Chapter 5 — Summer After the Rain

Minh started the day by burning a kettle of water. He said there was a problem with the kettle, but the kettle was not near an electrical outlet, a fact that Linh pointed out by pointing at the coiled cord a meter away from the outlet. Linh turned off the stove, the burning smell spread throughout the small kitchen, then stuck a paper on the wall with tape: "Do not let Minh stand near the fire while thinking." Minh finished reading and nodded as if it was a compliment.

The film roll was placed on the projector table, under the only bright table lamp in the room. The torn label prevents them from knowing the order of the paragraphs. Minh used a magnifying glass, leaned close to the table, and pieced together each segment according to the faint lines on the edge of the film. Hau had to go out to buy tape, but came back with a bag of cookies and no tape, his face beaming as if he had just successfully completed the task.

“I bought the wrong cake because the sales lady said there was a promotion today.”

“Where is the tape?”

“Maybe there are promotions elsewhere too.”

Linh chased him away again, still holding the fragile film roll as if holding a baby bird.

When the machine runs, the screen shows scenes of An Binh during the flood, the image shakes and there are vertical stripes running through like dust rain covering the memories. People lined up to receive bags of rice in the pouring rain, children slept on theater chairs huddled under thin blankets, Linh's father distributed medicine to each person with a tense expression that never rested. Her mother appeared in the projection room, filming and arguing with her father about telling someone, her voice so urgent that the recording microphone was crackling.

“Gate three has been opened,” her mother says in the film. “If the water rises, the entire south bank will sink.”

Linh's father replied that he had reported it, but the order to close the gate was kept at the dyke office. The image vibrates strongly as if the person holding the camera is running. A man wearing a white shirt stood near the gate, holding a phone to his ear. His face is unclear because of the backlit angle, but in his hand there is a square ring sparkling under the flashlight someone shined through.

The video switches to a night scene, raindrops falling in front of the camera create streaks of light. Linh's father ran in the rain, pulling a group of people out of the warehouse, screams and the sound of rushing water mixed together. Then the screen goes dark. The remaining sound was her mother's voice, her voice choked: "If you admit your mistake for them, Linh will be taken away."

Linh stood motionless, both hands gripping the edge of the table. Minh turned off the phone and the room fell into a heavy silence. No one said her father was innocent, but the video showed that he was elsewhere at the time the aid money disappeared, busy saving people, not busy hiding money.

“My mother knows,” Linh said, her voice trembling slightly.

"Maybe."

“So why didn't you say anything?”

“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

“I don't need to be protected by being left behind.”

Minh did not answer. He took a towel and wiped the dust off the film roll with gentle, careful movements. A folded frame shows Linh's mother hiding an envelope under the ticket, her hand shaking in the flash of light from the camera. Linh recognized the ticket as the ones her father kept, the same type of printing, the same color of yellowed paper.

They decided not to show the film publicly. First, we must find Ms. Xuan, who was in charge of recording at the theater and may know the rest of the story that night. Ms. Nam called a relative, her voice was so loud on the phone that the whole room could hear clearly, and said that Ms. Xuan was teaching at a highland school and only came to town once a month.

“We can send letters,” Linh said.

Minh looked at the screen off, his eyes thoughtful. "We can also wait. But people who want to sell theaters probably won't wait long."

Outside the gate, a shiny black car stopped, its wheels rolling over a puddle, making a light sizzling sound. The man in a white shirt stepped down, wearing a square ring — the same ring Linh had just seen in the video. He introduced himself as Phuc, representative of Bo Nam Company. He said he wanted to buy the theater at a higher price than the market.

Linh looked at Minh. Minh looked at the ring, his jaw straightened a bit. The first rain of the season began to patter on the corrugated iron roof, as if the town knew the story of the opening and was preparing itself.

Mr. Phuc did not step in immediately. He stood under the eaves, wiped the drops of water off his sleeves with neat gestures and asked Linh if she was keeping her father's film roll. The way he asked made her understand that he knew more than he said, like someone trying to measure how much the other person knew.

“I keep the family property,” Linh replied, trying to keep her voice calm.

"I didn't come to get it. I came to avoid you having an unnecessary dispute."

