Petals from the Sky (19 page)

22

The Dying Kitten

A
fter I’d left Lisa’s apartment feeling totally confused, angry, and sorry for myself, I was not in a mood to go back to the empty apartment and so I headed for the comforting aromas of Chinatown.

The rain had nearly abated as I strolled along Mott Street. I walked past an eatery where an oily-faced man was cooking dumplings with a pair of long, thick, wooden chopsticks. The dumplings looked fat and juicy in the bubbling broth, but they didn’t rouse my appetite. I passed a noodle shop from which wafted the fragrance of meat, ginger, garlic, and Chinese scallion, then a café window hung with roasted baby pigs, soy-sauce chickens, and crispy ducks glistening with oil. The animals’ clouded eyes stared at me as if hungry for life. Just then I heard a loud
chuuup!
I turned and saw a chicken’s head fly off from a blood-stained chopping block.

I continued walking aimlessly, trying to clear—or maybe numb—my mind. I walked past a café, an open street market with fish squirming in wooden buckets, then a grocery where Cantonese opera tunes blared from the sound system. A teenager kicked away a crushed can; a greasy-haired man flicked a lighted cigarette butt right into the middle of the street. Cartons, crates, Styrofoam containers, scraps of newspaper lay strewn all along the curb.

Still feeling sick, I jostled my way through the pedestrians and passed a narrow opening from which a sad, feeble cry startled me. My senses were awakened at once and I traced the sound into a back alley.

It was a kitten. Her hair was matted to her bony body and her eyes had the look of a person dying an unexpected death. Beside her lay a piece of rotten-looking meat. As I approached her, two Chinese boys around eight years old appeared from nowhere. One, heavy, wearing a stained T-shirt and torn blue jeans, held a bamboo stick. The skinnier one, in shorts frayed at the hem and sandals that revealed mud-caked toenails, cheered the other on as he tried to snap the kitten’s tail.

Right then a back door swung open and a Chinese man, wearing a blood-stained apron and with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, strode out to dump a huge plastic garbage bag onto the curb. When he saw the kids and the kitten, a hateful grin split his face. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and flicked the lighted butt onto the kitten. “Dead cat!” he spat, then stalked back, slamming the door with a loud bang that seemed to make the ground shiver. The kids roared with laughter; the kitten jerked. The rotund kid dropped his bamboo stick and picked up the cigarette butt while his comrade cheered him on. “Yes! Poke it in the eyes, the eyes…”

“Stop that and leave her alone!” I shouted. My voice sounded surprisingly intimidating to my own ears. Both kids halted, the fat one’s hand hanging in midair. They looked up and studied me with eyes full of spite. Fat Boy gave me a dirty look and spat, “Bitch!” while Skinny made a gargoyle face by stretching his mouth with his filthy fingers and dropping his tongue. He shouted to Fat Boy “Let’s go!” and the gang of two dispersed noisily, feet splashing in puddles.

I knelt down by the kitten. She lay on the debris-littered sidewalk beside several huge garbage bins with rotten meat and vegetables spilling from the lids. The piece of maroon meat next to her gave off a sickening stench. I stooped nearer and murmured, “Meow, meow” as gently as I could while holding my breath. She struggled to open her eyes. “Meow, meow,” I cooed again, rubbing my finger against her nose, still cool. Then to my utter surprise, she raised her paw to grab. Instinctively I jerked back. But when she mustered all her strength to reach again, a revelation hit me. She was trying to play with the gold-plated Guan Yin pendant swinging from my neck! Deeply moved by this act of innocent desire, I took off the chain and swung the trinket in front of her. She must have found the sparkling gold fascinating, for despite her weakness, she managed to get up and wobble two steps toward me. She grabbed at my pendant several times, making languid arches with her puny paws. After that, she uttered a feeble “meow” and slowly plopped down, her eyelids dropping. Dying—I supposed—from food poisoning.

A sadness climbed up my spine. I stooped there to let the drizzle wet my face, not knowing what to do. Finally, I recited the Heart Sutra and said a short prayer to Guan Yin, asking the Goddess of Mercy to take her soul to the Western Paradise, so that when she was reborn in this world, she would be reincarnated as a human and lead a happier life.

After I finished my prayer I covered the kitten with some newspaper, then hurried out from the back alley. My head ached as I continued to wander along Mott Street, trying to forget what had happened in Lisa’s apartment while the kitten’s image lingered. When she saw my pendant she had wanted to play with it. Even a kitten facing death had not had her desire quenched. Let alone we humans! Dai Nam—hadn’t she spent her whole life hanging on fiercely to the very idea of letting go?

