Chapter 2 — The Bookmobile Through the Mountains

The girl sitting in the corner of the trunk is Vang Thi My, twelve years old, the youngest daughter in a family of six siblings in Ban Seo Lu. Nghi has known My for three years now, since the first time she timidly stood outside with the crowd, not daring to get in the way of books like other children, just standing and watching from afar until Nghi noticed and proactively walked over to ask.

Today too, when the children had dispersed outside to read books under the shade of a tree, My still sat quietly in a corner, the blunt pencil in her hand moving quickly on the yellowed notebook paper. Nghi walked closer, sat down quietly next to her, didn't say anything, just quietly looked over her shoulder.

On the page is a drawing of a deer standing in the middle of a bamboo forest. Although each line is clumsy, there is something strangely vivid in the animal's eyes, as if My had seen it in real life and not just copied it from an illustrated book. Nghi immediately recognized that it was a drawing from a page in the book "Animals of Vietnam" that she brought up last month.

"So beautiful, My," Nghi said softly, her voice sincere without any politeness. "This deer looks like it's about to run off the page."

My startled and looked up, her cheeks red with embarrassment, and quickly tried to close the notebook. "I'm very bad at drawing, don't laugh."

"You're not laughing. You're telling the truth." Nghi gently held her hand, preventing her from closing the book. "Can I see more?"

After a moment of hesitation, My slowly flipped through the pages of the notebook for Nghi to see - dozens of drawings copied from the pages of books in the car, one was a peacock with its tail spread out, one was a terraced field in a Vietnamese landscape photo book, one was a portrait of a princess in a fairy tale with a wide flared skirt colored with mostly dull colored pencils. There are pages that My not only copied but also created herself - adding a flock of butterflies flying around the princess, adding strangely shaped clouds in the sky, small details that show that in her mind there is a whole world waiting to be drawn.

"Since when do you like drawing?" Nghi asked.

"Since I wasn't a mother yet, my father was my father," My replied, her voice soft but clear. "He brought a book of paintings by a certain artist. I don't remember the name, I just remember the paintings were beautiful, with mountains, rivers and people. I borrowed it to take home and looked at for a week and didn't want to return it."

Nghi smiled slightly, a feeling of warmth and sadness arose in her heart. She vaguely remembered that book - a collection of Vietnamese landscape paintings in watercolor. Her father once said he almost had to pay out of his own pocket because he thought he had lost it. It turned out that a boy in Khuoi Tra borrowed it and kept it for two months, refusing to return it, until he had to personally come to the house to convince her.

"Do you want to be an artist, My?" Nghi asked, even though in his heart he already guessed the answer.

My nodded, then shook her head again, looking hesitant. "I really want to. But my mother tells me that when I grow up, I have to know how to weave, farm, and draw so I can't feed anyone. My brother also tells me that drawing is a waste of paper and pencils, our family doesn't have much to spare."

The girl's words made Nghi's chest a little tight. She had heard similar sentences countless times along this route — dreams were suppressed not because of lack of talent, but because of circumstances, because of the constant worries of food and clothing weighing heavily on the shoulders of already struggling families. That's why her father told Nghi many times that books are sometimes not just words, but a small door that opens for children to see a world other than the one they live in, even though they may never be able to reach that world.

"I think like this," Nghi said after a moment of thinking, "next time I come up, I will bring you a new, unopened box of colored pencils, which I got from a publisher. You can just draw, you don't have to ask anyone for permission. The drawing is yours, no one can take it away."

My eyes lit up as if a small fire had just been lit in them. "Really?"

"Really," Nghi nodded firmly. "On condition, you have to show me the picture every time I come up. I want to see what this roe deer grows into."

The little girl smiled, for the first time Nghi saw My smile widely, revealing her small crooked teeth. That smile, even though it was only fleeting, was enough to make Nghi feel that the long morning on the bumpy road was completely worth it.

At noon, when the sunlight was already shining, Nghi sat down to quickly eat the rice ball her mother had prepared under the canopy of an ancient rice tree at the top of the village, where the old people in the village often sat and enjoyed the cool air. Mr. Sung A Chinh, Dinh's grandfather, walked over and sat down next to her, holding a cigarette in his hand, taking a long drag and then exhaling pleasantly.

