Chapter 3 — When the Wind Crosses the Porch

The crack in the kitchen floor runs from the base of the cupboard to the mouth of the well, thin and straight like a lead line. Mai has lived in this house for eighteen years but has never noticed it. There are things that only appear when people start measuring all distances again.

Quan used a rubber hammer to tap around the tile floor. The sound in the kitchen corner is duller than other places.

“There is a void,” he said. "But it's not necessarily a tunnel. Maybe the foundation has collapsed."

Hanh stood by the door, holding a basket of vegetables. “The old foundation is empty everywhere.”

Mai took a pen to mark the location. “Dad, have you ever repaired the kitchen?”

"After the storm that year. He did it himself."

“What storm?”

Hanh bent down to pick up a few onion stalks. “You ask too many questions.”

Quan removed the brick next to the foot of the cabinet. Below is a newer layer of cement, roughly half a meter wide in a rectangle. He used a chisel to pry at the edge. A piece of iron cover appeared, rusting around the small lock.

Mai remembers the key with tag number 17, but it was the key in the cabinet. She took the set of keys her mother had just placed on the table and tried each one. The fourth one matches.

The iron lid pops up. A stream of cold, moist air rushed out, carrying with it the smell of rotten paper. The cavity in the floor is only nearly a meter deep, enough to place a tin box. The box is not locked. On the lid were the words engraved with the tip of a nail: "Not ours."

Hanh dropped the vegetable basket. "Shut down."

Mai lifted the lid of the trunk. Inside were three paper-wrapped nylon bags, a photo box and an analog clock that had stopped at 9:17. The second hand is bent, as if someone had bent it hard.

Quan lifted the watch to the light. “The code appears again at this hour.”

Mai opened the first bag. Inside was a money transfer receipt, the sender's name was not her father but the Phu Lach Fishing Cooperative. The amount of money each time is not large, but it lasts for two years. The recipient at the end of the receipt is the temporary account of the Storm Rescue Committee.

“Do you keep the cooperative's vouchers at home?”

“He kept it for comparison,” Uncle Sau said from outside the door. No one heard you enter. “But if it was compared, why hide it in the background?”

The second bag contains photocopies of power of attorney papers of seven households. The signature at the end is suspiciously similar. Mai looked closely: the hook on the letter "H" was identical on all seven sheets, while the signer's name was different.

“One signer,” she said.

Quan took photos of each page. “If the original still exists, this is proof.”

Hanh turned away. "What's the use of evidence? The signer has already received the money."

"Receiving money does not mean agreeing to sell the land," Mai replied.

“I wasn't here yet.”

“So mom, tell me.”

Hanh put her hands on the kitchen table. Veins appear under the skin. "After the storm, people said they would build an embankment. My father and I were assigned to collect documents so that households could receive support. He trusted people. He opened a temporary account in his name because the cooperative had not yet had time to do so. When the money was transferred, he divided it among each house, and the remainder was put into storage. Then they changed the design of the embankment and changed the whole list."

“Who changed?”

“Many people.”

“Is there Uncle Vinh?”

Hanh did not speak.

Sau Luu opened the third bag. It was a stack of handwritten letters, most of them unopened. The senders were households, the content thanked Mai's father for advancing money to repair the boat and buy medicine. At the end of one letter, the writer reminded: "Don't give the list to Mr. Vinh, he said whoever signs the new paper will get the lot."

Mai read the last sentence and saw that the words were blurred. Not sure if it was water or tears.

“Dad knows.”

“He knew too late,” Hanh said. "He brought the documents to the commune. He didn't come home that night."

“Mom said dad had a heart attack.”

“He really had a heart attack.”

“But why didn't you tell me the rest?”

"Because people said that if you made a big deal out of it, you wouldn't be able to continue studying. Do you remember that year when you took the university entrance exam? Your scholarship was withheld because the school heard that our family was involved in a dispute. Mom had to sign a certificate of non-complaint so they could disburse the funds."

Mai stepped back. The years she thought her mother had managed with sewing money suddenly took on another shadow. She remembers Hanh once brought home a large sum of cash, saying it was a prepaid customer. She didn't ask.

Quan placed the photo box on the table. In the photo, Father Mai stands next to seven people in front of a temporary house. Hanh was also present, much younger, holding a notebook in one hand and a cloth bag in the other. On the back of the photo are the words: "Final delivery date. No one is missing."

Sau Luu pointed to the corner of the photo. “Look at the sign behind.”

On the wall of the temporary house there is a sign "K-17". The archive holds more than just papers. Perhaps it is a numbered temporary housing area in the embankment project.

Mai opened her phone and found an old map of the town. Area K-17 is located behind the pumping station, close to the salt beach. Currently that place is the parking lot of the Huong Duong project.

