The Beauty of Humanity Movement (123 page)

What is Maggie doing bringing cakes to the shantytown? T
wonders.

“Do you want to watch these bikes for us?” his father asks.

“Five thousand đ
ng,” says the boy.

“Five hundred,” says T
’s father.

The boy stuffs his hands into his pockets and kicks the dirt.

“And I’ll bring you some cake next time,” Maggie says.

“Yes, sir,” the boy says in English, transformed by this sweet promise.

T
feels exhilarated by the slight menace of the quiet night, a tension heightened by volunteering for the route that covers the most dangerous streets and the presence of Maggie by his side. They call out the old man’s name every few steps, looking in doorways and peering down alleyways and seeing more than a few homeless people wrapped in cardboard along the way. A dog lunges toward them and growls, forcing Maggie to retreat, and in one street a woman shouts from above: “It’s late, you drunks. Go home!”

On another street there are shameful things going on, though thankfully it is not bright enough for them to see anything more than the outline of a woman on her knees.

Maggie clings to T
’s arm and says, “I didn’t know Hanoi could be so depressing.”

“Imagine Saigon,” T
replies—but oh the delicate grip of her
hand, the sweet smell of her skin reaching through the briny mist of the crayfish they had for dinner. He wishes he could reach out and squeeze her neck, that sacred place where the spirit resides. He’d inch his hand up and touch her hair, which he imagines being as silken as the feather back of a dove.

“I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a brother,” she says, and the sudden swell of romance within him subsides.

It is well after midnight by the time they finally reach the bridge. They are trailed now by three drunk young men who spilled out of a hidden bar in an alleyway half a kilometre ago and have been mimicking them ever since. “H
ng! Oh, Mr. H
ng! Where are you, Old Man H
ng?” they drunkenly mock.

The moonlight is beaming down through the clouds. They can hear Ph
ng singing under the bridge. They listen to him filling the space with a tenor voice so glorious that it even silences the drunks. This is no rap but a ballad, blooming petal by petal until it explodes into flower, at which point Ph
ng belts out a chorus of rising words. He lands on a single note so pure it should cause the trucks on the bridge above to kill their engines. He holds the note for a full breathless minute, at which point the drunks, in their enthusiasm, resume shouting.

Ph
ng stops singing and emerges from underneath the bridge. “Who the hell are these guys?” he shouts.