The Beauty of Humanity Movement (140 page)

The only person H
ng could have imagined sacrificing is himself.

T
u is lying in the dark of his reclaimed bedroom when his cellphone rings in the pocket of his jeans, which lie in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. Who would be calling him in the middle of the night? Oh no, comes the dreaded thought, H
ng is dead. T
throws his legs over the sheet and grabs his jeans.

“Maggie,” he exhales with relief. “Maggie,” he says again.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” she says, her voice quiet, faraway.

T
flicks on the light.

“Professor Devereux tracked down Mr. Võ’s collection,” she says.

“Maggie! Where?”

“In Hong Kong,” she says quietly.

“But, Maggie, what’s the matter?”

“It’s been sold to a group of Vietnamese-American businessmen,” she says, hiccuping back tears.

“Maybe they’ll agree to let you have your father’s pictures,” says T
.

“The dealer I spoke to said the purchasers were intent on keeping the collection as a whole. Preserving its integrity.”

“Well, if they believe in integrity, they will believe in you,” he says.

“That’s sweet of you, T
.”

“You must talk to them.”

“I’ve got a conference call booked with them first thing in the morning. In just a couple of hours, in fact—evening there.”

“I’ll come and wait with you.”

“Would you really?”

T
is already stepping into his jeans. Anything for you, Maggie. Anything at all.

The drug the doctor is administering gives H
ng disturbing dreams. One time it is Party officials threatening to break his other leg unless he reveals Ðạo’s whereabouts. They are tearing apart the room at the back of his ph
shop, looking for evidence of counter-revolutionary activity. They will find it soon enough—all six issues of
Nhân Van
are hidden under his mattress, as well as
Fine Works of Spring
and
Autumn
, and dozens of poems written in Ðạo’s own hand.

Another time he is on the streets during the American War. He is hunting for cicadas and worms when he comes across a sight he has become numb to, that of a woman’s arm lying in the gutter. The ring finger has been cut off, but the bracelets around her wrist remain, and H
ng realizes the only way to get that silver will be to sever the hand from the arm. He picks up the arm and shakes it, just to be sure, and the bangles clatter together at the wrist, too tight to slip free. But she will
love these, he thinks, as he puts the arm down and looks around him for a piece of metal, preferably something serrated.

These dreams never come to a conclusive end, but in this case, Lan is suddenly standing before him, old Lan, but still beautiful. Her fine bones, her delicate skin, her precious jewel of a mouth.

Butterflies hatch from cocoons inside his stomach. Is it possible? Is it possible she is here at the hospital? Bình appears to be touching her forearm. Her hands are resting on the metal bar at the end of his bed.

“Bình,” H
ng croaks, soft wings caught in his throat.

“You’ve been calling out for her all day,” he says.

Is it true? Has Bình brought her to his bedside? Or is he confusing this with a hazy memory from a few years ago? He can picture her, old like she is now, standing inside his shack at the end of his straw-filled mattress, holding a bowl of chicken broth and rice. He is sick, he has been forced to pull out some teeth, she is kneeling now by his bedside, pressing a cold wet cloth against his forehead, murmuring something to him, a poem possibly, placing a white pill on his furry tongue.