“We have to go in there.”

Quan shook his head. “Without permission, they will call it trespassing.”

“Then please excuse me.”

“The company will know what to look for.”

“They already know I read the file.”

Hanh pulled Mai's hand. “Please stop.”

"Mom wants me to sell the house, but doesn't say why you have to hide the money under the foundation. Mom wants you to stay quiet, while people use the exact documents you kept to take over our yard. What do you want me to do?"

Hanh trembled. “I want you to live a normal life.”

"I've lived normally for seven years. It doesn't make this go away."

No one said more. Quan put the clock that stopped at 9:17 into a paper bag. Uncle Sau tied up the letters.

In the afternoon, Mai and Quan walked around the house to check for cracks. The wing behind the kitchen still has an intact wall. There are horizontal lines on it, each line has the name of a household. Mai touched the peeling lime and saw that underneath was a layer of black paint used to write numbers.

“Dad used to turn our house into a place to keep records,” she said.

“Maybe he doesn't trust the commune's warehouse.”

“Or he knew the warehouse had been opened.”

Quan looked at her, then handed over a piece of metal found in the ground. It's a brass lock with the number 17 engraved on it, but it's not a house key.

“The other one,” Mai said.

At the end of the field, a man wearing a helmet stood looking towards them. When Mai called, he turned away and climbed into the minivan. On the car door there is the Huong Duong logo.

Mai ran to the gate but could only see the license plate hidden behind a row of casuarinas.

“They monitor our house?” she asked.

Quan did not answer immediately. He took his phone and took a photo of the tire tracks on the ground, then said: "From now on, don't leave the documents in one place."

That night, Hanh cooked sour fish soup. She set out three bowls of rice, but Uncle Sau had already returned, and Quan did not stay. The third bowl was placed in front of Mai, steam rising between mother and child.

“What paper did you sign to save me?” Mai asked.

Hanh picked up fish for her. “Eat and talk.”

“I'm not hungry.”

"I feed you with meals so you don't feel hungry. Just eat first."

Mai holds chopsticks. The fish tasted salty, I don't know if it was because of the sea water or because of my mother's seasoning. Hanh remained silent until the rice bowl was half empty.

"Mom signed a paper confirming that your father voluntarily managed the money. In return, they disbursed the scholarship to you and promised not to sue me over the temporary account."

“Who are they?”

"People from the commune, people from the cooperative, someone from the project. I don't remember them all."

“Do you have a copy?”

Hanh looked up. “Yes. But not here.”

"Where?"

“In the sewing machine.”

Mai looked at the old sewing machine on the porch. Hanh stood up, opened the camera body cover, and removed a thin piece of wood. Below there is a secret compartment, just enough to hold an envelope.

The envelope had been opened, the paper inside was wrinkled and had machine oil stains. The person who signed the confirmation is Hanh. Next to her signature is a handwritten line: "Temporary. Does not affect land use rights."

Mai read that sentence three times. This is the type of sentence that makes people sign without understanding what rights they have just given up.

“You know this sentence has no legal value?”

"I don't know. I just know that if you don't sign, you will lose your scholarship."

Mai returned the paper. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret that I thought I could cover for you for the rest of your life.”

Outside in the yard, the wind blew so strongly that the wing door banged against the wall. Mai closed her eyes. She saw her father standing in the photo, holding a book, not looking like someone who kept money. She saw her mother sign the small handwriting, which didn't look like it belonged to a house seller. Everyone does something they think is temporary, then lets time turn it into a trap.

Quan called at nearly midnight. He found the person who used to look after warehouse K-17, named Mr. Lam, who now lives in the hamlet across the lagoon.

“He said the warehouse was not liquidated,” Quan said. “But there was a time when the lock was changed at 9:17 a.m. After that day, all the boxes of files were moved.”

“Move to where?”

"He doesn't know. He just keeps a delivery book."

Mai looked at her mother. Hanh has been standing behind her ever since.

“Tomorrow we meet Mr. Lam,” Mai said.

Hanh shook her head. “No. I'm at home.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I'm afraid you'll find the exact place where your father died.”

The call remains open. Quan heard that sentence, was silent for a few seconds and then said: "I will go with you. Tomorrow morning there will be low pressure, there is only one boat ride across the lagoon."

Mai looked at the clock that stopped at 9:17 on the table. She didn't know where her father died, but she knew someone was trying to make that hour disappear from all records.

“Mom is home,” she said. “I'm just going to ask a question.”

Hanh held her hand. “Don't ask if you're not ready to hear.”

Mai did not withdraw her hand. For the first time since returning, she let her mother hold her like when she was a child. Tomorrow morning, you will go to warehouse K-17. She didn't know if the answer would keep the house or make it no longer a place she wanted to return to.