Whispers of a Lost Love

4

The words seemed to whisper into her ears, guiding her step by step into the world of Thái Yên Pha-a world she had never known yet felt inexplicably familiar, as though it had always been a part of her.

Suddenly, a vendor's cry echoed:

"Fresh newspapers! April 4th edition! Breaking news-find out now!"

Chương Hà startled, lifting her head as if the call wasn't just from the past but reverberated in her very space. The sound carried a gust of wind, sweeping her back in time to a Saigon morning in 1930.

That morning, the city awoke after a night of rain. Puddles lingered on brick-paved streets, reflecting the first rays of sunlight. Catinat Street (now Đồng Khởi), the busiest thoroughfare in Saigon, came alive with the gentle swish of brooms sweeping the pavement. On the sidewalk, a scrawny boy darted barefoot through the shallow puddles.

He wore a wide-brimmed, faded hat. Despite his nimble movements, the exhaustion from a sleepless night waiting for newspapers was evident. In his hands was a thick stack of papers, each bearing bold headlines:

"BREAKING NEWS: INDOCHINA TRADE WAR! MAJOR ECONOMIC TURMOIL!""April 4, 1930."

His voice rose and fell, crisp and clear, cutting through the lingering dampness of the morning air. Weaving through the crowd, he passed dapper gentlemen in tailored suits and women gliding gracefully in flowing áo dài, their steps as light as a slow melody amidst the bustling streets.

At the street corners, the cries of street vendors intertwined, forming a symphony of the city:

"Hot bread! Freshly baked, fragrant baguettes!""Sticky rice! Green bean, peanut sticky rice-who wants some?"

At Bến Thành Market, stalls were opening, and the hum of buying and selling began. Voices bargaining, cheerful laughter, the clatter of horse hooves, and the chime of tram bells filled the air. Trams, packed with commuters heading to work or the market, trundled slowly along major roads like Bonard Street (now Lê Lợi).

Farther away, in Chợ Lớn, the Chinese community's fabric and herbal shops buzzed with activity. The rhythmic clicking of abacuses mixed with Cantonese and Teochew dialects. Red lanterns still hung along the streets, their muted glow adding a touch of solemnity to the lively scene.

By the Saigon River, boats laden with goods docked as porters moved shadows amidst the mist rising from the water. In the distance, a ferryman sang a melancholic tune, the melody carrying the river's stories.

Nearby, roadside coffee stalls welcomed their first customers. The thick aroma of drip coffee mingled with the scent of freshly baked French-style bread. At a small corner, elderly men played chess, their hands moving pieces slowly across the board, eyes fixed on the next move.

Chương Hà felt as though she had stepped into that moment in time.

The words in Thái Yên Pha's journal were not mere stories but gateways to another world. Each sentence painted vivid images, sounds, and scents of a bustling yet nostalgic Saigon.

In that space, Chương Hà felt herself amidst the crowd, hearing the sharp cries of the newspaper boy, breathing in the crisp air, and observing the vibrant yet intimate rhythms of the city.

A morning in Saigon in 1930, thought to exist only in memory, came alive, and it felt as if she was truly living it.

In the distance, a sudden commotion drew attention.

The deep purr of an engine signaled the arrival of a state-of-the-art automobile. A sleek Citroën C6, a symbol of elegance and wealth, glided slowly over the brick-paved road, drawing stares from passersby. The car halted in front of a large street café, where sunlight filtered through tree branches, casting dappled patterns on the ground.