Minh leaned against the ticket counter, arms crossed over his chest. “People often say that before taking something.”

Phuc looked at him and recognized Minh. He asked how long he had worked at the theater. Minh talked long enough to know when a person comes to buy a house without looking at the ceiling, meaning he only cares about the land, not the building.

Phuc smiled, but his eyes were not smiling, his gaze was cold and calculating. He gave Linh Ban an offer to buy at a higher price than the lawyer had stated. He said the company could pay off the entire debt, keep the Ha Vang name on one corner of the square and give Linh an apartment in the new area, as if it were a generous gift.

“I don't want the apartment.”

“You don't know what you want yet.”

“Yes. So I haven't signed yet.”

Phuc turned to look at the white screen. Last night's video still has a frame of Linh's father at the dike gate printed faintly in everyone's memory even though the camera was turned off. He asked Linh if she had seen the film. She said she had seen some of it.

“There are things in the movie that aren't the whole truth,” he said, his voice suspiciously calm.

“So you know the rest?”

“I know time makes people remember things wrong.”

“And you remember right?”

Phuc did not answer. He only said that Linh's father had caused many people to lose money, then left the debt to his children. Linh asked if he had documents to prove it. He replied that the documents were at the company, an answer so vague that it proved nothing.

Minh pulled a chair for Linh, the wood of the chair creaked on the tile floor. She sat down, not wanting the conversation to turn into a confrontation right in front of the theater door. She asked Phuc to send copies of relevant documents, not to hand over the film roll and all communication through lawyers. Phuc told her she was stubborn like her father, the corner of his mouth curled up in a half smile.

“If I'm like him, I have a reason not to sign hastily.”

Phuc left. The black car slid through the puddle, leaving a long strip of mud on the theater's nameplate, like a new scar on an old scar.

Hau brought out a rag to wipe it, but wiping it spread the mud even more. Linh told him to stop before turning the nameplate into an abstract painting. Minh took a bucket of water and wiped it from top to bottom, so patiently that everyone stood and watched as if watching a show. Phuc is gone, but the square ring is still on the screen in the film, engraved in Linh's head like an indelible mark.

Linh called Ms. Xuan that night, crouching in the corner of the box office so no one could hear. She said Phuc used to be Mr. Hai's assistant, did not directly sign the order to open the gate, but knew who gave the order, and knew better than he would admit. She also said that Linh's father kept the original in another place, because he did not believe that the projector was the last safe place - machines could break down, they could be ransacked, but an unexpected room was different.

“Do you know that place?”

“A room without a screen.”

Linh thought about the apartment upstairs. The only room without a screen was the room her mother used to sleep in, which had only a bed, a wooden cabinet and a window overlooking the river. She went up there, knocking on the wall carefully one section at a time. A hollow sound echoed behind the wooden cabinet, different from the solid sound of the remaining walls.

Minh pried open the cabinet, sweat beading on his forehead because he had to use quite a bit of force. Behind the board was an iron box locked with a key with the letter H, the same key they found in the old radio. Inside was the dyke gate order, a list of relief money and a letter her father had not yet sent, the envelope had turned the color of porridge.

The letter read: "Huong, if Linh comes back, let her know that you are not the best person in the story. You are just someone who tried to choose the less bad thing, then let someone else pay the price for that choice."

Linh read to the end, her hands trembled slightly, causing the paper to vibrate slightly. No promises, no pleas. There was only the address of a provincial archives office and the name of an engineer named Tan, written in hasty handwriting at the corner of the page.

Minh asked her if she wanted to go now. Linh looked at the rain through the window, then looked at the nameplate that had just been cleaned below, the streetlight reflecting off the peeling gold letters.

"Tomorrow. The theater opens today."

“The projector hasn't been repaired yet.”

“Then show a frame.”

Minh burst out laughing, his laughter breaking the heavy atmosphere just now. They hung curtains, set up chairs and gave out free tickets to passersby. Their calls echoed throughout the small street. On the screen there was only one water gate, the only clear frame from the film, but An Binh's first time sitting was not to forget. They sat to look, then ask questions, and whispers spread throughout the rows like a gentle breeze signaling that the rainy season had truly begun.