The Beauty of Humanity Movement (105 page)

Mr. Võ shuffles forth from the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’m not serving any more today, son.”

T
has to remind him of who he is—Ðạo’s grandson, Bình’s son.

“Ah. Yes, of course,” says Mr. Võ. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were a boy. How is your father? I hear he is doing very well as a carpenter. And what are you up to these days?”

T
pulls a card from his back pocket and hands it to Mr. Võ.

“Very impressive,” says Mr. Võ as he reads it.

Mr. Võ leads T
on a clockwise turn around the room, recalling the names of the artists, many of their works unsigned. The names are as well known to him as
, the letters of the alphabet, but none of these is Maggie’s father, Lý Văn Hai.

“Do you still have that big chest in the back?” T
asks.

“I’ve never had the space to display all the art,” says Mr. Võ.

“Do you think you could show it to me?”

“Come,” says Mr. Võ, leading him to the living quarters at the back—just a mattress on the floor and the wooden chest, his ancestral altar perched upon it.

Mr. Võ moves the photo, the fruit and the incense holder aside so that he can open the chest. T
kneels down beside the old man, who is lifting out sheets of newspaper stamped with woodblock prints, oil paintings on cracked canvases, delicate paintings on dyed silk, charcoal drawings on brown paper, ink drawings and pencil sketches done on rough paper and torn cardboard and strips of bark.

There must be a hundred pieces here, T
thinks, as he scans them for names and dates. Portraits, street scenes, sketches of birds and animals, paintings of very nude ladies and still lifes of empty bowls. About half the works are unsigned, but Mr. Võ still remembers most of the artists’ names. T
wishes H
ng’s memory were half this good.

Toward the bottom of the pile lies a series of four intricate drawings of tigers. The last of the four is a particularly gory sketch of two tigers mauling each other in a cave. T
picks it up to study the detail. The weak light through the doorway suggests there is something written on the other side. He turns the piece of paper over and his heart begins to pound. There’s an inscription on the back that reads
For Tan Võ from Lý Văn Hai
.

“Hah!” T
exclaims, flapping the drawing in his hand. “I knew it! This is exactly what I was looking for. I know this woman who works at the Metropole, Mr. Võ, she’s his daughter.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember him,” Mr. Võ says, rubbing his eye with the ball of his palm. “So much dust,” he mutters.

“But, Mr. Võ,” says T
, shaking the piece of paper, “Lý Văn Hai dedicated this picture to you.”