Chapter 8 — Summer After the Rain

The first rain of the season fell just as they were hanging up the velvet curtain, the first drops splattered on the corrugated iron roof and then quickly turned into a torrential torrent. Minh was on the ladder, holding the heavy curtain tightly, Linh held the foot of the ladder below, eyes looking up worriedly every time he swayed. Hau turned on love music from the speakers, the crackling sound echoed amid the sound of rain, making the theater repair scene look more like a budget-error video shoot than a serious construction site.

“Turn off the music!” Linh shouted, trying to drown out the sound of the rain.

"Impossible. This song creates emotions."

“It creates the feeling of wanting to throw the speaker.”

Minh slipped on the wet stairs and fell onto a pile of old pillows piled in the corner of the hall, dust kicking up a small cloud. He sat up immediately, brushed his sleeves, and declared that it was a move to test the softness of the chair cushion. Aunt Tam ran to cover the tea pot from leaking water, and Mrs. Nam ran to cover the cat with her own conical hat. Only Linh stood in the middle of the hall, her wet hair sticking to her forehead and laughing until her stomach hurt, her laughter echoing throughout the empty room.

After the rain subsided, the group discovered water pouring through the back door, flowing in a small stream through the door crack into the lobby. They used buckets, towels and old posters to block it, each person fighting with one hand and one foot against the encroaching water. A love movie poster was placed at the foot of the door, on which the two main characters stood in the middle of a field of flowers smiling brightly, now water was slowly seeping from the edge of the paper. Minh said they are using love to fight the flood, very true to the spirit of cinema. Linh threw him a wet towel in his face in response to the joke.

Linh asked if he could fix the sewer. Minh said yes, but needed someone to keep the light. She held the flashlight, the light trembled with the rhythm of her hand because of the cold, he crawled into the muddy water without hesitation. Ten minutes later, he came out with a small fish struggling in his raincoat pocket. Linh shouted, took a step back, he said he bet he was the volunteer he had just saved from the whirlpool.

When the rain stopped, the theater yard was filled with water, reflecting the yellow streetlights like a broken mirror. Linh sat on the steps, hugging her knees, looking at the river flowing stronger than usual in the distance. Minh brought two cups of steaming instant noodles, one cup without onions because he remembered her not eating.

“Do you remember?”

“I remember things that other people think are not memorable.”

Linh took a bite, the heat warmed her cold hands, and asked her mother if she had stayed at the theater after the flood. Minh said her mother left the next morning, taking Linh with her, only having time to pack a few clothes into a cloth bag. Her father stayed behind because the government needed him to testify about the dike gate.

“So why are you being blamed?”

“Because you refused to sign the report they gave you.”

Minh couldn't tell the whole thing clearly, his voice was slow as if he was trying to recall the fragmented memories of a seventeen year old boy. He only remembers that Linh's father and his mother had an argument with a man named Phuc, who was then a project officer. This person wants to conclude that the dike gate was opened due to the rescue team's fault, to avoid investigating the maintenance.

The name Phuc made Linh cold, the cup of noodles in her hand stopped steaming without her even noticing. Mr. Phuc just appeared to buy a theater. The person with the square ring in the film is him.

“What if he knew about the film?”

“Then we have to find the rest before him.”

Linh looked at Minh. He can still joke, but his eyes are not smiling, there is something hard behind the familiar layer of humor. She realizes that saving the theater is no longer just a matter of property, but has become a race against time and someone who knows better than they think.

That night, the rain returned, tapping steadily on the corrugated iron roof like a song without words. Minh slept on a lounge chair because the roof upstairs leaked, and his legs curled up because the chair was too short for his height. Linh brought down the blanket, her steps were light in the dark, she saw him hugging the screwdriver like a pillow, his fingers still tightly wrapped around the handle of the screwdriver even though he was fast asleep. She covered him with a blanket, then heard him mutter in his sleep: "Don't sell the theater before I fix it."

Linh replied softly, almost talking to herself: "I will try."

Rain falls through the corrugated iron roof, the sound of water flowing in the gutters is as regular as a lullaby. For the first time in many years, she didn't see An Binh as just a place that needed to leave.

