the last pages of paper into the folder in the correct date order. There are nights when you don't need fancy words of comfort, you just need someone to sit next to you and do a little thing together until the fatigue subsides. When all the papers were stowed away, Linh looked at the clock and saw that it was almost one o'clock in the morning, but she did not feel sleepy at all, she only felt a strange peace creeping into her chest, a feeling she had forgotten for a long time.