The Beauty of Humanity Movement (34 page)

“I’m afraid he was in a bit of an accident.”

T
throws some đõng on the table, then jogs down the street. He has been dreading a day like this. The traffic has no mercy for an old man pushing a cart. A moment of hesitation or misstep can prove fatal for a spry sixteen-year-old.

T
bursts through the front doors of the Metropole, beer riding up his throat. He quickly scans the lobby. Everything is giant: the pillars, the potted palms, the guests. The man behind the front desk directs him to take a seat. T
feels tiny sitting in the gilt-edged chair, his feet barely touching the floor. He whistles nervously and swings his legs until he notices the concierge scowling at him.

The man from the front desk approaches and asks if he might like to have a cup of coffee in the courtyard while he waits; Miss Maggie will be just a few minutes longer. T
is about to decline, but something about the situation tells him not to. This is a highly unorthodox
invitation. He is a tour guide, not a guest. They don’t even like to have tour guides sitting in their expensive chairs; they certainly don’t invite them to have coffee. He worries the stage is being set for the delivery of some very bad news.

The bellhop escorts him through a bistro and onto the teak deck of a poolside bar. T
plants himself in a giant wicker chair that looks like a prop out of a movie. He would much prefer a beer at this hour, but a waiter serves him coffee—coffee in a cup and saucer rather than a glass as he is accustomed to. T
looks slyly to his right and left before stuffing the piece of chocolate resting on the side of the saucer into his jacket pocket. He eyes the sugar cubes next, both white and brown.

He suddenly floats to his feet at the sight of the light-skinned beauty in the trim black suit who is entering the bar—it’s her, the mysterious woman who appeared at breakfast yesterday! Before he can think of what he might say if he were to approach her, she is standing before him.

“T
?” she says.

T
nods, stunned by the coincidence. “Miss Maggie Lý?” he asks tentatively.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, hand outstretched, her manner crisp, professional, American, her accent strange. “I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting.”

“Is the old man all right?” asks T
.

“He’s okay. I sent the doctor to see him and nothing’s broken. He’s a bit shaken by the whole experience though, and his cart’s quite bashed up. I don’t think he can manage to get it home. I asked if I could call anyone for him and he gave me your card. He was carrying it in his pocket.”

T
is relieved the old man hasn’t been seriously injured, but he’s also a bit ashamed by the situation. The staff probably think H
ng is some kind of homeless person.

“Do you, uh, know Mr. H
ng very well?” T
asks.