Petals from the Sky (24 page)

29

Wedding Pictures

T
wo days before I was to leave for China, as a farewell treat I took Mother to a teahouse that had a soothing atmosphere and served the best kind of tea.

We sat down just as a young tea ceremony instructor had begun telling the story about the imperial Meng Ding tea.

“Once upon a time in the Qing Yi River,” she narrated in her silken voice, “a fish spirit had been meditating strenuously for ten thousand years until she finally transformed into a beautiful young woman.

“One day, dressed as a farm girl, she went to gather tea seeds on the peak of the Meng Mountain and encountered a young man out collecting herbs. They fell in love the instant their eyes met.

“As a token of love, the fish spirit gave her tea seeds to the young man. The lovers vowed to meet again the following year at the mountain peak when the seeds would sprout. The fish spirit said to her lover, ‘That will be the day of our marriage.’

“A year later, when spring came again, as they had pledged to each other, the fish spirit and the young man met again on the mountain and married. On their wedding night, the bride took off her white lace shawl and threw it into the air. Mist formed instantly to nourish the tea leaves he had planted. Ever after that, the tea grew luxuriantly, and the couple lived a happy life that was soon blessed with a son and a daughter.

“As good times rarely last long, so the fish spirit’s marriage to a mortal was finally discovered by the Qing Yi River God, who ordered her to return to the river at once. Taking leave with tears and a broken heart, the young mother said to her children, ‘You must help your father to take good care of the tea leaves on the mountain…and make sure the mist keeps moistening the leaves.’

“Sixty years passed like a horse-leap over a ravine. When the husband had turned eighty, and his children and grandchildren were all grown up, he found his never-ending longing for the fish spirit so unbearable that he jumped into a river and ended his life.

“So great were his accomplishments in tea growing that the emperor conferred on him posthumously the title Master of Popular Wisdom and Wonderful Compassion. The tea he planted on the Meng Mountain was honored as
gongcha,
Tea of the Imperial Offering.”

After the instructor had finished the story and her tea ceremony demonstration, Mother looked relaxed and happy. She sipped her tea with an imperial air. “Ah, excellent tea. And what a touching love story!” Then she went on to praise the tale and the storyteller’s pretty Chinese dress and silken voice.

Before I had the chance to say anything, she pulled my sleeve. “Meng Ning, I suddenly feel very hungry; let’s find a place to eat.”

“But, Ma—”

“Let’s go. I’m starving.”

We were walking along Waterloo Road. The weather was as hot as the Meng Ding tea. And as intoxicating.

Mother blurted out, “I really love that fish’s story. So moving!”

Her eyes glistened and lost their focus. “The story has a sad ending, but at least the fish and the young man were able to get married and have two children; it was not that tragic after all.”

In the shop window, my mother’s reflection silently overlapped those of other pedestrians on the busy boulevard. Stooping old people, briskly striding young men, shuffling children, giggling teenagers in torn jeans, sweaty construction workers, middle-aged women straining with loaded shopping bags, shiny Mercedes sedans cutting off battered bicycles, packed buses, overloaded trucks lumbering, taxis swishing by, the overpass looming above…

The Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust reproduced in the light and shadow of a silent movie.

How peaceful, this world of mirrored images, where people intersect but never interrupt, interact but never interfere. Now even my excitable mother looked happy and relaxed in the shiny, cool glass. The deep wrinkles around the eyes of her seasoned doll’s face turned into fine lines, like subtle cracks on the glaze of an antique vase. Even her dyed black hair had a more natural shade. Mother seemed to have forgotten her hunger, her eyes absorbing the commodities displayed behind the glass.

“Hey, look, Meng Ning, Sally Yeh in a wedding gown!” Mother stopped in front of a bridal salon; her eyes fixed on a huge picture of the Hong Kong pop singer. “Very fancy, isn’t it? French sixteenth-century classical court style.” She was reading from a small ad next to the picture.

“Yes, but a distasteful imitation.” Her easily distracted attention annoyed me.

Mother raised her voice to compete with the street noise. “Hey, look, she took the picture at the garden of Versailles, in France.”

