The Beauty of Humanity Movement (108 page)

“Who?”

“The artist who did those drawings of tigers you have in the back.”

“Look, T
, I told you last time—you can’t expect me to remember every single person who has ever drunk a cup of coffee in my establishment.”

“I’d like to show them to Miss Maggie.”

“Not today, T
.”

“Just very quickly.”

“It’s not convenient right now.”

“But—”

“My wife, T
, please, she’s not well,” says Mr. Võ, his hands shaking now. “She’s had an operation. She’s resting in the back.”

“It’s okay, T
,” says Maggie, putting her hand on his wrist. “We’ll come back another time. Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Võ. I hope your wife feels better soon.”

Maggie tugs T
by the shirtsleeve, leading him back out to the sidewalk. “These things take time, T
,” she says. “Believe me. After the past year, I know.”

“But we were so close,” says T
, leaning his shoulder against the building.

“We’re still close,” Maggie says.

“I don’t know,” says T
. “Something didn’t seem right.”

“It’s probably the fact that I’m a foreigner.”

T
had actually been wondering the same thing.

“Listen, do you want to get something to eat?” she asks.

T
brightens. “Have you ever had
ch
cá
?”

Maggie shakes her head.

T
points down an alleyway to their left, taking them deeper into the Old Quarter. When they reach Ch
Cá Street, they climb up a narrow staircase to a cramped room on the second floor of an old building. They shuffle past rows of people crammed side by side on wooden benches and sit opposite each other at the end of a long crowded table. As soon as they sit down, the waitress leans in over T
’s shoulder, lights a burner and slams a pan of oil down upon it. T
orders beer for both of them and the woman promptly drops two bottles onto the table over T
’s head before thwacking down plastic plates of cubes of fish and various herbs.