The Beauty of Humanity Movement (30 page)

“But wait a minute,” Ðạo was the first among the men in the shop to say. “Is this really the job of the artist? To be a Party mouthpiece, a sloganeer?”

In the end he was punished for posing such questions.

Had Miss Maggie’s father also risked his life in this way? H
ng wonders. In all likelihood yes, since he was sent to a camp the same year Party officers came for Ðạo and his colleagues. But if he suffered the same fate as Ðạo? Then Lý Văn Hai never returned.

Old Man H
ng is sitting in a chair in a linen closet. He is snoring, his mouth wide open and toothless, an untouched glass of green tea sitting on a shelf. Maggie closes the door quietly and the old man wakes up, looking froglike and confused.

“My teeth,” he says, patting his lips.

“The doorman found them lying beside you on the road,” says Maggie. “I don’t think they’ll be of any use now, I’m afraid.”

“Never fit right anyway,” H
ng mumbles.

“And these,” Maggie says, offering him the battered remnants of his glasses.

The old man turns the glasses around in his hand as if they are unfamiliar to him, then tucks them into his shirt pocket with a self- conscious word of thanks. He cups his knees as if he’s about to stand up. His pant leg is torn and grease-stained, and Maggie sees a nasty cut running down the length of his thin, hairless leg.

“Don’t get up,” Maggie says, her hand against his shoulder. “You’re bleeding, Mr. H
ng. I’m going to get the doctor to see you.”

The old man dismisses this with a wave, saying he’s quite all right, nothing broken, just a little scraped and bruised. He apologizes for wasting her time.

But what was he doing pushing his cart up Ngô Quy
n, one of Hanoi’s busiest streets? Maggie wonders. Surely this isn’t the route he takes home after breakfast. “Were you coming to see me?” she asks tentatively.

The old man hangs his head. The thin grey hairs barely cover a scalp battered by decades of sun and rain. Yes, he was coming to see her. Unfortunately he still has no recollection as to why.

“Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” she asks hopefully.

“Perhaps I did,” he says, nodding at his knees.

“Listen. I’m going to get you a room so you can rest up a bit. Get off that leg.”

“No, no.” He waves his hand. “That really isn’t necessary.”

But she doesn’t want to let the old man go. She made the mistake of assuming she would have more time with her mother; she’s not about to repeat it.

——

H
ng has never seen a bed so big. Even after bathing in hot water, he fears dirtying these white sheets. He rubs the balls of his feet into the thick, green carpet and opens all the cupboards one by one. Empty but for two lonely white robes and matching pairs of slippers. So much room. Everything he has ever owned could fit into one of these cupboards, but nothing he has ever owned would be good enough to be kept here.

He pulls on the trousers of the bellhop’s uniform Miss Maggie has left hanging behind the door. They’re too long and a bit tight at the waist, but he admires the gold piping that runs down each leg. Very smart indeed.

He tests the corner of the bed, which yields unexpectedly to his weight, then lies back against a cloud of plush pillows. He stares at the wooden beams of the sloping ceiling and wonders how one’s back fares with such a lack of support and how many ducks lost their feathers to the pillows on this bed. He reaches for the booklet on the pillow to his left. It is a menu for something called room service. Miss Maggie had said he could just dial nine and order anything he wanted to eat. Anything at all. But H
ng has never used a telephone. He has never operated a television either and is reluctant to press any of the buttons on the device she referred to as the remote control.

When Miss Maggie stops by in the early afternoon to check on him, she presses a button on the device and turns the television on for him. “These arrows,” she says. “This is how you change the channel. Now, what can we get you to eat?”

On the last page of the room service booklet, he finds a list of items translated into Vietnamese, but unfortunately, little of the food is familiar to him. He has never tasted Club Sandwich or Caesar Salad or Cheese Plate. He opts for ph
, curious to know what a ph
might taste like when made from ingredients where money is no object.

Fatty and sweet, in his assessment. Really rather unappealing. Designed for something other than Hanoian tastes. Still, he is surprisingly hungry and spoons the broth into his mouth while staring at the television. A channel called CNN broadcasts news of the Americans in Iraq. They are always at war, it seems. He presses an arrow. Black men dance on a channel called MTV. H
ng has never seen a black man in his life. Look at all that gold jewellery. And their lady friends,
ôi z
i ôi,
they are nearly naked! Where is the Bureau of Social Vice Prevention now? Busy arresting people for making jokes about the Party when naked ladies are dancing in the rooms of the Metropole?