Chapter 12 — Unnamed Perfume Shop

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen's house is located deep in a small alley near the old market, a four-level house with a mossy tiled roof with a front yard filled with meticulously cared for ornamental plants - a few bonsai pots, a trellis of bougainvillea flowers covering the gate, and a cluster of wolf flowers that radiate a gentle scent in the morning sunlight. He was already waiting, sitting on a bamboo bed in the middle of the yard, next to a pot of hot tea and three small cups.

"Come in here, come in here," he waved when he saw Bao Nghi and Bach Nguyen walking through the gate, their voices happier than the last time they met at the shop. "I've been waiting for you two since morning, afraid you two would forget the appointment."

"I don't dare forget," Bao Nghi smiled, sat down on the bamboo bed, and gave him a small box of cakes bought along the way. Bach Nguyen also politely greeted, sat down next to him, carrying an old leather notebook carefully wrapped in a layer of cloth to avoid further damage on the way.

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen poured tea, slowly took a sip, his eyes looking far away at the confetti trellis swaying in the wind. "I've been thinking a lot since the day I met you two at the store," he said, his voice low. "I think it's time to tell everything and not keep it in my heart anymore. An old person like me, keeping memories in my heart forever, will one day take it away without having time to give it back to anyone."

He spoke slowly but clearly about the years he worked alongside Ms. Anh Nguyet — from the days when he was a twenty-year-old apprentice, so clumsy that he spilled a batch of precious essential oils, to the years later when he became her trusted right-hand man in the mixing workshop. "Mrs. Anh Nguyet is the most meticulous person I have ever known in my life," he said, his voice full of respect. "But she is also the warmest person. She never considers him an employee, always calls him 'Uncle Nguyen', treats him like family."

"Do you know about the ivory white flower that grows on the riverbank that you mentioned in the Hoai Huong recipe?" Bao Nghi asked, unable to contain her impatience.

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen nodded, his eyes suddenly lit up. "Cork flower," he said, slowly, as if tasting a long-kept memory. "The cork tree grows along the banks of rivers and canals. Its flowers bloom at night. Their petals are ivory white and their stamens are red and pink. They have a gentle, slightly sweet scent, typical of river areas. Mrs. Anh Nguyet once told him that when she was young, before that flood, her house was right next to a row of large cork trees along the river. Her mother often picked cork flowers to make tea, a tea that only her family had, because few people thought of using that kind of wild flower to make tea."

Bao Nghi felt an electric current running down her spine. She remembered her mother's words, "what flowers grow on the riverbank, small petals, ivory white" — everything now fits perfectly. "So can you find and buy cork flowers to prepare?" she asked again.

The smile on Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen's lips suddenly disappeared, replaced by a deep sadness. “That's the problem,” he said, his voice quiet. "It is difficult for cork flowers to retain their fragrance for a long time, and the essential oil extracted from it is not popular. At that time, there was no place to sell it. She had to ask an acquaintance in her old hometown to send fresh flowers, then distill the essential oil herself, a process that took a lot of effort and time, but the amount of essential oil obtained was very small. She tried distilling it exactly three times, each time only a few drops, more valuable than gold."

He stopped, poured more tea for both of them, his hands shaking slightly. "The night of the fire," he continued, his voice becoming heavy, "was the night she was distilling the third batch of cork flower essential oil, the last batch, because an acquaintance in the countryside reported that there was a big flood that year, most of the cork trees along the river were swept away, leaving no more flowers to send. She worked all night, he went home first because he was tired, telling her to be careful with the alcohol stove. In the middle of the night, for some reason, the fire caught a pile of papers nearby - maybe she fell asleep, maybe the draft knocked over the oil lamp, and to this day he still doesn't know the exact cause. She was able to put out the fire herself before it spread, but the corner of the desk, where the recipe book and the bottle of precious cork flower essential oil that had just been distilled were kept, was almost completely burned."

