Chapter 7 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Viet Long returned to Phuong Vu Cultural House on a midweek afternoon, this time without a camera or official notebook, but only to help Ha Uyen rearrange the music that had been adjusted to suit each voice. He told the committee head that he needed to closely follow the story to write the next article, an article reflecting the public's feedback and the preparation process for the competition, but in his heart, he knew the real reason why his feet naturally came here every time he had free time.

"You don't have to come so often," Ha Uyen said, when she saw him appear for the third time this week, carrying a bag of pastries bought at a nearby store. "I think you have enough material to write an article."

"I think it's not enough," Viet Long replied, placing the bag of cakes on the table and smiling lightly. "This story is still ongoing, there may be new details every day."

Ha Uyen looked at him, her eyes were a bit mischievous. "Or do you just like the cakes at the shop nearby?"

"Maybe," he replied, not denying it, and they both laughed.

They sat down in a corner of the hall and reviewed the music together. Ha Uyen explained to him the adjustments she had made - lowering a few high notes to reduce pressure on weak voices, adding short pauses between sentences to give the singers time to catch their breath, rearranging their standing positions so those with poorer hearing could observe the mouth shapes of the people next to them and follow the rhythm.

"Where did you learn so many things?" Viet Long asked, really curious.

"Mostly from my grandmother," Ha Uyen replied, her voice softening when mentioning Ba Chin Thoa. "My grandmother raised me since I was young, because my parents were always busy with work. I grew up attending this choir's practices, sitting in the corner of the hall doing homework while my grandmother practiced singing. Maybe that's why I chose to study music therapy, because I wanted to find a way to help people like my grandmother still be able to enjoy music even though their bodies are no longer as healthy as before."

"What do your parents do that makes them so busy?"

A moment of hesitation flashed across Ha Uyen's face. "My father worked in business, a real estate company. My mother passed away when I was young. My father... was quite successful, but because of that, work took up most of his time. My father and I are not very close, although he still fully provides everything."

Viet Long nodded, did not ask further, feeling that there was a certain distance in Ha Uyen's heart when mentioning his father that he did not want to deepen. Instead, he switched to another topic, asking her about her childhood memories in this hall, and Ha Uyen started talking, her voice becoming more animated.

"I remember one time, maybe when I was in fourth grade, I skipped extra class to run here to watch my grandma practice," she said, her eyes sparkling as she reminisced. "At that time, there was an uncle in the group - he has passed away - who taught me how to beat the rhythm by tapping on the table, like a game. I liked it so much that every night I asked her to let me go with him, even if I just sat quietly in a corner and dozed off because I was sleepy."

"It sounds like you really 'grew up' with this hall," Viet Long smiled, opened the bag of cakes, and gave her one.

"That's right. To me, this place is more than just a place where my grandmother practiced singing. It's almost like... a part of my childhood, a place where I always know I will be welcomed, no matter what happens at home." Ha Uyen took a bite of the cake, was silent for a moment, then spoke more in a lower voice. "Maybe that's why when I heard that this place might be demolished, I felt like I was about to lose a part of my own memories, even though I was never an official member."

Viet Long looked at her, feeling the sincerity in every word, and he suddenly realized that this perspective - the perspective of a young person attached to the collective memory of the previous generation - would be a valuable detail for his next article. But he was in no hurry to take notes, just quietly listened, letting this moment first belong to the two of them, not to an article.

They talked until dusk, when choir members began to flock to practice. Mr. Tam Loc passed by and saw two people sitting next to each other laughing and talking happily, so he winked teasingly.

"You two get along really well," he laughed, his bass voice echoing throughout the hall. "Pay attention, there are dozens of pairs of very sharp eyes here, you can't hide them."

Ha Uyen blushed, while Viet Long just laughed, but in his heart, Mr. Tam Loc's teasing did not make him as uncomfortable as he thought, but on the contrary, made him realize something he had vaguely felt for the past few weeks - that this young girl with a warm smile and rare patience was gradually occupying a special place in his heart, far beyond the framework of a normal colleague relationship at work.

***

The rehearsal that night was the first official rehearsal to prepare for the performance "Urban Memories" that Ms. Nguyet had chosen - an old song with a slow, sad melody, telling about old streets, moss-tiled roofs, and familiar sounds of a long gone time. Ms. Nguyet stood on the command podium, holding the command wand in her right hand, trying to keep her tremors from overwhelming the precision in each beat.

"From the beginning, slowly and gently," she instructed. "This is a song about memories, not a song to show off technique. Everyone, please sing with all your heart, think about what you will lose if this place disappears."

The voice sings, slowly, rustically, not technically perfect but filled with genuine emotion. Thu An stood at the back of the hall, observing the practice session, feeling the change in the atmosphere compared to previous practice sessions - there was a focus, a new determination spreading in each member, as if having a specific goal to aim for had breathed new life into the group.

But in the middle of the chorus, Ong Tam Loc suddenly slurred his words and sang the wrong lyrics three times in a row, causing the entire bass band to stagger along. He stopped, scratched his head, and smiled wryly. "Sorry, sorry, lately my memory is not much better than Ms. Nguyet, I forget first and forget later."

The whole hall burst into laughter, the tense atmosphere eased a bit, but Thu An noticed her mother's eyes flashing with a trace of worry that she was trying to hide - perhaps, she thought, Mr. Tam Loc's joke touched the secret fear that Mrs. Nguyet was carrying in her heart: the fear that one day, she herself would forget, not a song, but a lifetime of music she had worked hard to build.

The practice session ended half an hour later than expected, because Ba Nguyet asked the group to rehearse the chorus three more times until every part matched the rhythm. When everyone left, Mr. Kha stayed as usual, and Ms. Nguyet arranged the music scattered on the rows of seats.

"Everyone sang better than I thought today," he commented, his voice deep. "Don't worry too much about Tam forgetting the words. Everyone at this age doesn't sometimes get a few sentences wrong."

"I'm not worried about Mr. Tam," Ms. Nguyet replied, her hands were still neatly folding sheet music, although her movements were slower than usual because of the tremors. "I'm worried about myself. If one day I stand on the podium and forget the song I've taught hundreds of times, I don't know what I'll do."

Mr. Kha stopped, looked at her for a long moment, then spoke, his voice gentle but firm. "If that happens, you won't be standing there alone. I'm sitting right under this piano, ready to remind you at any time. For twenty years I've always been there, you just never really needed me."

That sentence, though spoken calmly, carried a weight that made Mrs. Nguyet look up at him, and in that brief moment, something invisible passed between the two of them — a silent understanding that had been nurtured through twenty years of companionship, never named, but both felt its presence, clearer than ever.

Ms. Nguyet was about to say something in response, but then stopped, just nodded slightly, turned away and put the last stack of music into an old leather briefcase. Mr. Kha did not say more, just quietly closed the piano lid and pulled the cloth over it like he had done every night for many years. The two walked out of the hall together in silence, a comfortable, familiar silence that didn't need to be filled with words.

Outside in the yard, Thu An was waiting for her mother by the old motorbike, the phone screen still lit in her hand because she was texting to discuss work with Viet Long about the content of the next article. Seeing Mr. Kha walking with her mother to the gate, her eyes paused for a moment, then she smiled slightly, said nothing, just put the phone in her pocket and started the car engine, waiting for her mother to climb on the back seat like she had done all these days.