I began to walk fast, and the rain, resuming, trickled like tears down my face. Through my blurred vision, I noticed something green and red in the wet mist—a temple. I dashed across Canal Street, hurried toward the crimson gate, and plunged in.

Inside, I found myself in a large foyer with an unattended reception desk, then a smaller hallway leading to a room painted bright yellow. I stepped across the threshold into the huge deserted chamber, and started to walk around below the large dome. An elaborately carved table, decorated with offerings of flowers and incense, stood before the altar. Behind it, on the altar itself, stood images of Buddhas and Guan Yins. I made a quick bow and turned around toward the exit.

Along the hallway hung rows of pieces of silk, all dyed bright yellow. Fastened to each were pictures of men, women, children, even babies. Curious, I paused to scrutinize them for a few moments until a realization hit me—these were tablets for the dead!

Then my eyes met a baby’s. He was about seven or eight months old, with thick, spiky hair, a round face, and a dimpled smile. On the right-hand side of the tablet was a small row of Chinese characters:

To our dear baby boy Guo Wang
(Country’s Hope),
who passed away on July 10, 1930

The left side read:

With great sadness in heart, your loving parents,
Chan Yan and Lu Feng

I turned away, having no heart to stare any longer at that innocent face. Had he lived, he would have transformed first into a handsome young fellow and by now into…a middle-aged man! I imagined his sad, wrinkled eyes staring at me, as if saying: “Since my parents are long gone, now no one comes to pay homage to me anymore.”

For a moment, I was overcome with sadness. Who knew when it would be my turn to have my picture on a little yellow tablet? Sooner or later we would all join my father, my little brother, the little Country’s Hope, and even the little kitten.

Feeling despondent at the thought, I dragged my feet back to the foyer. Wanting to look for solace and maybe even some answers for my life at present, I walked and looked into several rooms to try to find someone—a monk, a nun, a lay Buddhist volunteer.

Then I heard faint noises emitting from a room. I hastened there, peeked in, and saw a small TV running a Hong Kong soap opera.

“Hello!” I yelled, despite myself.

The door was pulled open and a huge head thrust in front of me. The man’s eyes, big, bulging, and bloodshot, scrutinized me with annoyance. “What’s the matter?” he asked in accented English.

“I…”

“Do you want to burn some fragrant oil and ask for your fortune?”

“To burn fragrant oil” is a euphemism for a donation, since one has to pay both for the fragrance and the oil.

“Hmmm…yes.”

He asked me to pay for a prepackaged offering, then pointed to small bundles of rolled-up rice paper on a tray. “Now pick your fortune.”

When I hesitated, he said, “Don’t worry, miss, all good ones.”

With a pounding heart, I picked up a paper scroll, untied the ribbon, and let my fortune unroll in my palm:

Chances of success: Good

Thunder awakens one who’s in a cocoon.

The butterfly flies off under the evening sun.

What’s within and without combines.

The phoenix finally takes off to meet the dragon.

Confusion together with a bittersweet feeling overwhelmed me as I dragged my feet away from the temple. Was I the butterfly to be awakened from a cocoon and then fly off toward the sun? Was I the phoenix and Michael the dragon? So this was the message from Guan Yin?

After I got out of the taxi from Chinatown and was walking toward Michael’s apartment building, I saw, to my utter surprise, Philip Noble’s tall frame leaning against the wall next to the apartment’s entrance. Wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes instead of his Italian suit and leather shoes, he took on another image—casual, down-to-earth, approachable. He looked tired and depressed, his face gaunt and his eyes sunken. An unspeakable feeling swelled inside me as I stepped toward him.

Spotting me, Philip dashed forward and pulled me into his arms.

When he tried to kiss me, I disentangled myself from his eager arms, then looked up at his pathetically handsome face. “Philip, why didn’t you call?”

“I meant to, but thought I should come and see you in person.”

There was an awkward silence before I asked, “Philip, anything special you want to see me for?” Although I knew exactly the reason.

“Meng Ning, I just want to apologize to you for what happened last night.”

“It’s all right.”

“Can I…come up to your place?”

“You mean Michael’s place.”

“I need to talk.”

“Philip, why don’t you just go home and let’s forget what happened?” I was feeling overwhelmed by this man’s beauty and sadness.

“I can’t…can you? Please, Meng Ning, let me go up—or would you like to come to my place?”

“No, I don’t…”

“Please, I really need to talk.”

