The Beauty of Humanity Movement (84 page)

“T
,” H
ng says, surprised. “You don’t have work today?”

“I did,” says T
. “It’s a long story.”

“Come, we’ll have some tea,” says H
ng, turning his pots over to dry. He cups his knees and groans as he stands, then makes his way up the slight muddy incline toward his shack.

T
ducks through the doorway, then places his palms together by way of greeting his grandfather at his altar while H
ng puts the kettle on to boil.

“Did I ever tell you how your grandfather got that scar on his cheek?” H
ng asks.

T
shakes his head. He’s always thought that line was just a shadow.

“Your grandfather made a very passionate speech, saying that if just one person read the words of their publications, if one single heart was moved, they had done their job: they had succeeded in setting the truth loose in the world.

“There was this man—he wore a beret and carried a thick book, just like they all did back then—who stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. He walked toward Ðạo as if he were about to shake his hand and congratulate him for such inspirational words. Once he reached your grandfather, this man raised his book without a word and smashed it with two hands across his face.

“Ðạo fell backward and everyone leapt to their feet. I was down on the floor with him, holding his head, when I saw that it wasn’t a book the man had used to assault your grandfather but a brick wrapped in paper. Ðạo coughed and spat out two of his teeth. His cheek was cut just there where you see the scar. It had been deeply serrated by the edge of the brick: his cheekbone shone like a pearl. I was thankful your father did not have to witness this.

“In the commotion of it all, the stranger slipped out the door. He was a spy, that seemed certain. But Ðạo just said, ‘We cannot let them intimidate us. It just makes it even more important that we carry on.’

“It was a great privilege for me to be the one who stitched his face with a needle and thread. I anaesthetized him with rice whiskey and offered him a bed. He took refuge in my backroom, not wanting to alarm your grandmother or your father with his appearance. But you know, I didn’t see a battered face, I saw a strong face,” he says, pointing at Ðạo’s picture, “that strong jaw.”

T
inadvertently strokes his own chin, wondering if he would ever have such courage. Everything about his life can feel petty and selfish when he thinks of the heroism of people in the past. What value is he really adding to the world? He plays some role in introducing foreigners to Vietnam, but the thrill seems to have gone out of it for him recently. More than the thrill.

“Sometimes it’s hard to feel your life has any worth by comparison,” he finds himself saying out loud.

“But it is not a matter for comparison, T
,” says H
ng. “We all have our place in Buddha’s universe.”

T
reaches for the plastic bag and pulls out the high-tops. “I thought maybe you could use some new shoes.”