The Beauty of Humanity Movement (2 page)

H
ng had come to his Uncle Chi
n with no name other than “nine,” denoting his place in the birth order, becoming H
ng only in Hanoi, under the guardianship of his uncle, a man who neither subscribed to village superstitions nor could afford to turn help away.

This morning, H
ng has set up shop in the empty kidney of a future swimming pool attached to a hotel under construction near the Ngũ Xá Temple. It has taken several attempts to get his fire started in the damp air, but as the dark grey of night yields to the lighter grey of clouded morning, the flames burn an orange as pure and vibrant as a monk’s robe.

Some of his customers have already begun to slip over the lip of
the pool, running down its incline with their bowls, spoons and chopsticks, racing to be head of the queue.

H
ng works like the expert he is, using his right hand to lay noodles into each bowl presented to him, covering these with slices of rare beef, their edges curling immediately with the heat of the broth he is simultaneously ladling into each bowl with his left.

“There you go, Nguy
n. There you go, Phúc, little Min,” and off his first customers shuffle with their bowls to squat on the concrete incline, using their spoons and chopsticks to greet the dawn of a new day.

Ah, and here is Bình, greeting him quietly as always, bowl in hands, never particularly animated until he’s had a few sips of broth. Although he is well into his fifties, Bình is a man still so like the boy who used to accompany his father, Ðạo, to H
ng’s ph
shop back in the revolutionary days of the early 1950s. The world has changed much since then, but Bình remains the same mindful, meditative soul who used to pad about after H
ng, helping him carry the empty bowls out to the dishwasher in the alleyway behind the shop.

“There you go, Bình,” H
ng says, as he does every morning, dropping a handful of chopped green herbs into his bowl from shoulder height with exacting flourish.

“H
ng, what happened to your glasses?” Bình asks of the crack that bisects the left lens.

H
ng, loath to admit he inadvertently sat upon them last night, shrugs as if it is a mystery to him too.

“Come”—Bình gestures—“let me fix them for you.”