Just then the doorman Frank appeared outside the building, holding open the door for an elderly resident. He spotted me and smiled. “Hi, Miss Du,” he said, then searched me and Philip with curious eyes.

I quickly slipped away from Philip and entered Michael’s building.

Back in the apartment, I went straight to the bedroom, threw myself onto the bed, and cried my heart out. What had I done to my life? How could I possibly turn from a potential nun to a slut in less than two months? No, only two days! Now I desperately needed Michael’s strong arms around my shaking body, his large hands to wipe away my tears, his gentle voice to whisper comforting words, steering my life back onto the right track. Or maybe Yi Kong would be the only one who could guide me in life, and her temple my only refuge.

The sharp ringing of the telephone jolted me upright. I picked up the receiver and heard Michael’s tender voice from the other end of the line. “Meng Ning, you had a good time today? What are you doing right now?”

23

Vegetable Root Zen Center

T
he following day, Saturday, Michael returned from Boston. I feigned a headache and slept most of the time to avoid conversation. He tended to me tenderly, our two-day-old quarrel forgotten. On Sunday, sensing my distress, he insisted on taking me to a temple in Flushing where, he told me, I could meditate and feel better. I had no energy to say no. Besides, my conscience told me that I should please him.

While we were lining up for lunch with other lay Buddhists in the Vegetable Root Zen Center, Michael told me that he would like me to meet some of the monks.

A yellow-robed Chinese monk came up to greet us. I could not help finding his face very ugly, with its bulging eyes, buckteeth, and sharp chin. Bones seemed to stick out of his tattered robe.

Michael put his hands together and bowed respectfully. “
Nan Mo A Mi Tuo Fo,
Master Hidden Virtue.” Then he gestured toward me. “This is Du Meng Ning, my fiancée.”

The monk grinned so widely that I feared his teeth were going to fall out. He pointed to my tray. “Eat more, Miss Du.”

While exchanging bows with him, I tried my best to use my Zen mind to suppress my aversion.

Before he left, he said cordially to Michael, “Please eat more, Doctor Fuller. Then stay for our performance of martial arts by monks from the famous Shaolin temple in China.”

As he walked away under the overhead fans, the fluttering of his robe somehow seemed to show detachment from the dusty world—so far the only redeeming feature I could find.

This center was quite unlike the temples I had known in Hong Kong. Everything seemed depressing—the bare, paint-peeled walls; the bare, gray stone floor. What appeal did Michael find in this place where there were no pretty nuns, no tender
yin
energy, but only monks like bundles of dried-up sticks? I let out a long breath.

“See, Meng Ning, “Michael, oblivious of my mood, said jokingly. “Master Hidden Virtue is not interested in the fact that you’re my fiancée and that we’re getting married.”

I didn’t respond.

Michael continued on a different track. “He must think that, as a
gweilo,
I’d like martial arts, but I don’t.”

“I do.” I deliberately contradicted him to vent my frustration.

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

But Michael looked at me tenderly. “I’m sure there’re still lots of things I’ll learn about you, Meng Ning. I look forward to that.” He took my hand in his and whispered into my ear, “I love you.”

Again I didn’t respond, but kept inching forward with the crowd. Ahead of me stood a Chinese boy whining to his mother that he hated vegetarian food and wanted a hamburger from McDonald’s.

The mother lowered her voice, widened her eyes, and chided, “Son, I warn you, no more complaining! Now it’s only one more week before you can eat meat again. Can’t you wait just one more week? When your grandfather recovers from his operation, he’ll give you big lucky money for the merit you accumulated for him by eating no meat. You understand? So stop fussing right now and think about your karma!”

The boy, though he stopped complaining, continued to sulk, his face a wrinkled tangerine. His mother pinched him on the ear.

“Aiii-ya!”
He made an animal-being-slaughtered sound.

Michael and I got our food, then sat down on a bench to eat. The food was tasty and balanced in
qi
—cooked with the right proportion of sugar and salt, wine and vinegar, water and oil. A mindful preparation, but even that didn’t arouse my appetite. For now, things in my life seemed—like the smell of the food and the pained
“aiii-ya!”
—suspended in midair.

Michael put some of his fungus and mushrooms onto my plate. “I’m so happy we can be together in this temple.” He began to eat ravenously. “Reminds me of how we met in the Fragrant Spirit Monastery.”

“I hope there won’t be another fire.”