“Yes, Ma, it is the garden of Versailles, but not in France. Can’t you tell the background is just a blown-up studio picture?”

Mother seemed determined not to be discouraged by any of my negative responses. “Hey, look how beautiful she is in her bridal makeup.”

“No, too loud. Ma, don’t you see that everything on her face is overdone? Too many colors on the eyelids, the nose shadow is too deep…and…you see those eyelashes? They’re too long and too thick, too artificial! Besides, how come her grin is so big? In the past, women were not supposed to reveal their teeth when they smiled. A bride has to be bashful and demure, at least pretend and act that way, not baring her teeth immodestly like this—”

“It’s theatrical,” Mother said, finally cutting off my harangue. “Like in Beijing opera. You like Beijing opera, don’t you?”

I did.

I remembered as a child how I was thrilled by the actors with their
lianpu,
multicolored face patterns. My tiny heart never failed to be captivated by patterns moving on the actors’ faces as if a giant portrait were springing to life!

Mother had eagerly taught me how to recognize their symbols. White Face is bad, so be careful of him; Black Face is righteous, so pay respect to him; Green Face is cunning and touchy, so stay away from him; Red Face is brave and courageous, so applaud him; Gold Face is either an emperor or a nobleman, so emulate him.

But not until I grew up did I realize people can put more than one
lianpu
on their faces. That was more than my mother had taught me. And it takes one lifetime, or many lifetimes, to learn to strip away all the layers until you catch a glimpse of the truth. Or of nothingness, as you discover at the end of the tearful process of peeling an onion.

Now as I searched Sally Yeh’s painted face, her eyes stared back at me from behind the glass, as if beckoning me to enter her dream-world. I wondered who was the real woman hiding behind this pretty mask, and whether she was really as happy about getting married as she looked.

My childhood efforts to identify
lianpu
still groped in a maze. For the human face, as constant as it seems, is in fact as capricious and camouflaged as the human heart.

I peeked at Mother. She was still studying the pop singer with great envy and absorption, oblivious to a giggling teenage couple and a band of four marching housewives pushing by her.

“Ah, how beautiful she is, wearing all her fancy jewelry,” Mother said, hiding her bare hands behind her. “See, Meng Ning,” she said, her voice soaked with feeling, “Sally Yeh is still single, so nowadays you don’t have to get married to take wedding pictures. The newspaper says it’s fashionable for young women to dress as a bride only to look pretty and to take pictures as souvenirs. I think you should also take pictures like this while you still look young.”

I snapped, “But, Ma, I am not a pop singer, and this is just an advertisement.”

Mother’s face stiffened. “Of course you’re not a pop singer. You’re better, much better!” Then she sighed, muttering to herself, “
Hai,
then why aren’t there many men knocking at your door?”

I pretended not to have heard her. She went on, this time staring right into my eyes. “Meng Ning, don’t act stuck-up and chase men away. And don’t be overly choosy so you end up getting only the leftover rotten apples at the bottom of a moldy crate.”

I remained silent. She gave me a chiding glance. “You’re very pretty and talented, so I really don’t believe there’re no men prostrating at your feet. It must be your attitude. You know the proverb ‘Gorgeous as the peaches and plums, cold as the ice and frost’?”

Seeing that I still didn’t respond, Mother plunged on: “I have taught you many things, but never to snub men, especially the good ones like doctors, lawyers, or even engineers.”

“Ma—” Suddenly Michael’s face, looming large, squeezed out all thoughts in my mind.

“What?”

I blurted out before I could stop myself, “Actually, someone has just proposed to me.”

Mother had a stunned expression, as if her teenage daughter had just told her that she was pregnant. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She studied me with a puzzled expression, ignoring a withered old woman pushing through the space between her and the shop window.

“Is it true?” A smile was gradually blooming on her face. “Then why didn’t you tell me earlier? Who is he?”

“He…he’s an American.”

“ABC?” She meant American-born Chinese.

“No, he’s…white.”

“You mean a white ghost?”

Although Mother looked happy having learned that someone had proposed to me, she didn’t look pleased that he was an “old barbarian.”

