The Beauty of Humanity Movement (42 page)

“You don’t understand,” T
mumbles.

“No, you’re quite right. I don’t,” says his father.

They manoeuvre the cart to the edge of the track. As they near the pond, they see several small fires throwing sparks into the damp night. Black smoke spirals upward and the smell of kerosene stings T
s nostrils. He hears the murmur of talk, the howl of an unhappy baby, the clang of metal pots and the drone of hungry mosquitoes and, as they approach the old man’s shack, the distinct soft tenor of
his voice as he talks to the man next door, a halfwit who honks like a goose.

H
ng is the heart of this small community on the banks of a polluted pond; he is good to these poor people, keeping them fed and entertained. He treats everyone with respect—from people in high places, like Miss Maggie Lý, to people without sense or legs, like his neighbour. It is humbling to have an Old Man H
ng in your life. It makes you want to be a better person.

The old man thanks T
and his father for the return of his cart with his hands clasped together and a bow of his head, and insists they stay and eat something. He apologizes for having little to offer: rice, a bit of fried pork belly and fish sauce, that is all.

“H
ng, H
ng,” says Bình. “Honestly, it’s fine. What a day you’ve had, huh?”

“It’s been quite an adventure. Come. Let’s get out of the rain. You’ll at least stay for a cup of tea.”

They bend through the entrance to his shack and take a seat on his hard, straw-filled mattress. H
ng places the kettle over a small kerosene stove and rummages for his tea canister.

T
and his father always visit the old man here on the first day of Tet. Even though his shack is normally dark and dank, at Tet it is always bright with fresh flowers, flowers he travels kilometres to collect. The room is swept of dust and evil and is fragrant with incense and plump fruits.

Few words beyond the customary pass between them on these occasions. They will wish Old Man H
ng prosperity, and he will return the good wishes and offer them square packets of
bánh chung
which have been cooking overnight in a pot on the fire, his callused fingers unaware of the heat as he pulls each packet from the boiling water. They will eat the sticky rice and mung bean paste that hug the
prized fatty pork middle, and T
will share this treat with Grandfather Ðạo by placing one of the square banana-leaf packets at the base of his altar alongside some white rice, rice wine and crisp new bills in a red envelope.

Ðạo’s altar still shines like a bright star today, a candle lit to keep him company. T
and his father both bow to their ancestor before taking the cups of woody brown tea H
ng offers.