Michael squinted at me curiously, then returned to his food. In this modest temple, Michael seemed transformed, especially in comparison to his bearing at the Met the other night. Then and there he’d acted and talked fastidiously, while here he seemed happy and relaxed, like someone in his natural habitat.

When most had finished eating, Master Hidden Virtue walked to the center of the hall and announced, “Gud afternun, evibody. I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. Before we start our meditation sexssions, the monks from the Shaolin Temple of the Henan province of China will perform for us their famous marso arts.” Now I was even more annoyed by this bony monk’s thick accent.

He motioned to the fourteen gray-clad monks standing behind him by the altar. The monks smiled back, showing fourteen rows of teeth against darkly tanned faces.

Master Hidden Virtue pushed his glasses up and, bulging-eyed and bucktoothed, went on. “Shaolin kung fu has been handed dan drough seventy generations—over one dousand years—from the northern Wei dynasty to the present day. This heart and mind boxing, which mimics the actions of animals and men, is known to be as swift as lightning, as ferocious as a taiger, and as elusive as qinging clouds. All the Shaolin Shifus are renowned for their airlegant posture—sitting crossed-legged like a bell, standing steadfastly like a pine, woking speedily like the wind, sliping with bodies curved like a bow.

“Shaolin kung fu specializes in boxing, cudgeling, and internal exercises that embody a deep Zen philosophy. Combining soft and hard strategy, the monks defend like a virgin and attack like a tiger.”

Amidst waves of applause, the Shaolin monks now strode to the center. I felt a little happier that they looked young, muscular, and full of confidence. One with an angular face and torchlike eyes walked in front and led the others to bow deeply to the audience, hands in the prayer gesture. Fleetingly, fourteen bald heads caught the reflection of the bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Another round of applause exploded in the hall.

When the cheers finally died down, the monks stepped aside. Then, out of nowhere, four young child monks dashed to the front. Pink-cheeked and robust, their eyes darted like dark marbles on a cloudless sky. From the side, their clean-shaven heads resembled big question marks. They giggled and bowed; the audience clapped halfheartedly.

But then, like flashes of lightning, they thrust their fists and jolted their legs in a series of graceful movements—kicking one leg to the side, squatting on one leg with arms punching, stretching hands like a dragon’s claw, kicking while standing on their heads, back-somersaulting…

The audience was silent for a beat, then broke into thunderous applause.

The next performance was
qigong
. The head monk, all muscles and fierce eyes, firmly planted his feet apart on the ground and looked quite still, when in fact, Master Hidden Virtue told the audience, he was moving his
qi
—internal energy.

Michael said into my ear, “I like this, motion in stillness, or vice versa.”

Still upset, I didn’t respond. Now the head monk finally finished moving his
qi
and was ready for actual kung fu. Four younger, twentyish monks tested their broad knives by rubbing their blades back and forth on the head monk’s abdomen. Then, before I knew what was going to happen, the novices let out a sharp “Ahhh!” and stabbed him in the stomach with full force.

I screamed; Michael pressed my shoulder against his. “Meng Ning, you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

And so was the monk’s abdomen. It was not even lightly injured. There was no gash, no blood, nothing.

“I don’t like this, Meng Ning. Why don’t we leave?”

“No, I want to see,” I said stubbornly.

The next performance began with the head monk moving his energy while the novices brandished spears by his side. The audience sent waves of applause to the center of the hall as the blades swished in the air and light glinted off them in myriad directions. Then, barely had the master finished when one novice thrust forward with an upward tilt of his spear and pressed its needle-sharp point against the master’s throat.

“Nooo!!!” the audience blurted out collectively, only to discover that the master remained unscathed. The hall was now completely packed, and the audience looked high, as if they were on drugs—or attaining enlightenment. I clapped until my palms turned red.

More seemingly impossible martial feats followed. One teenage monk performed One Finger Zen by “standing” on only one finger. Another, after he’d moved his energy, defied gravity by leaping up to the ceiling in one bound. Toward the end, a white-haired, leather-skinned monk appeared out of nowhere, and concluded the show by licking a burning-hot iron shovel while maintaining perfect composure—the most difficult and masochistic of all stunts.

I was flabbergasted by the feats, the agility of the human body, and the monks’ perfect self-control achieved through
kulian,
bitter practice. But the little monks—how could they have acquired an adult’s perseverance and discipline? I knew that not only do the monks carry out year-round training with no rest, they also have to abstain from sex. The Shaolin Temple allows wine-imbibing monks and even carnivorous monks, but not sex-indulging monks. They believe sex will disperse their energy, distract their spirit, and so destroy their kung fu. Just as the nuns in Golden Lotus Temple believe that human passion, illusory as it is, will destroy their concentration for higher deeds. Since I’d fallen in love with Michael and had sex with him, was I also losing my
qi,
my focus in life?

