Chapter 3 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Sunday morning, Thu An woke up earlier than usual, partly because of the time zone difference, partly because her mother's phone rang continuously in the next room. She walked out to the living room and saw Mrs. Nguyet sitting at the dining table, with a tall stack of papers in front of her, her left hand holding her right hand tightly to stop it shaking while trying to sign a certain document.

"What are you doing, Mom?"

"Papers of the cultural house." Ms. Nguyet did not look up, her voice seemed tired. "The management sent an official notice yesterday. They said the building will be reclaimed within the next three months and handed over to the investor."

Thu An pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her mother, picked up the notice and read it. It is a dry administrative document, full of legal terms about "ground acquisition", "land handover", "commercial and service complex project", signed by a company with a very strange-sounding name: Kim Phat Group.

"Who is the investor of this project?" Thu An asked, her professional instincts as an auditor made her immediately pay attention to details that others might overlook.

"I don't really know. I only know that it's a large real estate company. I heard the head is called Trinh Bao Quoc, but I've never met him in person."

Thu An flipped through a few pages of documents, her eyes stopped at a small clause written at the bottom of the third page. "There is a relocation compensation rate for the units using the facilities here. Does mother's choir have any legal status? Is it registered as an official club under the ward?"

"Not necessarily." Mrs. Nguyet shook her head. "We are just a spontaneous group, practicing through the hall of the cultural house for twenty years, without any legal documents. Initially there were only five or six people, gradually growing into twenty or so people like now."

"Then mother has no right to ask for anything." Thu An put down the paper, her voice lowered because she realized the problem was more serious than she thought. "Without legal status, mom's choir would get no compensation, no help finding a new location, nothing. They just need to give notice and mom has to move out."

Mrs. Nguyet was silent, her eyes looking down at the stack of papers, and in that moment, Thu An for the first time in many years saw her mother looking truly old and helpless — not because of her shaking hands, but because her face had the look of someone who had just realized that all the efforts of twenty years could disappear with just one administrative decision.

"So what to do now?" Mrs. Nguyet asked, her voice so small that it was almost a whisper.

Thu An did not respond immediately. She looked at her mother, then back at the notice, and a part of her—the part that still existed from the fifteen-year-old daughter who had waited for her mother to arrive at the hospital—wanted to say that this was none of her business, that she had plans to fly back to the city on Monday to continue work. But looking at her mother's shaking hands, at the way she tried to sign documents with unprecedented scribbles, she suddenly felt like she couldn't leave.

“I'll see if there's any way,” she said, her voice still holding its usual pragmatic tone, but something softer underneath the words. "But I need to know more about the situation. I want to see the hall, meet the people in the choir."

***

Tuesday night's practice session, Thu An went with her mother to Phuong Vu Cultural House for the first time in nearly twenty years. The building looked older than in her memory, the walls were mottled with mold, the stairs leading to the second floor had a few chipped steps, and the iron railings were rusty. But when entering the hall, hearing the chatter and laughter of people arranging chairs, the sound of piano strings being tuned, the sound of someone warming up their voice with a few humming "mi mi ma ma", Thu An suddenly felt a strange sense of familiarity - as if she had been here before, even though her memory did not hold any specific memories.

"This is Thu An, my daughter," Ms. Nguyet introduced, her voice a bit proud and shy. "She came to visit her mother for a few days."

The group turned to look, their faces curious but friendly. Mr. Tam Loc was the first to approach and shake hands, his wide smile revealing teeth that had become yellow over the years.

"Oh, it's Ms. Nguyet's daughter! You're so old, the last time I saw you, you were probably in middle school." He laughed loudly, then lowered his voice, more sincere. "Thank you for taking care of your mother. She's very stubborn and won't rest. You have to pay attention and help me."

Mrs. Chin Thoa also walked over, her eyes observed Thu An from head toe, the observation style of an acquaintance examining every detail. "You're more like your father than your mother," she commented. "Especially the eyes. Uncle Vu also had such serious eyes."

When mentioning her father, Thu An hesitated a bit, but she still maintained a polite smile. "Do you know my father?"

"I know. He often comes to pick up my mother after every practice session, sits in the last row and listens to the whole session, never complaining once." Ms. Chin Thoa said, then looked at Ms. Nguyet with something unpredictable in her eyes. "He's very proud of your mother."

That statement made Thu An confused. In her memory, her parents rarely had such public moments of bonding — or perhaps, she thought, she just never witnessed them, because her childhood was largely spent in the evenings spent alone at home waiting for her parents to come home late.

Mrs. Ca Yen rolled her car closer, reached out to hold Thu An's hand, her voice was warm and slow. "You came at the right time. We really need a clear head like you to help us take care of paperwork and books. We are old, we only know how to sing, but we are ignorant about legal matters."

Thu An nodded, not promising much, but when the practice session started, she sat down in the last row, the exact position where, according to Mrs. Chin Thoa, her father used to sit in the past. She watched her mother step onto the command podium, her right hand still trembling slightly but trying to control it, her command wand was raised, and twenty-three voices sang a familiar chorus.

The sound resounding in that old hall was not perfect - some people sang unevenly in places, some sang at a slow tempo, the voices of a few elderly people no longer resonated as far as before - but there was something in that imperfection that made Thu An feel unexpectedly choked. That's not the music of professional artists. It is the music of people who have spent the rest of their lives holding on to something beautiful, even though their bodies are gradually weakening, even though their memories are gradually fading, even though time is no longer on their side.

She looked at Mr. Kha sitting at the piano. His eyes occasionally glanced towards her mother, full of concern but discreetly. She looked at Mr. Ba Nghia standing next to Mrs. Ca Yen, occasionally bending down to adjust the blanket covering her knees. She watched Ba Chin Thoa sing with all her enthusiasm even though her voice was no longer clear. And she looked at her mother, the woman who had missed her last moment with her husband because of a performance, now standing there, trembling but steadfast, leading a group of aging people through each note as if guiding them through the remaining years of their lives.

For the first time in many years, Thu An began to understand — even if only a very small part — why her mother loved this place so much. But understanding does not mean forgiveness, and when the practice session ended, when she saw her mother's hands shaking so much that she had to ask Mr. Kha to help clean up the music book, the old resentment in her heart was still there, smoldering, not yet gone, only now it had to share space with a newer emotion - the fear that she might be about to lose her mother, in a slower and crueler way than death.

On the way home, sitting in the taxi next to her mother, Thu An looked out the window, the old streets passing by in the yellow streetlights. "I'll stay longer than planned," she said, not looking at her mother. "At least until the cultural house issue is resolved."

Mrs. Nguyet turned to look at her daughter, her eyes shining with a ray of hope that she tried not to show too clearly. "Thank you," she said softly, and her trembling right hand, for a brief moment, gently touched Thu An's hand where it rested on the chair between them—a small, awkward gesture, but the first time in many years that mother and daughter had touched each other except in a hasty social handshake.