Bao Nghi felt tears welling up in her eyes and couldn't hold back. She had read the words "please remember for me" hundreds of times in her life, but only today, when she clearly learned the circumstances of writing it - right after years of effort, the last batch of precious essential oils from a flower that was about to become extinct in a flood, were all burned in one night - did she truly understand the full weight of that pain.

"She was very depressed after that fire," Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen continued, his voice choked. "Not because of regret, but because she said, that was the last time she had the opportunity to fulfill the promise she made to her mother, but now that opportunity is no longer there, because the cork trees along the river in her hometown were all lost after the flood, so who knows where to find new flowers. Three months after the fire, she suddenly died of a stroke, right while writing something in the workshop. He was the one who discovered her, her hand was still holding the pen, the page in front of her was the unfinished words that would later be written. I just realized that those were the last lines in that burning book."

A long silence covered the small yard, with only the sound of the wind gently shaking the bougainvillea trellis and the sound of birds singing somewhere in the distance. Bach Nguyen grabbed Bao Nghi's hand and squeezed it tightly, as if wanting to give her a little strength to get through this heavy moment. "So now," Bao Nghi asked, her voice trembling, "is there any hope of finding the cork flower again? If an entire area of trees along the river was lost more than twenty years ago..."

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen pondered for a long time, then smiled slightly, a fragile smile but not completely hopeless. "The cork tree is a resilient tree, my child," he said. "It grows along most of the rivers and canals in this region, not just in my grandmother's hometown. It may not be the same row of trees as before, but who knows, in a certain river near here, there are still other cork trees blooming every night without anyone paying attention." He looked at Bao Nghi with encouraging eyes. "I am Mrs. Anh Nguyet's granddaughter, with the same remembering nose as her. If anyone can find that flower again, and recreate the exact soul of that scent, then that person can only be me."

Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen stood up, slowly walked into the house, and returned a moment later with a small tin box that was rusty on the edges. He opened the lid, inside were a few old black and white photos and a piece of yellowed Chinese medicine wrapping paper. "This is what I still kept from that time," he said, taking out a photo and giving it to Bao Nghi. In the photo is a young woman standing next to a small glass jar, behind is the faint silhouette of dense trees along a stream of water. "This is Mrs. Anh Nguyet's photo taken the year she had just distilled the first batch of cork flower essential oil. She was so happy that she asked him to take a photo as a souvenir. He remembered that day she laughed all afternoon, telling him that if she could do it completely, she would name the whole shop with the exact two words Hoai Huong, so that everyone passing by would know that this is a place to keep what people cannot afford to lose."

Bao Nghi held the photo, looked at the youthful, radiant face of the grandmother she never knew at that age, feeling a strange connection, as if the distance of more than half a century between them suddenly narrowed to just a few inches. "Can I please keep this photo?" she asked softly.

"Just keep it, putting it in my tin box will only let dust accumulate," Mr. Ta Khac Nguyen replied, then took out the piece of paper wrapping the Chinese medicine and opened it carefully. Inside is a handful of dried flower petals that have turned dark brown and are brittle, almost crumbling to the touch. "This is the last cork flower left after the fire. I picked up a few scattered petals on the factory floor and have kept them as souvenirs ever since. There is no scent left, but perhaps, if you take it for analysis, there may still be some useful traces left." He gave the piece of paper to Bach Nguyen, believing in the modern equipment that a young architect could access. "As for finding another row of cork trees, I remember hearing people say that downstream of the river, past the old Van Dien village, about twenty kilometers from here, there are still a few clumps of cork trees growing wild along the banks, not all cut down like other places. I'm not sure, it's been a long time since I've had a chance to go there, but if you two want to try, that's the best clue I can give."

Bao Nghi nodded, wiped her tears, feeling both heavy and full of determination. She looked at Bach Nguyen and saw that he was also looking at her with equally determined eyes, as if implicitly promising to join her in finding that remaining row of cork trees, even if he had to search the entire land around Lam Kieu town. On a bamboo bed in the middle of a small yard full of bougainvillea flowers, the story of a woman who spent her whole life on an unfinished promise is no longer just a distant family legend, but has become a concrete mission, a path that can be continued — even though there are still many thorns ahead.