Petals from the Sky (6 page)

9

The Peak

M
ichael suggested the Peak Restaurant, so we walked to the station, took the MTR to Tsim Sha Tsui, then walked to the pier to board the Star Ferry to Central. On the ferry, I felt the teeming life of the harbor with its buzzing noises and its smells of salt, seaweed, and fish, while I watched the imposing skyline draw near. In the twilight, outlines of the many-layered buildings seemed to undulate like contrapuntal music. I pondered which was real, which illusory: Central District, where the world’s most frenzied speculators meet to invest their billions, or the Fragrant Spirit Temple, where thousands of disciples flood to accumulate merit? But wasn’t their merit now all gone in the blaze? In my mind, once again the fire, like a fierce goddess, danced, glared, and radiated spidery fingers through my imagination, to mock my fascination and fear.

I shivered.

Michael put his arm around me. “Meng Ning, are you OK?”

I looked at his face and remembered Yi Kong had once said,
Detach from human love; it’s illusory.

But what about her compassion and Michael’s kindness—were they equally illusory?

“I’m fine, Michael,” I said. “Just a bit confused.”

“You’re still thinking about the fire?”

I remained silent. How could I tell him I was, in fact, less troubled by the fire than by my aroused feelings about men—about him?

He pulled me closer to him. “It’s over, and we’re fine.”

We got off the ferry and began to stroll. The walk took five minutes, during which we didn’t talk much except about the fire.

It was almost eight when we arrived at the Garden Road tram station. We stood with a few tourists and local Chinese in the small waiting area. Trams ran every ten minutes, so it wasn’t long before we boarded.

With a jerk and a crisp
ting!
the tram began to climb the steep hill. Inside, tourists squirmed excitedly on wooden seats or clutched nervously at leather straps. Three Chinese women with teenage daughters, all carrying small cameras over their small breasts, giggled and screamed whenever there was another jerk or
ting!

Michael and I leaned by the window, gazing outside. The sky had just blushed into fuchsia, anticipating the rising of Goddess Moon. It was hot, but the sea breeze felt fresh on my face.

After a while, I saw Victoria Harbor appear in ellipses between crowded buildings. Across the harbor, the emerald water reached lazily to embrace the ragged coastline of Kowloon. I found myself seeing Hong Kong through fresh eyes. After the fire, now everything—even the familiar—looked acute and interesting: the harbor, the sea, the meditating boats, the shimmering neon lights blinking like sweet dreams. As a solitary cloud drifted across the moon, I nudged closer to Michael.

He pointed outside. “Meng Ning, look at the airport runway.” His long finger directed my eyes to Kowloon.

The brightly lit runway stretched out into the royal blue sea like a fiery tongue, quietly lapping up a plane. My heart stirred at Michael’s physical presence. The air around me seemed to be filled with his cologne and his body heat.

He said, “I think Hong Kong is the only city in the world where the plane lands right in the middle of things. I like that. It’s Zen, right here and now.”

The tram strained toward the top of the hill and all the buildings outside looked slanted, as if they were falling down. I felt a jolt inside. Was it an omen that I’d also soon be falling…in love?

Just then the tram passed a thicket of bamboo and fir trees and jerked to its stop—the upper Peak Tram station.

It took us less than five minutes to walk to the Peak Restaurant. A pretty hostess in a tight black skirt, with a flirtatious smile aimed solely at Michael, told us that since someone had just called to cancel their reservation, we were fortunate to have the last table by the window.

Wriggling her hips to the lively rhythm of the background jazz, she led us to the table by a floor-length window with tall, tropical plants. As the hostess clicked away on her narrow high heels, Michael stepped to my side of the table to pull out the chair for me.

I looked around and remembered once reading that during the colonial period, this site had been a resting place for sedan carriers who brought the very rich and privileged to the top of Victoria Peak. Now it was a restaurant for all. I liked its English medieval pointed vaults, cozy stone fireplace, dark paintings of English landscapes—and, of course, the mouthwatering aroma of food permeating the entire place: roast beef, grilled shrimp, lamb in curry sauce….

A tuxedoed waiter handed us large menus. Silence fell as we looked over the long list of dishes.

“Well, Meng Ning, have you decided?” Michael finally asked.

“Not quite, what about you?”

“I’m vegetarian, so I’ll have sun-dried tomato pasta and Perrier.”

Feeling embarrassed at being carnivorous, I said I’d have the same, suppressing my craving for a lamb chop. When the waiter left, Michael asked, “Are you also vegetarian?”

“Not really,” I said, then quickly added, “Are you vegetarian because you’re a Buddhist or because you’re a doctor?”

