The Beauty of Humanity Movement (122 page)

T
thinks of Maggie, faced with much the same predicament. Is it that she feels a stranger in the world in the absence of a family history? Unattached? Without a bridge? Family is everything in Vietnam.

Bình leans forward and uses the cuff of his shirt to wipe dirt off the
toe of his shoe. “You know, there were times after learning of his death that my mother would get so angry at my father,” he says. “She would pace back and forth cursing him. Ðạo could be very stubborn and arrogant. She blamed him for arousing the anger of the Party, for denying her a husband and me a father.”

This is the first time T
has heard anyone suggest that his grandfather was anything less than a hero.

“We always have a very romantic view of those we lose, especially a martyr,” his father says. “We forget a martyr is just a man, a man who dared for his principles, but a man nonetheless—a less-than-perfect human being.”

It’s something of a relief to T
to hear this. It is impossible to consider yourself a worthy person when there are only heroes to measure yourself against.

The following night, after another morning without breakfast, they multiply their efforts. Maggie brings a map, which makes it easy to rule out the alleyways that are too narrow for Old Man H
ng’s cart. They can rule out the busiest roads as well, unless of course H
ng had another spasm of desire to seek out Maggie at the Metropole. If not, that leaves six, possibly seven routes H
ng might have taken between the shantytown and the bridge. Bình traces these onto the map with one of his soft blue drafting pencils.

They set out for the shantytown just after 9 p.m., Maggie riding the Honda Dream II with T
’s parents, T
, Ph
ng and his little sister on Ph
ng’s bike close behind. They cut their engines on the rise just before the shantytown, flicking the kickstands down and leaning the bikes into the dirt.