Petals from the Sky (16 page)

19

Beauty with a Limp

T
he next day I slept late and Michael had already left for work. After I washed, I brewed tea, then cooked myself a simple brunch of instant noodles with cabbage and a pinch of chili. The engagement ring spread its sparkles everywhere—in the mirror, on the glaze of the ceramic tea cup, the silverware. I felt happy, both for the ring and my scalding spicy noodles.

While I was wondering where I should spend the afternoon exploring Manhattan by myself, the phone rang.

I picked up the receiver and cooed into it flirtatiously, “Hi, Michael.”

“Little woman, is that all you have on your mind?”

“Who’s this?”

“Lisa Fulton, Michael Fulton’s daughter. We met at the Met yesterday.”

“Hi, Lisa. How did you get my phone number?”

“You mean Michael’s phone number? Ha, I knew him long before you did. He’s an old friend.” Before I could respond, she went on. “I’m calling to invite you to see the Pollock show at MoMA in the afternoon. I’m sure you have time and you’re interested?”

“Pollock? Yes, I’d like to go.”

“Good. I’ll find you inside the exhibit around three,” she said, then hung up.

It had begun to drizzle in the afternoon, and the Museum of Modern Art was relatively quiet when I arrived. In the lobby, there were only a few people—milling around, waiting, or inquiring at the membership service counter. An intense-looking man, hands locked behind his back and head tilted high, scrutinized the bold-stroked Motherwell painting spanning the wall to the left.

The Jackson Pollock exhibit was a huge show with more than two hundred works on display, beginning with Pollock’s early drawings, and even a few by his teacher, Thomas Hart Benton. I wandered in front of the many canvasses and drawings, trying to look for possible secret codes hidden within the labyrinths of lines and splashes. I was staring at the intricately choreographed energy of
Number 32
when a woman’s alto voice rose to my ears, sweet and mellow like a ripe papaya.

“Beautiful lines, aren’t they?”

I turned and saw a very tall and beautiful woman with a smile like a crescent moon across her tanned face. Her long hair was a matching color; the curls splashed down her shoulders in Pollockian lines. On her neck, several gold chains glittered flirtatiously. Her eyes were dark amber. A Pollock black and bronze scarf with frenzied lines was draped casually across her breasts, and a tight black top slithered around her torso.

I blurted out, “Lisa Fulton! You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes shot out sparks like Pollack’s dots. Her bronze eye shadow and lipstick enhanced her strong features.

“Pollock is one of my favorite painters.” She smiled. Her teeth, catching the reflection of the light, glowed like fine Chinese porcelain. Her long tapering nails were painted with bronze polish, the color of her hair and lips. Gold bangles jingled on her wrist; one, heavier than the rest, was a panther biting its own tail.

She turned to look at me. “I like the spontaneity, the splashing, and the wildness!” Then she threw back her head and laughed a rich alto laugh, like temple chimes in the wind. A ponytailed guy stared at us. She winked back.

We both turned to look at the painting. But I couldn’t concentrate. Lisa’s presence seemed to fill the space around me; I could almost feel the air next to me move in curves and splashes. She smelled of wild ginger flowers, my favorite. What kind of perfume was scented like this?

Half an hour later, Lisa and I were sitting at the museum café munching sandwiches and sipping drinks. I looked out at the garden; the drizzle had stopped and the air shimmered with a fresh, clean look. A young couple sat on a bench eating pastries. In front of them, giggling Asian teenagers scrutinized a Henry Moore statue; their slim fingers wagged at the swelling surfaces. Farther on stood a tree; its interlacing branches now looked exactly like Pollock’s lines.

As I wondered what to make of my new acquaintance, she said, “You want to see my paintings someday? I’ll invite you to my studio, just you and me, a girl thing.”

I nodded.

“I heard that you’re an artist, too?”

“Hmm…yes and no,” I said, then I told her about myself.

“I’m impressed. A Ph.D. and Zen paintings, these are my dreams.”

We continued to talk more about paintings, Oriental philosophies, the art world, the art scene in New York. Not only was I surprised that Professor Fulton’s daughter and I had so many interests in common, I was also impressed she knew about Chinese philosophy. Our conversation carried on until we noticed that the museum was about to close.