“Both.” He nodded toward a neighboring table where a rotund Chinese man was attacking a pork steak, clanking his knife and fork like a warrior, and gobbling heroically. “That battered pork over there used to be a healthy pig, who sunbathed on the meadow, flirted with his girlfriend, told jokes to his children, dreamt sweet dreams under shaded trees, played, laughed.”

I blushed.

Michael leaned forward to pat my hand. “Don’t worry, the Buddha was also carnivorous, since he had to eat whatever he found in his begging bowl, meat or vegetables.”

Not knowing what to say, I looked out the window. The revolving restaurant inched on in largo, taking in the skyline of City Hall, the Conrad Hong Kong hotel, the Hong Kong Bank, the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, the needle-like Bank of China tower designed by I.M. Pei.

My gaze continued to wander until it alighted on the dim outline of the mountains of the Kowloon Peninsula, the presence of China looming behind them.

Yi Kong once said
If our hearts are not centered, even living in the remotest mountain is like living in a prison.
She tapped her heart.
Our home is where our hearts settle, and as monks and nuns, our hearts settle anywhere. Whether Hong Kong, the United States, China, even in prison, that shouldn’t make any difference.

If there was no difference, why then did she want me to enter her temple to become a nun?

Michael’s voice broke in on my thoughts. “Amazing that I find Hong Kong so beautiful, since I mainly like simple things…I mean simple, yet beautiful things, like Chinese art.” He paused for a second, then said, “Meng Ning, you have a Ph.D. in Asian art history from the Sorbonne?”

“Yes and no. I still need to go back to Paris for my oral defense.”

“I love Chinese art.”

“You do?” I studied Michael’s green eyes and high nose.

Just then the waiter arrived with our Perrier. When he’d poured our drinks and left, Michael raised his glass to touch mine with a crisp
clink!

“Cheers, Meng Ning. To our having met.”

“Cheers,” I echoed, feeling a little breathless.

Between sips, I explained how I’d learned to appreciate Zen art from my nun friend Yi Kong, also a collector. Michael said he liked Song and Yuan dynasty art for its simplicity and elegance, but disliked ornate Qing dynasty art because it was created to show off rather than to give private pleasure.

“It doesn’t inspire the same feelings of solitude and meditation.” He looked into my eyes. “Things might not last forever, but affections can, and that’s what we cherish in life.”

I felt both stirred and uneasy. “Sometimes,” I said, avoiding his gaze, “I do like busy art, though.”

Michael ignored my remark. He leaned forward to gaze at me, a smile blossoming on his face. “Meng Ning, I like to forget my troubles with beautiful things. Chinese art does that for me.”

I turned raw and tender inside. Few Chinese can understand the subtlety, deep vision, and the deceptive plainness of Chinese art, let alone Americans.

He went on. “I like its sense of nature. It’s still hard for me to understand why something so simple can be so beautiful…and so comforting.”

“Because when feelings are too fully expressed,” I said, being very careful to sound casual and not to look at him directly, “no room is left for the unknown and the mysterious.”

Right then the waiter came back with our dinners. After he’d served us and left, Michael watched me start to eat before he dug his fork into his spaghetti. The pasta tasted much better than I’d expected. The cooking and seasoning were just right, and the slight bite of the parmesan cheese was pleasing.

“Michael”—I watched him twirl long strands of pasta around his fork—“how long have you been interested in Chinese art?”

Michael finished chewing the noodles, then put down his fork and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “Since medical school. One day I received a package in the mail and opened it, not realizing it was for someone else. Inside I found a book on Chinese painting; I glanced through it, not paying much attention at first. Then I became captivated. Those paintings had the kind of beauty I’d been looking for my entire life.

“It’s the sense of tranquility—the way a whole landscape is built up from simple brushstrokes. Opening that package changed my life. I believe what happens is the result of karma. The package was addressed to a Professor Michael Fulton in the Fine Arts department. I received it by mistake. Fulton, Fuller—a simple mix-up that awakened me to Chinese culture and led me to become a Buddhist.

“Later, I took the book to Professor Fulton’s office and ended up spending more than an hour discussing paintings with him. The next year I managed to sneak away from some of my medical school lectures to attend his class on Chinese art. He’s now one of my best friends. His collection of Chinese art is small, but all are masterpieces. He jokes that he could never marry because he needs the space for his art collection.”

“Michael, you must be Professor Fulton’s favorite student.”

Michael’s expression changed slightly. “Michael Fulton and I are very close; he’s…like a father to me.”

“Oh…and your own parents?”

