Chapter 3 — The Mask Isn't Real

Indochine Heritage Auctions' representative office is located on the third floor of a building renovated from an old French villa on Trang Thi street, with glossy black glass doors and a tiny copper-plated logo attached next to the doorbell as if deliberately not wanting anyone to accidentally pass by and recognize it.

"This place is really private." Kieu Nhat Vu muttered, holding a camera strapped to her chest, glancing around the dark wood-paneled waiting room, two leather chairs placed next to a glass table displaying several hardcover auction catalogs. "This kind of discreetness is usually to hide something, not to be luxurious."

Uyen Nhi did not answer, her eyes were still glued to the door of the inner room, where a receptionist had just disappeared to "inform Mr. Ky". She wore an innovative indigo ao dai today, not because she liked the style, but because she wanted people to look at her and immediately remember the image of a traditional worker, not a normal customer coming in to complain.

This morning at six o'clock she woke up earlier than usual, sat in front of the small mirror in her room, wondering what to wear to make this meeting meaningful. She had no company business card, no internationally recognized appraisal qualifications, only eight years of holding a paintbrush and a pair of calloused hands. The indigo ao dai was the closest thing she can carry to an identification card — it said where she came from, whether the person in front of her believes it or not. On the bus from Yen Lieu village to Hanoi this morning, she repeated in her head what she needed to say, trying not to let her voice tremble when faced with someone who she suspected was familiar with dismissing complaints like hers.

Ho Bao Ky walked out after exactly seven minutes of waiting, tall figure, crisp white shirt, professional smile that had been trained to the point of not revealing any true emotions underneath.

"Vuong Uyen Nhi, right? Nice to meet you. I saw the message you sent to customer support." He invited the two into the small meeting room, poured water from a glass vase, his gesture was so polite that it was difficult to refute. "You said you are a student of artist Dang Ba Tuyen?"

"Dear student, after eight years at the factory, he passed away two years ago." Uyen Nhi put her phone on the table and opened a photo of lot 114. "I confirm that this pair of masks is not my teacher's work."

Ho Bao Ky glanced at the screen, nodded politely but showed no surprise, as if this was not the first time he had heard a similar assertion. "I understand your concern. But please understand, our appraisal process is based on provenance records, material analysis, and independent expert opinions. We have had an expert on Vietnamese folk art confirm that the style matches the known works of artist Dang Ba Tuyen."

"Has that expert ever held a real work of my teacher in his hands?" Uyen Nhi asked directly. "Because if there is, that person must know that my teacher never draws eyes so evenly on both sides."

A short silence. Ho Bao Ky took a sip of water, put the glass down very lightly, almost without making a sound, a gesture so well practiced that it became a reflex when he needed to buy time to think.

"That's a professional opinion, Ms. Uyen Nhi, and we respect all perspectives. But to withdraw a lot from an ongoing auction, we need concrete, verifiable evidence — not just a personal opinion, even from an expert like you." He smiled, his voice still polite. "Do you have any documents to prove it? Any photos, records, or certificates from artist Dang Ba Tuyen before he passed away, confirming that this is not his work?"

Uyen Nhi was silent. That was the weakness of her argument — the crescent was a secret, and a secret could not be presented as public evidence and still retain its value. If she gives out the technical details, the next counterfeiter will know how to fix it.

"I have my own authentication method, which cannot be disclosed publicly for reasons of professional confidentiality. But I am willing to have the lot inspected by an independent restoration expert, under the supervision of both parties."

"I will note your suggestion and forward it to the appraisal department." Ho Bao Ky stood up, signaling that the meeting was over, even though it had only been fifteen minutes. "But I have to be honest, Ms. Uyen Nhi — this auction has attracted great interest, and the seller has all the proper documents. Withdrawing the lot midway is not a decision we can make based on just one complaint."

"Can you tell me the name of the seller?" Uyen Nhi asked, even though she had already predicted the answer.

"The company's security policy does not allow it, please understand." He opened the door to the meeting room, keeping his professional smile unchanged from beginning to end. "But I can tell you that we attach great importance to the reputation of Vietnamese folk artists. If there is real evidence, we will take it seriously, I promise you that."

The promise sounded so smooth that Uyen Nhi suspected that it was a sentence that had been repeated many times to many other people, exactly like the sentence "valid papers" that Nhat Vu had just mentioned.

When they reached the stairs, Kieu Nhat Vu spoke up, his voice lowered. "Did you notice the way he said 'the seller has all the right papers'? It sounded like he had memorized that sentence before, like he had had to say it to many other people."

"I think so too." Uyen Nhi stopped at the stair landing and looked back at the office door that had just closed behind her. "Do you have any way to find out who is behind the selling company? Something like... business registration, license or something."

"I tried a few ways. But sometimes it's quicker to go back and ask the receptionist, those people often know more than the boss thinks."

They returned to the lobby, and just as Nhat Vu guessed, the young receptionist, probably new to the job not long ago, appeared quite open when Nhat Vu pretended to ask about the "auction sending process" as a potential customer. While chatting, the receptionist accidentally mentioned that all recent shipments of "Vietnamese folk goods" were delivered through the same shipping and packaging unit, with a small office on Hang Nan Street.

"That place provides packaging and shipping insurance services for customers sending goods abroad. Mr. Ky often introduces customers there, it's convenient because it's close by." The receptionist said, without any doubt, then paused when she realized she might have said too much. "By the way... that place also sells souvenirs, apparently."

Before leaving the lobby, Nhat Vu even had time to ask the receptionist a seemingly innocuous question, whether the company often organizes "pre-auction viewing" for interested customers. The receptionist nodded and said that usually not, except for lots with particularly high value, in which case Mr. Ky would personally arrange a private viewing for major collectors, usually taking place in an archive outside the office, not here. She doesn't know the specific address, only vaguely remembers "it seems to be outside Hanoi, near the river". That detail seemed small but made Uyen Nhi remember immediately - a storage warehouse outside the city, near the river, reserved for "exceptionally high value" shipments, sounded like a place to hide something that no one wanted to accidentally stumble upon in the city center.

Leaving the building, Hanoi's afternoon sun shined down on the hot asphalt road, and the sound of car horns echoed from Bo Ho. Uyen Nhi stood under the shadow of the old crocodile tree in front of the door, opened the map on her phone, and typed in "Hang Nan street".

"Less than two kilometers from here." She looked up at Nhat Vu. "Can you leave now?"

"Wait." Nhat Vu raised his hand to block, his eyes still glued to his own phone screen. "I just quickly looked up the name of the selling company that the receptionist mentioned, and saw that the business registration was under the name of an individual business household, the owner of the household was a person named Doan The Vinh, the registered address was actually Hang Nan street. Registered business: wholesale and retail of souvenirs, handicrafts."

Uyen Nhi felt a chill run down her spine, not because of fear, but because of the feeling of a puzzle piece fitting into its right place faster than she thought. A normal souvenir shop, if true to its name, would have no reason to become a transit point for shipments of "lost works" worth hundreds of millions of dong.

"Let's go." She put her phone in her pocket and quickly walked towards the street to find a car. "But this time I'm not going as a student of artist Dang Ba Tuyen. I'm going as a tourist who wants to buy souvenirs."

Nhat Vu raised his eyebrows, then laughed, slinging his camera neatly behind his back like a person about to enter battle. "Finally, the interesting part comes."