"You're like your father in that you sit and eat cold rice under this tree," he smiled, the wrinkles on his sunburnt face relaxing. "He also often sits in this place, eats rice balls with sesame salt, and then goes on his way."

"Do you still remember that clearly?" Doubt asked, curiosity mixed with nostalgia arose in my heart.

"Remember? Sixteen years, that's not much. Back then my village was still very poor, the roads were much worse than now. One year, it rained and flooded a whole part of the road. He couldn't ride his motorbike. He carried a sack of books on his back and walked for three hours to get to the village." Mr. Chinh shook his head, his voice filled with emotion. "At that time, I asked him why he had to suffer so much. None of the children in the village had a higher education. Having books was of no use. He told me, 'Brother Chinh, not everyone needs to study higher, but everyone has the right to read a good story before going to bed. That is their right, no one can take it away.'"

Nghi was silent, his eyes stinging. She had never heard her father say that sentence, but it was exactly like the way he always spoke, simple but profound, not flowery but always touching the most core thing.

"Nowadays, my son Dinh is even better at reading books than his father," Mr. Chinh laughed, "he keeps wanting to grow up to be a ranger and forest guard. I think it's probably thanks to the books on your car that he has that dream, but in this remote village, in the past, children had no dreams other than growing up and working in the fields like their parents."

Nghi nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. She looked into the distance, where Dinh was sitting among his friends, holding a book about wild animal footprints in his hand, recounting to his friends what he had just read, looking proud like a true expert even though he had only read a few pages. That scene, combined with the story Mr. Chinh just told, made Nghi suddenly realize one thing: the burden she carries on her shoulders is not just to maintain a habit, but to continue a promise - the promise that no matter how far the road is, no matter how much wind and rain hinder it, someone will still bring books to these children, so they know that their dreams deserve to be nurtured.

Near one o'clock in the afternoon, Nghi began to clean up and close the book boxes, writing the last few lines in the loan book. The children gathered to see her off to the top of the slope, waving goodbye. Some even followed the car for a while as if they didn't want to leave the mobile library that had just brought them a colorful morning.

My stood behind her grandfather, not following like the other children, but when the car rolled by, she held up her drawing book, pointed at the picture of a deer, and smiled brightly. Nghi honked the car's horn two short times in response, a small signal that the two of them understood to each other, then slowly rolled down the slope, leaving behind a cloud of red dust and echoing calls.

Sitting behind the wheel, Nghi took out his father's notebook, flipped to a blank page, took the pen and wrote another line below his old notes about Seo Lu: "Little My draws very well. Next time, remember to bring more colored pencils." She looked at her own words next to her father's familiar italic handwriting, as if two people were writing the same story, even though one person was no longer here to continue writing.

The car continued to roll, through thin patches of forest, sloping towards the valley, where the afternoon sun began to slant its shadows, dyeing the vast mountain and forest area yellow. The next leg was still long, but Nghi's heart, for the first time after many tiring weeks, felt strangely relieved.

She thought about the box of colored pencils she had just promised My, telling herself to remember to stop by her mother's bookstore tonight to look for it, lest she forget it amid all the things she had to do on the route. Nghi clearly knows that such promises, for adults, may just be a casual statement to get over the matter, but for a child like My, it can be a whole hope that is nurtured during the two weeks of waiting, until the day the school bus returns. She learned that from her father, from the meticulous notebook pages down to every little detail — "little A Sinh needs an notebook", "Vang A Tua asked to borrow a fifth grade math book" — as if to him, no promise was small, all were worth keeping.

At the bottom of the slope, where the red dirt road merged with the asphalt road leading town, Nghi stopped the car next to a shallow stream to add coolant to the engine, which was showing signs of heating up after a long climb. While waiting for the engine to cool down, she stood with her back against the side of the car, looking up at the mountain top where Seo Lu village had disappeared behind white clouds, thinking of the image of the deer in My's sketchbook, of Dinh's bright eyes as he held the book about wild animal footprints. Perhaps this is what makes her, no matter how tired she is after each trip, always eagerly wait for the day she can travel again.