The Beauty of Humanity Movement (151 page)

Her recollection is extraordinary; she’d been acquainted with these men only through H
ng’s descriptions of them, yet physical details and specific phrases that H
ng has absolutely no memory of spill without any apparent effort from her mouth.

“And, of course, Ðạo’s teacher, Phan Khôi,” she continues. “He was always very serious, wasn’t he? He might have been the founder of modern poetry, but by the time of
Nhân Van
he was only concerned with essays and intellectual statements. I’m just a simple woman, but I much preferred Ðạo’s work. He had a passionate heart, that one.”

It is as if decades have collapsed, and they are once again sitting together on a woven grass mat under a weak moon and her skin is pearlescent, her hair long and loose around her shoulders, only she is the one telling the stories and it is he who is hearing them for the first time.

“I’ve missed you, Lan,” he says again.

“I’m right here, H
ng.”

The young man from the kitchen approaches the bed carrying a bowl of congee. He has brought two spoons.

“How would you like a job, Dong?” H
ng asks. “Working for me in a kitchen.”

“I would like that very much, Grandfather.” There are two things he must ask of the young man, things he must ask of T
and Bình as well. First, they must never again visit H
Chí Minh’s mausoleum. It is very, very bad luck for business. And second, they must all go to the temple and ask the spirits for their blessings. The communists did such a good job of stamping out religion that
young people today don’t know whom to pray to. Buddha is no help with matters of money. Consult Buddha on matters of the heart. Ask the ancestors for help with business. This is responsible capitalism.

Lan holds out a spoonful of congee to H
ng. H
ng opens his mouth and closes his eyes.

T
and his father have been eating inferior ph
in the shop on Mã Mây Street for several mornings in a row, even going so far as to compliment the cantankerous old man who runs the place. T
has given his father a lesson on the white lie and how it acts as a harmless social lubricant, and he seems to be taking quite naturally to this foreign practice. “Your broth has a very good aroma,” T
’s father says, slurping it up with noisy enthusiasm.