Outside, Lisa and I said good-bye. Then, after she had walked a few steps, she suddenly turned and came back to me—to invite me out again tomorrow night.

I didn’t know whether to accept or not, though I was tempted. Not only by her beauty and cordiality, but also by an urge for revenge on Professor Fulton—he didn’t give a damn about me, but his daughter did!

“I’d like to, but Michael may want to do something with me tomorrow night.”

She smiled mischievously. “Oh, forget Michael for a moment. He’s too serious and busy. Let’s have some fun together for one night!”

“All right then, but let me ask him first.”

As she started to walk away, I noticed her limp again. That startled me. Such a beautiful woman—how could this have happened? I realized that because she was conscious of her limp, she deliberately walked with an overly dignified bearing. Her pride made me sad. The limp was not very obvious, but, like a grain of sand in the eye—however small—it hurts. Or, like a crack on an otherwise immaculate antique vase—however thin—it mars. Then I thought of Dai Nam and her scar and felt sympathy swell up inside.

Back home, I couldn’t sleep, being too excited by the afternoon’s encounter. I decided to read in the living room and wait for Michael; it was not until nine-thirty in the evening when I heard the lock click.

I dashed to kiss Michael as he closed the door behind him. “Michael, you want me to fix you something to eat?”

“No thanks.” Michael looked exhausted. “I’m too tired. Let’s just go to bed.”

Although I knew he was too tired to listen, I still couldn’t help blurting out the news about my meeting with Lisa.

Now he looked completely awake. “Meng Ning, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see her.”

“But why?”

“Just stay away from her, OK?”

I was surprised; Michael had never talked to me like this before.

“But I had a good time. I think we may become good friends.”

“Friends?” Michael widened his eyes. “She’s more trouble than you realize. I just don’t want you to get—”

“But I find her very interesting and intelligent, let alone beautiful.”

“Meng Ning, she fools a lot of people.” Now Michael looked at me with concern. “You’re a very sweet and innocent person. I just don’t want you to be—”

“To be what?”

“Please just take my word for this.”

“Michael! She’s your professor’s daughter, and I’m sure you know her well….”

“Yes, only too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t we just drop this now?” Then he pulled me into his arms and started to kiss me.

The next day, when I woke up, Michael had already gone to work. When I turned on the bedside lamp, I found his message.

Dear Meng Ning,

Tonight I have to work late again and probably won’t be home till midnight. Sorry about this. It’s completely unexpected—there is an emergency patient with a very complicated case. You can get takeout or go out and have fun. Last night you made me the happiest man in the world.

Love,

Michael

When I was wondering if I should contact Lisa, the phone rang and Lisa’s voice floated from the other end of the line. She said tonight she would like to invite me to a new experience—but she wouldn’t say what.

“Just meet me downtown, between Spring and Twenty-third Street, in front of the only green building.”

Before I could agree—or disagree—she had already hung up.

Lisa looked as tall and striking as she had at the museum. Again, she had dressed all in black—high-heeled ankle boots, loose silk pants, tight top. But this time the Pollock scarf was black and silver, and wandered down her neck to her supple waist. Under the twilight, her bronze hair hung loosely like crawling vines.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” I said, feeling the pull of her aura.

“Oh, not at all. I’ve been watching people go in and out. Interesting.”

She stood almost a head taller than I, so when she looked down at me, her eyes seemed half closed. This reminded me of Guan Yin—head lowered and eyes half closed to manifest modesty and compassion.

“Meng Ning, let’s go now. I’ll take you to a bar.”

“A bar? I don’t think Michael would like the idea.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but I think Michael has too much influence over you. You’re an independent woman, not his little sister.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, so I muttered, “But I neither smoke nor drink.”

“Then you can watch me. Come on, let’s go!” she said, then half pushed me inside the building. “It’s in the penthouse.” Lisa motioned me to the elevator.

As I followed her into the elevator, someone hollered behind, “Please wait!” We turned and saw a man dragging a little boy and hastening toward us.

Lisa held open the elevator door.

“Thank you,” the man said when the two plunged in.

