The Beauty of Humanity Movement (8 page)

“You’ve never seen her before?” T
shouts, as his father slows down to turn a corner.

“I told you—no,” Bình yells over his shoulder.

“But what do you think she was doing there?”

“No idea,” his father yells. “Strange morning.”

Strange indeed. Auspicious even. T
s father seems possessed with the strength of the new moon—look at his victory over the foreman this morning, after all. Although his father is a naturally reserved man, T
has seen him overcome his inhibition when it counts. It is their job to protect H
ng, particularly now that he is getting older. H
ng’s eyesight has deteriorated recently, his movements have become stiff and slow; it pains T
to realize that H
ng is no longer the invincible street warrior, but a man showing the vulnerabilities of his age.

T
squeezes his father’s shoulder affectionately before hopping off the back of the bike in front of the Metropole, Hanoi’s finest hotel, once the finest in all of Indochina. He skips up the steps and enters the lobby. The giant potted palms, chandeliers and ceiling fans keep the grand colonial air of the place alive. Ph
ng, T
s best friend and partner in capitalist adventure, stumbles in just after him, looking foul-tempered with the stink of late-night karaoke. He has neglected to shave and his lips appear glued together. Ph
ng has clearly not been fortified with the bowl of ph
that is vital for one’s daily performance.

“You missed some real drama this morning,” says T
.