The Beauty of Humanity Movement (142 page)

“Who was that?” Ðạo asks as H
ng stares at the drawing in his left hand and the foreign bills in his right.

“An artist who just came back from America.”

“That must be Lý Văn Hai,” says Ðạo. “Everyone used to hate him because he got a scholarship and left. They used to hate him because they wished they could be him. How long do you think it will be before he is punished for that American education?”

Ðạo takes the drawing from H
ng’s hand to get a better look. “Wow. He’s not afraid of anything,” says Ðạo. “I wonder if we could convince him to join us. He could do illustrations for the journal.”

Ðạo looks at the money H
ng is clutching in his hand. “H
ng,” he says, “he paid you in American dollars. That’s a small fortune. You better hide it.”

H
ng pats his shirt pocket.

“What are you looking for?”

He turns his head. It is Lan, old but still beautiful Lan, sitting by his bedside.

“The dollars,” he says. “I must remember to tell the girl.” “What girl is that, H
ng?” she asks, reaching for his hand. “The Vi
t Ki
u,” he says, but as soon as it comes out of his mouth he doubts her existence. She must be another one of those imaginary creatures who keeps appearing in his dreams. People known becoming unknown, faces dissolving into clouds, voices disembodied. His dreams are crowded with such illusions.

“Never mind,” he says.

“You mean Lý Văn Hai’s daughter?”

“You know her?” H
ng wheezes.

“There is only a metre between our shacks, H
ng. Sometimes I can even hear you sighing in bed. That night the girl brought the chocolate fungus—after she left, you asked yourself aloud who her father might be, so I told you. The illustrator.”

H
ng is still in shock when Lan pulls a small glass vial by a string out from underneath her blouse and holds it before his face, twisting it round so he can admire it from all angles. It is a collection of precious MSG crystals, most expensive and cherished of all spices, impossible to find in the decades after independence. She is proud to tell him she has collected it grain by grain over the years as payment for embroidering pillowcases. She has kept the vial nestled between her breasts, close to her heart.

Not since colonial days has H
ng been able to afford this magic powder that makes one’s food burst with flavour and colour. “There’s a fortune in there,” he says.