There were a few moments of silence while we all meditated on the numbers blinking above. A moment later, Lisa suddenly stooped down to tousle the boy’s blond mane. “Oh, darling, you’re so beautiful. How old are you?”

The kid didn’t respond. He glowered at the friendly and beautiful creature whose face was now almost touching his. But my friend didn’t give up. She kept mussing his hair, caressing his cheeks, and flashing her porcelain teeth.

“You’re so cute, honey. Tell me your name.” She tilted her head, raised her voice, and stretched a Minnie Mouse smile.

The kid stuck out his tongue. “You dumb cookoo head!”

Lisa looked shocked, then annoyed; her face flushed a deep crimson. The man looked stunned. I was amused.

“Jason! That’s very rude! Say sorry to the nice lady.”

“No!” The boy hid his face behind the man’s back.

The man got down on his knees. “Jason, be a good boy. Will you say sorry to the lady?”

Jason shook his head violently, then buried his face deeper into the man.

“I’m sorry.” The man looked up at us. “My son never behaves like this; he must be really tired.”

Right then, the elevator arrived at the fourteenth floor and the boy’s father led him out. When the door was closing, the boy pulled up his head and made a face toward Lisa. “You dumb cookoo limp!” he said, and was slapped by his father behind the closing doors.

I peeked at my friend. Her face was twitching with anger, and that suppressed my urge to ask what a “dumb cookoo limp/head” is.

“That kid’s a total brat. His father should have smacked his head against the wall and shattered his skull!” Lisa spat.

That was quite a violent curse toward a small boy.

Soon we arrived at a door decorated with a huge reptile. Then we passed through a glass door enameled with big red letters:
THE WINKING LIZARD
. We entered a room filled with smoke, the odor of spilled beer, and shouted conversations. Loud jazz made me itch all over as if my whole body were crawling with squirming lizards. I looked around in the dim light. The décor was minimalist and monochromatic, with leather, steel, and glass furniture. Men wore ponytails and earrings while women had shaved heads with lips and brows pierced by small silver rings. The hurrying waitresses all wore black leather. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious. My hair was long and my dress floral, with lace around the lapel. I must have looked like someone who had just walked out of an all-girls school!

A very tall waitress led us to a corner table in the rear of the bar. I wouldn’t say she was beautiful, but she was definitely striking, with her white-chalked face and crimson lips. Her eyelashes fluttered over her blue-shadowed eyelids. Above the leather miniskirt a Bruce Lee–style top exposed muscular arms.

Once seated, Lisa ordered a martini on the rocks and when Muscular asked me what I wanted, I said, “Regular Coca-Cola.”

My friend chuckled. “Oh, Meng Ning, forget the regular. I’ll order you something more sophisticated.” Then she turned to Muscular to reveal an expanse of porcelain teeth. “Give her a Cuba libre, light on the Coke and heavy on the rum, please.” She winked at the waitress.

In almost no time, Muscular came back with our drinks and a bowl of nuts. When she walked away, I saw she had muscular calves covered with veins like a brood of baby snakes. “Coolie’s calves,” the Chinese would call these. Then I soon noticed that most of the waitresses here were tall, athletic, and had coolie’s calves.

Lisa clinked her glass with mine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I echoed. The drink scorched my throat; I grimaced.

“You like it?” Lisa smiled prettily.

“It’s…interesting.” I hadn’t really lied. Since it tasted like kitten’s urine mixed with spicy chili oil.

She asked, “You like this place?”

“Hmmm…I can’t tell yet; it’s strange.” My gaze fell on another brood of “snakes.” “Lisa, have you noticed the waitresses here are all very tall and muscular?”

She patted my shoulder. “You’re so innocent.” She leaned close to me and whispered, “They’re all men.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Shhh…not too loud. Of course not.”

“With makeup, earrings, miniskirts, and even lace tops?” My voice adamantly remained in the high register.

“They’re transvestites…. Meng Ning, please lower your voice.”

“You mean they’re men with breasts?”

“Shhh…some are, but they’re mostly men who like to dress like women.”

“So they’re gay?”

“Meng Ning, would you please lower your voice?” Lisa squeezed my elbow.