The Beauty of Humanity Movement (36 page)

“Taxi cut me off,” he says, limping and gripping T
by the forearm. He wades straight into the traffic, pointing over at his cart lying on its side on a traffic island, its front panel completely torn off.

“But why were you here?” T
shouts. “This isn’t on your way home.”

“Maybe I get bored of the same route,” says H
ng, lurching up onto the island. “Now help me pull this upright.”

“H
ng, I think we should get my father to fix your cart before we try and move it.”

“Come on, T
,” he says, stubborn and determined. The old man tugs one of the handles while T
crouches down and leans his back against the side of the cart, grunting as he tenses his thighs and strains upright.

H
ng pushes the cart forward on the traffic island and it careens to the right. The wheels are askew.

“Seriously. My dad can fix this,” says T
.

But the old man refuses to accompany T
home, insisting he needs to get back to the shantytown. He always insists on this point. Even that time when T
found him in agony after he had anaesthetized himself with rice wine and pulled out the broken stumps of three teeth after being punched by a police officer, H
ng had refused to come back to their house. He hadn’t eaten for at least two days. T
s father sent for a dentist instead, one who, at considerable expense, relieved H
ng of the rest of his upper teeth and gave him a set of rejected dentures designed for a much smaller mouth—dentures that seem to have gone missing in the mysterious course of today’s events.