The Beauty of Humanity Movement (135 page)

He must refrain from offering further advice, but how he itches to know: Did T
buy a very fresh fish? Did he poke it and make sure the flesh bounced back in response? Did he smell its skin, make sure its eyes were clear and protruding, its gills bright red and moist? Is it a fish with enough fat underneath its skin?

Anh arrives home from the butcher shop—H
ng can hear the thwack of a good two pounds of rump landing on the wooden cutting
block. He need not worry about T
in the kitchen any longer, Anh is a very good cook; he has been enjoying her dinners for days now. If he were at home, he would be dining on only rice, rice with a splash of fish sauce, all an old man needs, but Anh’s dinners seem to be knitting the bones of his leg back together in a way that a bowl of rice each night might not accomplish so quickly.

Perhaps the pace of his healing also has something to do with the company. He does not wish to burden anyone. Since the death of Uncle Chi
n more than sixty years ago, H
ng has lived alone and only once imagined it would ever be otherwise.

It suddenly occurs to H
ng that Lan might be worried by his absence, but no—did T
not mention that he and Bình had spoken to her? She must know his whereabouts, that his stay here is not permanent, that soon he will be home. They may have been silent neighbours for decades, but he still does not like the thought of her feeling abandoned.

The smell of sesame oil wafts up the stairs, and oh, how it makes him long to get back to cooking. He worries he will lose his knack and resolves to exercise the muscles other than those in his broken leg. He can rotate his wrists and neck, bend his other knee, even attempt certain tai chi poses from his prone position.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he hears T
say as he enters the room. He’s carrying a small white bowl in his hands.

“Tell me if I’ve got the balance of flavours right,” the boy says, kneeling beside the mattress and offering H
ng a spoon with which to taste his shrimp broth.

H
ng doesn’t need to taste it; his nose tells him everything he needs to know. “A little more lime juice and it will be perfect.”

T
sniffs the broth. “Of course, Chef H
ng.”

“Hah!” H
ng laughs. “I am nothing more than a simple country cook.”