Chapter 14 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

The practice session chosen to invite Trinh Bao Quoc to take place was on Friday night, and even though everyone had agreed not to "act" but just practice as usual, the atmosphere in the hall was still somewhat more tense than usual as the appointment time approached. Thu An had prepared a thin brochure, summarizing the choir's twenty-year history, contributions to the neighborhood community, and some data on the cultural value this place brings, in case it was needed to further support what the music could not convey.

At exactly seven o'clock in the evening, Bao Quoc appeared at the hall door, this time not hiding his identity, wearing a simple suit instead of his usual expensive business suit. Ha Uyen stood waiting, led him in, introduced him to everyone with a short but meaningful sentence: "This is my father, he came to learn more about us."

The atmosphere in the hall slackened a bit as everyone realized this was the man behind the decision that could wipe out the place they were standing on. But Ms. Nguyet, with the composure of someone who has been accustomed to facing many difficult situations during twenty years of leading the choir, walked over and proactively shook his hand.

"Thank you for taking the time to come here," she said, her voice sincere, without any rancor. "Please sit down, we are about to start practice."

Bao Quoc nodded, sat down in the last row, the position he sat in last time, next to Ha Uyen. The training session began, Ms. Nguyet stepped up to the command podium, her right hand was still shaking slightly but was under much better control than in the first weeks, thanks to medication and emotional support from those around her.

The first performance sounded — "Urban Memories" — a slow, sad melody about old streets that are gradually disappearing. Bao Quoc sat quietly, his eyes fixed on each face passionately singing, each pair of hands shaking due to age but still trying to keep the rhythm according to the conductor's instructions.

At the chorus, Ba Ca Yen's voice was the clearest, warm and powerful even though she was eighty-five years old. Bao Quoc suddenly realized something familiar in that voice's timbre - not exactly the same, but somewhat reminiscent of his mother's voice in vague memories from childhood. He clenched his fists, emotions rising in his chest that he did not expect.

When the song ended, a silence filled the hall before spontaneous applause rang out from the performers for each other, a beautiful habit that Ms. Nguyet had built up over the years to cheer up the group after each successful practice.

During the break between two performances, Ms. Chin Thoa brought Bao Quoc a cup of hot tea and sat down next to him without hesitation. "How did you like the training session?" she asked, her voice friendly as if talking to an old acquaintance.

"Very... touching," Bao Quoc replied, his voice somewhat hesitant, not used to expressing his emotions in front of strangers. "I didn't expect everyone to be so enthusiastic."

"This isn't just where we practice singing, sir," Ms. Chin Thoa said, her eyes looking around the hall with affection. "This is where many of us find reasons to get out of the house every week, to not feel lonely when our children are grown, when our spouses have passed away, when our bodies are getting weaker. Do you know Mr. Ba Nghia, his wife passed away ten years ago, his children are all abroad, only during the training sessions here does he still feel useful, have friends, have a reason to get up early every morning to prepare for the evening."

Bao Quoc listened, his face pensive, and Mrs. Chin Thoa, even though she did not know the whole story about his mother, continued to tell, not to persuade or pressure, but simply to share what she really felt about this place.

"You know, I think commercial buildings, modern shopping centers, can be built anywhere. But places like this, where the memories of so many people have been preserved for twenty years, once lost, there is no way to rebuild them."

That sentence, simple but profound, made Bao Quoc silent for a long time, his eyes looking down at the slightly steaming cup of tea, his heart filled with thoughts that he had never allowed himself to face fully like now.

He remembered the years after his mother was no longer healthy enough to go to the theater anymore, how she still sat at home, turned on the old radio, singing along to familiar melodies, her eyes always far away as if remembering a bygone era. At that time, he was young, engrossed in his career, not patient enough to sit with his mother for long, not understanding why something as simple as singing could be so important to a woman who had gone through so many hardships in life. Now, sitting in the middle of this hall, witnessing firsthand the power that music brings to people of his mother's generation, he begins to understand, even though it's too late to tell her that.

"My son is the same," Mrs. Chin Thoa continued, not knowing the thoughts flowing through Bao Quoc's head. "He's always busy with work and rarely comes to visit me, but I don't blame him. Nowadays everyone has to worry about food and money. I just hope he understands that sometimes what makes life meaningful is not the big projects, but the small moments of being with the people you love, doing the things you love."

Bao Quoc nodded and said nothing more, but Ms. Chin Thoa's words kept echoing in his head throughout the rest of the session, like a silent but profound reminder of what is truly important in a person's life.

During the break, Thu An also came to say hello, briefly introduced herself and gave Bao Quoc the documents he had prepared. "Here's some information about the choir's history, along with some community values data that we think might be helpful for you to consider," she said, her tone professional but not pressured. "We don't expect you to change your decision just because of temporary emotions, but we do expect you to have full information before making a decision."

Bao Quoc received the document, flipped through a few pages, and was impressed by the thoroughness and logic of the presentation. "What field do you work in?" he asked, curious.

"Auditing," Thu An replied. "I am Miss Nguyet's daughter."

"I understand," Bao Quoc nodded, his eyes showing admiration. "Thank you for being so prepared. I will consider it carefully."

In another corner of the hall, Viet Long was also present, not as a working reporter but simply as a friend who came to provide moral support, although he still did not forget to bring a small notebook in case there were any details worth recording for the next article. He stood next to Ha Uyen, both of them observed Bao Quoc from afar, unable to hide their excitement.

"Do you think he'll change his mind?" Ha Uyen asked softly.

"I'm not sure," Viet Long replied honestly. "But it was clear to me that he was actually listening, not just sitting there going through the motions. That was a good start."

The practice session continued with the second performance, and when everything ended, Bao Quoc stood up and went to meet Ba Nguyet before leaving. "Thank you for giving me the opportunity to witness practice today," he said, his voice formal but sincere. "I need more time to think things through, but I promise to make decisions as impartially as possible, not just based on business interests."

"That's all we could hope for," Ms. Nguyet replied, smiling. "Thank you for listening."

When Bao Quoc left, Ha Uyen saw her father off to the gate. The two walked in silence for a while before she spoke. "What do you think?"

"Dad needs time," Bao Quoc replied, but this time, his voice was no longer evasive like before. "But I promise you, I won't make any decisions without thinking carefully about what I just witnessed tonight."

Ha Uyen nodded, watching the shadow of her father's car disappear into the night, her heart filled with a cautious hope - not certain, but enough for her to believe that, at least, her father had started to really listen, instead of just looking at everything through the lens of numbers and contracts, and to her, that small change in her father's eyes was something more precious than any solid promise.