The Beauty of Humanity Movement (89 page)

This is not the best of Old Man H
ng’s locations, given that people use the space under the bridge as a toilet and the smell of urine is very strong. Thankfully one forgets this as soon as one raises a steaming bowl to one’s nose, as T
assures Maggie, standing in line behind his father.

“Ah,” the old man says to Maggie. “You’ve finally come to me again. I was beginning to worry that perhaps you did not like my ph
.”

“She came with me,” T
says proprietarily over Maggie’s shoulder.

“I’m glad to see you have become friends,” says H
ng, making T
feel self-conscious. “I’m afraid nothing has come to mind about your father.”

“Actually, there was something I should have mentioned,” says Maggie. “His hands. After the camp, they were like claws.”

“So he could no longer paint,” says H
ng.

“No, not really.”

“That must have been very hard for him. It reminds me of a poet I knew who lost his tongue.”

“But how did he eat?” T
interjects, the steam rising from his bowl.

“He used his imagination,” says H
ng, “his memory of taste.”

T
s father asks him to hold his bowl so he can lay his windbreaker down on the sloping concrete ground for T
s guest to sit upon.

“That’s not necessary,” she says, “but thank you.”

T
wishes he had thought of this gallant gesture, but then his father is displaying rare animation this morning, obviously impressed by the new company his son is keeping. He takes his bowl from T
and squats down between them, leaning over to suck back a few quick spoonfuls of broth. “Ah,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Miss Maggie,” he says then, clearing his throat. “Tell me, what is it like to grow up Vietnamese in America?”