The next morning, Linh pasted the photo of the dike door on the ticket office wall, her hands carefully pinning each corner with thumbtacks. She used a red thread to connect it with the tape, the maintenance report and ticket number 13, forming a network as intricate as a spider web. Hau looked at the network and asked if adding a photo of the cat would prove it was a witness. Mrs. Nam said the cat could only prove who ate the fish, then glanced at Hau suspiciously.

At noon, a truck parked in front of the theater, its brakes screeching loudly. Three people wearing reflective vests stepped down and told them to come and re-measure the site according to the project's requirements. Linh requested a referral. The leader presented a copy of the official document with a red seal, but the date of signing had been erased, revealing a blurry streak in the sunlight. Minh looked over and said the seal was a bit off. His voice was calm but firm.

“You're a mechanic, not an appraiser,” the other man snapped, his voice filled with contempt.

"I fix things that other people make wrong. Every job has a time to use the eyes."

Linh did not let them in. She called the ward and recorded the entire conversation with her phone, her hand steady even though her heart was beating rapidly. The other three left, but before getting in the car, one person threw back the sentence that the theater was just a pile of rotten wood and she would regret going against them, his voice filled with threats before the car door slammed shut.

In the evening, Linh's mother called again. Her voice was small, there was the sound of a train running behind her, mixed with the vague sound of speakers announcing the train station.

“Have you found the box yet?”

"Okay. Mom knows what's in there."

“I know it hurts you.”

“I'm hurt because mom left without saying anything.”

The other side was silent for a long time, only the sound of the train echoing through the phone line. Finally, her mother said she would return to An Binh, but did not promise a date. Linh asked why wait until now. Mom just replied: "Because there are some things that, if you say them before you're old enough, you'll think I'm defending them."

After listening, Minh did not give advice. He took a piece of paper, wrote three questions in a rare neat handwriting and placed it in front of Linh: What did you see, Mom? What did Dad hide? Who benefits when people stay silent?

Linh underlined the last sentence, the tip of the pen pressed so hard that it pierced the entire page. Tomorrow morning, she will go to the committee to ask for the original documents. She didn't want to argue with memories. She wanted documents, people's names and verifiable times. Outside, the rain pounded against the windows in waves. Inside the theater, the white curtain shook slightly as if waiting for a new movie to start, even though no one knew what story the movie would tell.

Linh asked Minh's three questions under the photo of the dike gate, as carefully as placing a foundation stone. She didn't know if the answer would make her lighter or heavier, but at least she stopped waiting for someone else to tell it for her. When Minh locked the door, the sound of the lock clicking in the quiet night, he asked her if she was afraid. Linh replied yes, but fear does not mean turning away. The two turned off the lights, leaving a small shadow in the box office, faint moonlight filtering through the glass window.

That small shadow was kept until morning. Linh knew tomorrow wouldn't be easy, but she had a table, someone to go with, and three unmissable questions — and for the first time, that made her feel enough, even if only temporarily.

Before leaving the lobby, Linh looked back at the white curtain one more time. Faint moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtain, covering it with a silver halo that made the old fabric look almost new. She remembered one time, a long time ago, she had stood in this exact spot, holding the hem of her father's shirt, looking up at the screen when no movie was showing, just to ask him why it was so white. Her father then laughed and said the screen was white because it had not yet decided what story to tell, like a new day had not yet begun. It wasn't until tonight that Linh found that answer to be more profound than a lesson about cinema.

Minh walked with her to the gate, stopped next to the motorbike, turning the key in his raincoat pocket. He didn't say goodbye like usual. He only asked if she planned to wear the blue coat she often wore tomorrow, because the projector, according to him, ran more stably when someone wearing the lucky color was standing next to it. Linh knew it was just a meaningless joke to fill the silence before parting, but she still responded, saying she would consider it, and they both laughed lightly in the night mist that still had some rain.

Before starting the car, Minh stopped a little more, as if considering whether to say anything more. Finally, he just told her to remember to lock the back door carefully, because the lock had a habit of popping out if it wasn't turned twice enough. Linh nodded, watching his shadow disappear around the corner, the motorbike's lights glinting on the wet road surface. She stood a while longer under the porch, listening to the sound of insects chirping from the riverbank, then went back inside, locking the door exactly two times as he told her to do, a small action that made her feel like she was truly taking care of a place, not simply waiting for the day to leave.