The Beauty of Humanity Movement (119 page)

Unfortunately it starts to rain just then, forcing them all to pick up their bowls and follow the old man into his cramped quarters. It is close and cozy inside H
ng’s shack with the rain clattering down on the
corrugated tin. T
and his father sit on the edge of the mattress, where a drunken Ph
ng is now lying down, and Maggie kneels on the rattan mat on the floor beside T
’s mother, the old man beside her, pouring cups of tea.

“Would you like to greet my grandfather?” T
asks Maggie.

H
ng gestures. “Over here, my dear.”

T
has a slight feeling of resentment, as if the old man is competing with him for Maggie’s attention. He notices a full bowl of pork and rice sitting on top of H
ng’s unlit kerosene stove. “You’ve left Ðạo’s bowl here,” T
says, reaching toward it.

“No,” says H
ng, waving his hand as he shuffles toward the altar, “I have already given Ðạo his bowl.”

“Who is this for, then?”

“That? For no one.”

H
ng raises his hand in the air once he reaches the altar. He clears his throat and silences the room. “When you find yourself upon the threshold of the door to your new home, fear not, because you will find me there, on the other side, awaiting you, making ready the fire,” he says in a measured and silken voice.

Anh reaches for Bình’s hand, a gesture of affection between his parents that T
has never witnessed before. Old Man H
ng is reciting verse. Is this Grandfather Ðạo’s poetry? But where has he suddenly found the words? T
is about to ask the old man to continue, but the moment appears to have passed, and with it his memory. H
ng turns away from the altar, the spark within him extinguished.