The Beauty of Humanity Movement (56 page)

“Do you remember that Australian?” Ph
ng asks.

How could T
forget? T
had found him very aggressive, both in manner and body. His neck was thick as a tree trunk and a blue vein in his forehead throbbed like it had a heart of its own. He’d caused T
a great deal of embarrassment at H
Chí Minh’s mausoleum with his short pants and rude voice and his mocking laughter at the fact that Uncle H
is sent to Russia every year for a bit of preservation, but T
had to save face for Ph
ng’s sake—the guy said his sister was a music producer in Sydney.

“That asshole didn’t even take my CD, T
. You heard him—he said he was going to give it to his sister, but then when I was cleaning out the van the other day? I found the CD jammed between the seats. I’ve wasted all this time thinking that this might be my big break, I even went to the consulate to look into getting an Australian visa, when this guy just abandoned the CD in the van like it was some piece of shit.”

Ph
ng’s little sister pops her head through the door in the roof just then. Ph
ng stubs the joint out in a pot of coriander. She sniffs the air and asks if they want some food. She is carrying the leftovers from dinner on a tray. She crouches down on her knees and lays pieces of fatty-skinned broiled fish onto the rice in two bowls. She has just washed her hair and it hangs damp around her shoulders, turning her loose white shirt translucent. T
cannot help but stare at her nipples, more grape seeds than the raisins of the girl dressed as Santa’s helper.

T
turns the conversation to the subject of the last couple of days, news he is by now
desperate
to share. He tells his friend about H
ng’s accident and Miss Maggie Lý, the Vi
t Ki’êu who has now called the agency and booked his services for the rest of the week.