The Beauty of Humanity Movement (136 page)

“From not such a simple country.” H
ng cocks his head to get a better look at T
’s face. It’s not the face of a boy anymore. “Listen,” H
ng says conspiratorially, “if you want to really enhance your broth add a pinch of ground, dried anchovy.”

“But that’s not very Vietnamese,” T
says, his mouth falling open.

“Not so simple, are we.”

Ph
ng arrives at their house dressed, uncharacteristically, in skinny jeans. He’s trying to get used to the clothes; he’ll top the skinny jeans with a white shirt, black jacket and skinny tie for his
Vietnam Idol
audition next week. “What do you think?” he asks T
, pointing at a picture of a guy with a shaggy Korean-style haircut on a page of a magazine.

With that haircut and a pair of glasses with rectangular rims, he’ll resemble the best-looking member of a very squeaky-clean Asian boy band. Girls will be waving signs that say:
I
Ph
ng
, and the government censors will think Ph
ng an appropriate role model for youth today and everyone will be shocked at the grand finale when Hanoi Poison shows up in his place and starts rapping about freedom of expression and respect for human rights.

Ph
ng is going to perform his audition piece for the family this evening. He has decided to stand upon their table as if it were a stage. They have cleared away the bowls and wiped the rings of fish sauce from the wooden surface. T
is pleased to see everyone leaning back in their chairs, contented after such a good meal.

Ph
ng asks T
to press play on the CD player he has brought with him—a recent purchase and a real Sony, no Chinese imitation—and the
musical accompaniment begins. It is a track of synthesized violins and whispering ghostly voices. It’s like being inside a temple full of ancestors. Ph
ng’s falsetto floats there among the voices and then—boom— drops an octave and takes charge with a melody that is beautiful, a tone that is rich.