HOÀN THÀNH
The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm
At seven o'clock on Tuesday night, the fluorescent lights in the second floor hall of the Phuong Vu Cultural House shone down on twenty-three silver heads bending over photocopied sheet music with frayed corners. The familiar musty smell of old bricks mixed with the smell of green oil someone had just rubbed on her temples, the smell of artichoke tea in a thermos placed on the corner of the table, all combined into a smell that Doan Thi Nguyet could recognize even with her eyes closed. She had smelled that scent for twenty years, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night, as regularly as a second heartbeat...
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DANH SÁCH CHƯƠNG
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