Because, in Mother’s opinion, foreigners were synonymous with wantonness and debauchery. When she was in a bad mood, they would even be carriers of an unspeakable disease. When I’d prepared my trip to the States, she’d said, “Ah, very brave, go to America and deal with barbarians. I’ll never have your guts, I don’t want to catch AIDS!” Of course she didn’t mean sex, but sitting on a chair someone with AIDS had sat on, that sort of thing.

“But, Ma, please don’t use that ugly word. Michael is very nice to me and—”

“Mic Ko?” Mother pinched her eyes into slits. “When did this Mic Ko propose?”

“A month ago.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“A few months.”

Mother snatched a paper fan from her handbag, snapped it open, and fanned impatiently. “Too quick! That’s typical American. Can’t wait, everything rush, rush, rush! Instant tea, instant coffee, instant sex, instant marriage, instant divorce! Can’t sit down for ten minutes to brew tea, spend another ten to appreciate the leaves, another five to smell its fragrance, and another five to sip. That’s why Americans have no culture, because they have no time!”

After Mother had finished repeating the tea instructor’s lecture and criticizing American culture, she paused to look into my eyes. “Ah, innocent girl. Love and marriage are never as simple as that. Don’t believe the Chinese saying ‘If you’re in love, you’ll eat your fill by drinking water.’ I suffered enough from that with your father. And if it’s with a barbarian, that’s worse. Americans always think everything in their country is better than ours, except Suzie Wong.”

She plunged on excitingly. “I had a friend who had a white ghost husband. Not only did he sweat like a coolie, he gobbled food like a refugee, roared with laughter like a huge broken bell struck by a lunatic, and embarrassed her women friends by washing his throat with wine and making gurgling sounds like he’s doing you-know-what. One time during a banquet when he got drunk, he glanced at the women and said, ‘How come when an old hag reaches fifty, she’s still horny,’ then, ‘Don’t worry if a girl’s ugly, as long as she’s handy.’”

Finally Mother concluded her harangue. “That’s what people end up with when they marry a
gweilo
.”

“Ma, but Michael is nothing like this. He’s a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Mother sneered. “Of what? Philosophy? Or poetry?”

“Ma, didn’t you just worry that I would never get married? So aren’t you happy now that someone has proposed?”

In the shop window, the golden twilight glistening in the reflection softened Mother’s visage; sometimes I could see my face in her older one. Her robust figure turned more supple; even the deep purple suit she wore now spoke with a softer hue.

“Hai!”
Mother sighed. “Meng Ning, of course I’m glad you’re getting married. But…I’m also afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you’ll be…unhappy”—she let out a long sigh—“like your mother.”

A long pause. Traffic whizzed by. Restless people and speeding cars kept passing through her in the glass.

But Mother was fine. For nothing can hurt a soul in a mirage. As no one can steal the moon reflected on a river.

Mother had the same expression when she watched Beijing opera with me when I was a child. Now I certainly understood why she liked the painted-face actors so much, but got so upset when I aspired to be one.

However, I still couldn’t fathom the way she loved me, even though I had shared the same roof and nearly the same face with her for thirty years.

Now in the shimmering reflection of the shop window, our eyes parted as swiftly as they had touched, like a pair of kissing fish. I gazed at my own face and found my thirty-year-old mother there, whispering to me all her girlish dreams, eyes fresh.

I wanted to love her back as much as she loved me, and much more.

I touched her elbow. “Ma, don’t worry.”

“Hai!”
Mother sighed again. “I’m a very careful person, but see what happened to me with your father.” She put a strand of my hair in place.

My mother could be very difficult in her own way, but despite being of the older generation, she had only occasionally nagged me about finding a husband.

Her remarks about the fish bones, about Sally Yeh, and today about the story of the fish spirit were the few times she had hinted marriage to me.

If I had not misread her face pattern, nor misinterpreted her dreams.

I said after a long silence, “Ma, although I said yes to Michael’s proposal, I might still”—I swallowed hard—“break the engagement.”

Mother’s voice shot two octaves higher. “Turn down a doctor?
Are you crazy?
How many girls will be befriended by a doctor, let alone asked to be married?”

A middle-aged man cast us a curious glance.