The Beauty of Humanity Movement (3 page)

H
ng dutifully unhooks his glasses from his ears and hands them to Bình’s son, T
, who is waiting beside his father with his empty bowl. T
tucks them into his father’s shirt pocket, and Bình shuffles left, making way for his son.

T
, just twenty-two years old but so full of confidence, greets H
ng with more words than Bình ever does and waves his chopsticks left and right as he tries to calculate the size of the pool. This is very much like him—T
loves numbers in a way that seems to pain him. He used to teach math at a high school, but he has abandoned that recently in favour of entertaining tourists. H
ng is not sure all that foreign interaction is good for the boy, but he trusts Bình is monitoring the situation.

H
ng indulges T
with a challenge this morning: “I’d like to see you calculate the pool’s volume in terms of the number of bowls of ph
that would be required to fill it.”

T
grins as he manoeuvres his way carefully across the pool, holding his bowl right under his nose, the steam rising like incense smouldering in a temple to bathe his face.

H
ng has taught T
, Bình and Bình’s father, Ðạo, before him that you can tell a good broth by its aroma, the way it begs the body through the nose. And
ph
b
c
—the ph
of Hanoi—is the greatest seducer, because of the subtle dance of seasonings that animates the broth. It is not just the seasonings that make
ph
b
c
distinct, it is provenance, a lesson H
ng would happily deliver to anyone interested in listening.