The Beauty of Humanity Movement (112 page)

“I wonder if they ever escape the cave,” Maggie says as they stare at the drawing lying flat on the table.

“I’m going to recover those pictures for you,” says T
.

Maggie looks at him and wonders if this is what it might feel like to have a brother. She reaches out to him; he flinches. She reaches out again, grabbing and squeezing his good hand.

H
ng’s eel and mushroom soup has just the right consistency and heat. He waits until Lan wanders off to the latrine in the dark before ladling some into a wooden-lidded bowl. He leaves the bowl on the stool that sits on her threshold, making sure it is illuminated by the light of her kerosene lamp.

He sits down in the dark on his own threshold and awaits her return. He hears the scratch of stiff fabric as she bends to pick up the bowl, her exhalation as she sits down, the clack of the wooden lid being shifted and set aside, the dull tap of the spoon against the bowl, her swallow, her contented sigh, the quiet words—is it true? Does he really hear them?—
Thank you, H
ng
.

T
is standing at Maggie’s office door wishing that the cuffs of his jeans were not so dirty and that he had thought to splash on some aftershave. “Can I help you?” some guy in uniform had asked as he walked through the lobby. “I have an appointment with Miss Maggie,” T
had replied defensively. “She’s expecting me.”

This was not exactly true, but he felt justified in saying it given the urgency of the search for her father’s missing pictures.

“T
,” says Maggie, surprised to see him. “Do you have clients at the hotel today?”

“I was just coming to ask whether you have had any luck identifying the dealer.”

“Not yet, T
. It’s only been a day. I contacted a professor at the Hanoi University of Fine Arts who specializes in Bùi Xuân Phái’s work. I thought he might be able to help narrow the search down—there are
hundreds of dealers throughout Southeast Asia who could be interested in that collection.”

“But, Maggie, this is something of an emergency. I think we need to act now. All the pistons firing. That collection is full of national treasures.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his notebook. He points to the eleven names listed there, including Maggie’s father and Bùi Xuân Phái, and the brief descriptions he has written of more than two dozen pieces of art. “These are the ones I could remember off the top of my head,” he says.

“T
,” Maggie says, her eyes twinkling as she draws the notebook toward her. “This is brilliant. Can I make a copy? I’d like to give it to Professor Devereux at the university. I think it could help.”

T
hesitates, suddenly feeling territorial. Isn’t the point to keep this work out of foreign hands? “This professor,” he says, “he is not Vietnamese?”

“Vi
t Ki
u,” says Maggie.

“Like you,” says T
, feeling deflated.