The performance ended with everybody clapping enthusiastically.

As Michael and I were heading with the crowd toward the meditation hall for
zazen,
sitting meditation, he asked, “Did you enjoy the show?”

I nodded. It was cathartic for my present state of mind.

“But I didn’t. It’s militaristic, not peaceful.” He frowned. “I’m not impressed by Buddhist acrobats.”

“I disagree.” My voice rose, and I felt combative, like the monks. “That’s what Hidden Virtue said during his introduction. Shaolin kung fu is more than fighting. It’s art, philosophy, mysticism. Each routine has a symbolic meaning—a dragon leaving its cave, a golden cock spreading its wings, a warrior embracing the moon, a hungry tiger climbing up the mountain…” My tone was getting tenser and tenser. “So Michael, how can you just dismiss them as Buddhist acrobats?”

“Why do you sound unhappy?” Michael looked surprised. “You’ve been acting strange ever since I got home. Is something wrong?” He paused, then asked tentatively, “Are you still upset about my past with Lisa?”

“No, Michael, I’m fine.” I tried to appear calm, but my cheeks felt hot.

Right then Master Hidden Virtue came up to us and proudly asked, “Dr. Fuller and Miss Du, how did you like our kung fu?”

Michael said, “We loved it. It’s wonderful.”

The Master said, “This way, please, Doctor Fuller and Miss Du, meditation is about to begin.”

The meditation session was led by an octogenarian monk whose emaciated body and hollow-cheeked, coppery face made me think of a pile of dry sticks.

We sat down on meditation cushions amidst the other participants, and Michael, seemingly having forgotten our bickering earlier, leaned close to me. “Meng Ning, this is Master Silent Thunder. Don’t let his decrepit look deceive you; he has the sharpest mind I’ve ever known.”

I didn’t care whether Silent Thunder’s mind was sharp or blunt; I only knew that mine was now a killing field where all the monkeys were let loose—fighting against each other, slashing stomachs, spearing throats, burning tongues. My head ached, my legs cramped, my body fidgeted on the cushion as if it were a bed of nails. I could hardly breathe, let alone concentrate. I peeked at Michael, but he looked as stable as a rock. Then I peered at Silent Thunder. With legs locked in the full lotus position like the roots of a heavily gnarled ancient tree, he looked as light and detached as a cloud. A tide of envy rose inside me.

I was still fidgeting until I felt my elbow poked. Michael cast me a chiding glance, then he said in a heated whisper, “Meng Ning, you should stop that and concentrate on your breathing.”

The session seemed to last forever. Finally when it ended, Silent Thunder started to “open a revelation”—lecture on Zen.

The old monk’s eyes swept across the room like a peal of silent thunder. When they fell on me, I felt as if my body were being brushed by the cool blade of a sharp knife. I shuddered.

He spoke. “One time, the great Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo went to visit his monk friend Buddhist Seal. After they’d finished meditating, Su Dongpo asked his friend, ‘What did I look like during meditation?’

“The monk said, ‘A statue of Buddha.’

“Then the monk asked Su Dongpo, ‘Then what do you think I looked like?’

“Deciding to tease his friend as well as to test his cultivation, Su Dongpo said, ‘A piece of shit,’ expecting the monk to be boiling with anger.

“‘Ah, what a pity!’ Buddhist Seal said, smiling gently. ‘In Buddha’s eyes everyone is pure and possesses Buddha’s nature. But if one’s eyes are smeared by shit then he can see nothing but shit.’”

Barely had Silent Thunder finished when the participants burst into laughter, breaking up the solemn atmosphere. The octogenarian’s deeply tanned face remained as dry as a stick.

I was still chewing on Silent Thunder’s “shitty” revelation when Michael and I stepped outside the Zen center and started walking toward the subway station. It was five in the afternoon and the street was crowded. Ahead of us, a young Chinese couple held hands and talked intimately between giggles. Michael and I held hands, but we neither talked nor laughed. Our minds seemed to be on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean.

When we were waiting for the light to change, he said, sounding upset, “What is it, Meng Ning? I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” My voice was as sharp as the monks’ knives.

His eyes looked wounded. “I’ve tried to be nice, but you’re acting like a stranger. You haven’t shown any affection since I came back last night. I can’t read your mind. Won’t you tell me what this is all about?”