“I’ve been an orphan since I was a teenager,” Michael said matter-of-factly, yet I saw a glimmer of sadness flash across his eyes.

“I’m really sorry….”

“It’s all right.”

The green in his eyes softened; his voice became a whisper. I wondered if he had transcended sorrow and spoken from wisdom.

Suddenly a strange emotion caught me by surprise—I felt a strong desire to comfort him with a touch, or even…a hug. Like what I had given to the little boy after the fire. I bit my lip and suppressed my feelings. I wanted to know more about his life, but since I’d just met him, I didn’t think I should be too inquisitive.

Michael changed the subject, his voice cheerful again. “Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

I did.

Michael seemed very interested in my life. “You’re a very unusual woman, Meng Ning.”

Just then the waiter came back and asked, “Is everything OK?” at the sight of our almost untouched plates.

As Michael reached for the check, I said, “Michael, I still owe you money; can you let me pay?”

He held my hand under his. “Please, I hope I’m Buddhist enough not to be too attached to money.” Then he asked me whether I would take him to see more of Hong Kong the next day.

“I’d love to.” The words stumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.

After leaving the restaurant, we took a short walk on the peak along Harlech Road, then rode down in the tram in silence, absorbing each other’s thoughts and presence.

Later, when we got off at the Cheung Sha Wan subway station, I declined his offer to walk me home.

“It was a wonderful evening, Meng Ning,” Michael said, his face looking pale and dreamlike under the fluorescent light. I felt him squeeze my hand. “And thank you so much for your company.” His hand was large, warm, and comforting. So comforting that it was disturbing. He bent close to scan my face. “May I call you tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call around nine then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I echoed, unwilling to detach from him while not quite knowing what else to do. Then, to my utter surprise—with several teenagers and other people standing around us in the lobby—Michael drew me into his arms and brushed his lips against mine. After that, he smiled at me one more time, turned, and was gone.

10

Decadent Pleasure

M
ichael invited me out each day for the remaining days of the canceled retreat. We spent time near the Kowloon Star Ferry terminal—going to the art museum to look at Chinese paintings and the Space Theatre to see a film on black holes. I felt pleased yet befuddled. After the fire, my life suddenly seemed to have switched onto a completely different track. It had always been my desire to become a nun—if not, then at least a single career woman. Now not only had the fire burned away this ambition, it had also fired my passion for a man, an American! What would my life turn out to be? And…what did Michael want from me? Did he really like me or was he just having fun?

One evening I took Michael to the night market in Temple Street in Yau Ma Tei. The noisy alleys were crammed with people shopping at open-air street stalls illuminated by the yellow glow of kerosene lamps. Vendors’ and buyers’ heated haggling rose above the strollers’ chatter and laughter. Western pop music blared from boom boxes and competed with raucous live Cantonese operatic singing. We squeezed through the crowd and saw a heavily made-up sixtyish woman singing in a high-pitched falsetto, “Flowers falling from the sky…” She gestured prettily with her embroidered handkerchief as the audience hummed the popular Cantonese opera aria to accompany her.

Michael’s face glowed as he listened intently. Then he whispered into my ears, “Meng Ning, I’d love to see a Chinese opera. Would you take me to see one someday?”

“Sure,” I said. Then I told him this aria is from
The Royal Beauty,
based on the tragic love between Princess Chang Ping and her fiancé during the Ming dynasty—they committed suicide, refusing to surrender to the new emperor of the foreign Qing dynasty.

After I finished, Michael looked deeply into my eyes. “Meng Ning,” he said, “when you take me to see a Chinese opera, I want something with a happy ending.”

His remark embarrassed, but pleased me. A silence, then we continued to walk and look around. Goods for sale were either spread on top of wooden planks propped on cross-legged tables, or strewn on large blankets on the ground: used books, pornographic magazines, electronic gadgets, leather goods, T-shirts, plastic toys, combs, eating utensils, buckets, stools, flip-flops, chopping boards. Chinese medicines ran the gamut. Michael asked me to translate the package labels: aromatic white flower oil for headache, dog-skin pomade for chill, earthworm and toad for circulation of blood and relaxation of joints, black snake for arthritis and rheumatism, wine-pickled baby sea horse for lumbago and sexual weakness. I passed over tiger’s penis and Golden Gun Never Droop Pills. Grimy stacks of pirated CDs and videos ranged from Cantonese pop to Mozart, Madonna, Michael Jackson.

