Read Online The Beauty of Humanity Movement by Camilla Gibb - Free Book Online
Authors: Camilla Gibb
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the American Declaration: ‘All men are created equal; they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights; among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Uncle Hstrengthens his case by appealing as much to their sentiments as to their political sensibilities.”
“Nicely put,” Ðạo said, eyebrows raised. Hng had surprised them both with this first expression of opinion. “And good memory,” Ðạo added, tapping his temple.
“I’ve memorized many things,” Hng said. “I know most of your poems by heart.”
“You honour me,” Ðạo replied.
Silence fell between them. Hng had meant to honour, but Ðạo’s attention made him glow with embarrassment. He did not mean to boast.
There was so much Hng did not know, leading him to study in even greater detail the essays contained in the pamphlets Ðạo shared with him. In part, he felt the need to compensate for the fact that he was not out there alongside the Vit Minh soldiers, risking his life in battle.
In 1954, the war was won. The French were finally defeated by the Vit Minh at the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Hng was prepared to give his soup away for free, to keep the shop open all day so that the mencould drink and play games in celebration, but they would not relax, would not linger, least of all Ðạo, who immediately turned the conversation to the realities of a free Vietnam and the role learned men like them would play within it.
It appeared the Workers’ Party had already given some thought to this question. In the days immediately after liberation, the Party issued a series of proclamations calling upon artists and intellectuals—people literate and educated in ideology—to lead the masses toward awareness of their enlightenment and teach and disseminate the principles of Lenin and Marx. Spokesmen sought to recruit them by shouting about revolutionary duty from rooftops; officials plastered posters onto the walls of Hng’s shop.
“But wait a minute,” Ðạo was the first among the men in the shop to say. “Is this really the job of the artist? To be a Party mouthpiece, a sloganeer?”
In the end he was punished for posing such questions.
Had Miss Maggie’s father also risked his life in this way? Hng wonders. In all likelihood yes, since he was sent to a camp the same year Party officers came for Ðạo and his colleagues. But if he suffered the same fate as Ðạo? Then Lý Văn Hai never returned.
Old Man Hng is sitting in a chair in a linen closet. He is snoring, his mouth wide open and toothless, an untouched glass of green tea sitting on a shelf. Maggie closes the door quietly and the old man wakes up, looking froglike and confused.
“My teeth,” he says, patting his lips.
“The doorman found them lying beside you on the road,” says Maggie. “I don’t think they’ll be of any use now, I’m afraid.”
“Never fit right anyway,” Hng mumbles.
“And these,” Maggie says, offering him the battered remnants of his glasses.
The old man turns the glasses around in his hand as if they are unfamiliar to him, then tucks them into his shirt pocket with a self- conscious word of thanks. He cups his knees as if he’s about to stand up. His pant leg is torn and grease-stained, and Maggie sees a nasty cut running down the length of his thin, hairless leg.
“Don’t get up,” Maggie says, her hand against his shoulder. “You’re bleeding, Mr. Hng. I’m going to get the doctor to see you.”
The old man dismisses this with a wave, saying he’s quite all right, nothing broken, just a little scraped and bruised. He apologizes for wasting her time.
But what was he doing pushing his cart up Ngô Quyn, one of Hanoi’s busiest streets? Maggie wonders. Surely this isn’t the route he takes home after breakfast. “Were you coming to see me?” she asks tentatively.
The old man hangs his head. The thin grey hairs barely cover a scalp battered by decades of sun and rain. Yes, he was coming to see
“Nicely put,” Ðạo said, eyebrows raised. Hng had surprised them both with this first expression of opinion. “And good memory,” Ðạo added, tapping his temple.
“I’ve memorized many things,” Hng said. “I know most of your poems by heart.”
“You honour me,” Ðạo replied.
Silence fell between them. Hng had meant to honour, but Ðạo’s attention made him glow with embarrassment. He did not mean to boast.
There was so much Hng did not know, leading him to study in even greater detail the essays contained in the pamphlets Ðạo shared with him. In part, he felt the need to compensate for the fact that he was not out there alongside the Vit Minh soldiers, risking his life in battle.
In 1954, the war was won. The French were finally defeated by the Vit Minh at the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Hng was prepared to give his soup away for free, to keep the shop open all day so that the mencould drink and play games in celebration, but they would not relax, would not linger, least of all Ðạo, who immediately turned the conversation to the realities of a free Vietnam and the role learned men like them would play within it.
It appeared the Workers’ Party had already given some thought to this question. In the days immediately after liberation, the Party issued a series of proclamations calling upon artists and intellectuals—people literate and educated in ideology—to lead the masses toward awareness of their enlightenment and teach and disseminate the principles of Lenin and Marx. Spokesmen sought to recruit them by shouting about revolutionary duty from rooftops; officials plastered posters onto the walls of Hng’s shop.
“But wait a minute,” Ðạo was the first among the men in the shop to say. “Is this really the job of the artist? To be a Party mouthpiece, a sloganeer?”
In the end he was punished for posing such questions.
Had Miss Maggie’s father also risked his life in this way? Hng wonders. In all likelihood yes, since he was sent to a camp the same year Party officers came for Ðạo and his colleagues. But if he suffered the same fate as Ðạo? Then Lý Văn Hai never returned.
Old Man Hng is sitting in a chair in a linen closet. He is snoring, his mouth wide open and toothless, an untouched glass of green tea sitting on a shelf. Maggie closes the door quietly and the old man wakes up, looking froglike and confused.
“My teeth,” he says, patting his lips.
“The doorman found them lying beside you on the road,” says Maggie. “I don’t think they’ll be of any use now, I’m afraid.”
“Never fit right anyway,” Hng mumbles.
“And these,” Maggie says, offering him the battered remnants of his glasses.
The old man turns the glasses around in his hand as if they are unfamiliar to him, then tucks them into his shirt pocket with a self- conscious word of thanks. He cups his knees as if he’s about to stand up. His pant leg is torn and grease-stained, and Maggie sees a nasty cut running down the length of his thin, hairless leg.
“Don’t get up,” Maggie says, her hand against his shoulder. “You’re bleeding, Mr. Hng. I’m going to get the doctor to see you.”
The old man dismisses this with a wave, saying he’s quite all right, nothing broken, just a little scraped and bruised. He apologizes for wasting her time.
But what was he doing pushing his cart up Ngô Quyn, one of Hanoi’s busiest streets? Maggie wonders. Surely this isn’t the route he takes home after breakfast. “Were you coming to see me?” she asks tentatively.
The old man hangs his head. The thin grey hairs barely cover a scalp battered by decades of sun and rain. Yes, he was coming to see
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