The Beauty of Humanity Movement (147 page)

When T
unrolls the picture for Maggie, she gasps and covers her mouth. When she finally drops her hands, she has the face of someone who has just eaten something extremely delicious.

She puts on plastic gloves, snapping them at her wrists like a forensics expert on
CSI
. She smooths down the curled edges of the paper, picks up her magnifying glass and studies every inch of it for what feels like an hour.

She uses words like
provenance
and
pedigree
. She talks about the purity of the drawing’s lineage, having had only one owner all these
years, and the fact that it was passed from Phái himself to T
’s grandfather Ðạo, directly from one artist to another. She praises its condition as pristine and unadulterated. Pure. She commends them all, Ðạo, Bình and T
, for their care and respect in handling it.

“Your father’s really prepared to sell it?” she asks.

“If it can get us the money for Old Man H
ng’s shop, yes, he’s prepared to sell it.”

Maggie’s eyes sparkle as she peels off the gloves and rubs her hands together. “I think it would fetch well over ten thousand dollars,” she says.

“Can we ask for twelve?”

“We can try,” she says, picking up the phone.

This way of tackling things so directly, without apology or ritual, seems a bit reckless to T
, but it certainly does move things along. He can just imagine what happens when deals go sour, though—no blessing to protect you, no Buddha or ancestor to make things right. This is one obvious downside to capitalism.

Maggie apologizes to Mr. Thanh for calling so late but says she has a proposal to make that she is quite sure he’ll find of interest. She is in possession of a natural and fitting addition to the Võ collection— an immaculately preserved piece that could, in fact, serve as its celestial heart.

Maggie puts her hand over the receiver and gestures to T
. “I want you to describe the piece to him,” she whispers. “From your heart.”

From his heart. Where feelings live. Subjective feelings. Gulp.

“One minute, Henry. I’m just going to pass you to someone. He’s the best one to describe it.” She passes the phone to T
, taps her chest and whispers again: “From your heart.”

“Hello,” says T
, clearing his throat. “Mr. Thanh? Yes, well, this is a drawing that has been in my family for fifty years. You have heard
of
Nhân Van
? No? Well let me tell you,” he begins, launching into a brief history.

“T
,” Maggie whispers, tapping her chest again. “Heart.”

“Um, Mr. Thanh? What I can tell you is that it is a very personal drawing. Very private. Like Bùi Xuân Phái must have loved this lady. She has her naked back to him and her hands to her face. Maybe they have just been intimate with each other. Perhaps she is crying.”

T
looks over at Maggie. She holds the tips of her index fingers to her lips and nods her head, her eyes a bit teary.

Mr. Thanh asks what they want for it.

“Twelve thousand dollars
and
the Lý Văn Hais,” says T
.

He doesn’t dare look over at Maggie again. He hangs up the phone. Maggie reaches out to him and wraps her arms around his shoulders. She pulls him close, so close that he can feel the rise of her breasts and her sharp hip bones. Having never been hugged in his life, T
’s instinct is to turn into a plank of wood. Mr. Thanh has said he will confer with his associates and get back to them later in the day.