Used trinkets were labeled as antiques, ranging from dark red
yixing
teapots to opium pipes, bamboo birdcages, Guan Yin statues, clay figures of Tai Chi masters and Bruce Lee, tin biscuit cans from the fifties with oil paintings (Fragonard’s
The Reader,
Ingres’s
Valpinçon Bather)
reproduced on the lids, coins strung together in the shape of a sword to cast away evil spirits. Tables of jewelry held jade, amber, marcasite, coral, crystal, even plastic. But there was always a chance one might acquire something valuable discarded by ignorant heirs and sold by more ignorant vendors.

Michael bought the coin sword.

When I asked him why, he said, “Because it never hurts to keep evil spirits away.”

Food carts emanated tantalizing aromas as Michael and I squeezed forward through the crowd. We saw steaming sticky rice, smoldering sweet potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil, marinated chicken innards, shiny red sausages, grilled barbecue beef impaled on thin bamboo sticks, boiling ruby porridge made with cubes of coagulated chicken blood, smoked duck’s liver, stewed ox tongue, fried pig rind, squid dyed fluorescent orange.

A stray dog appeared around a corner and began to sniff among the tidbits of food underneath the stalls. Michael watched it with tenderness in his eyes. “Poor dog. I used to have a spaniel, really big and beautiful, then he got cancer and suffered so much that I had to put him to sleep. After that, I didn’t want a dog again. I just don’t have the heart.” He turned to me. “You like dogs, Meng Ning?”

“Of course,” I teased, “they’re delicious!”

Just then, a young girl of high school age was walking toward us. The English words on her T-shirt caught my attention:
THIS SUMMER I COULDN’T FIND A JOB
,
SO I HAD TO TAKE THIS BLOW JOB
.

I pointed at her T-shirt and asked, “Michael, what kind of job is this?”

He seemed unable to speak. Laughter spilled out.

He wasn’t answering, so I pressed. “Michael, what kind of job—”

“Meng Ning, quiet, please.” Michael was still laughing. “I don’t think this girl understands…I’ll explain it to you later when I…have a chance.”

“But I’m giving you the chance right here and now.”

“No, I’m sorry. I really can’t explain—”

“Michael, you’re a doctor. Is this blow job so hard to explain?”

“Shhhh…Meng Ning, plee-eeze!”

He became boneless with laughter and that ended our conversation.

The night before his departure, Michael suggested we imitate the Chinese literati of the past—discuss and appreciate the four decadent pleasures: wind, flower, snow, moon. Since there’s never any snow in Hong Kong, we decided to go to an outlying island—Cheung Chau—to appreciate the other three. We took the ferry from Central and spent an hour amid boisterous people atop the sapphire sea, before we arrived at the fishing village.

Now at eight o’clock in the evening, the sky turned steel blue with streaks of clouds; behind a chubby one shone the moon. While walking off the ferry, Michael stopped to study the silver disc for a while and then, to my surprise, recited a line from a Chinese poem: “A crescent moon induces melancholy, but a full moon makes one amorous.”

I immediately responded with another. “Under the moon in Chang An, the sound of a thousand clothes beaten on stones; the autumnal wind carries the women’s never-ending love.”

Michael took my hand and I let him. After looking at the moon in silence for a few moments, we resumed walking. It pleased me to see that the small island, although now adorned with modernized buildings and vendors in Western clothes, was clear of cars and retained its ambiance. A few sampans and junks rested contentedly on the shimmering water by the port; others were busy loading or unloading passengers or goods. Thick vegetation, rarely seen in the city, thrived everywhere. A sea breeze wafted onto the shore to ease the heat. In the distance, bits of the turquoise roof tile of the Heavenly Goddess Temple glistened between the laced foliage of ancient trees.

In a store facing the harbor, Michael bought sandwiches, fruit, and drinks for our picnic. Then we headed toward the beach in the company of the moon.

He found a small hill overlooking the sea, but hidden from the beach by thickets of trees, plants, and exotic flowers.

“Perfect for our decadent talk,” he said, while spreading out a cloth and arranging the food.

We sat side by side and quietly ate our sandwiches, sipped mineral water, and nibbled apples while feeling our bodies touch each other, watched silently by the moon. In the distance the sea roared, sending white-capped waves to break on the shore. Faint snatches of Cantonese opera tunes carried from the village. I saw the silhouette of a young couple holding tightly onto one another as if fearing even the slightest breeze would blow them apart. Were they walking before love, or after? Not far away, a young man arched his back to hurl something into the sea. A wish to be picked up? Or a hurt to be washed away?

We finished eating and I hugged my knees, listening to the cicadas’ small, persistent call until I felt my whole body ache with a longing I’d never known. Then suddenly I realized my dress had slid up to reveal my thighs, which glowed pearlescent under the moonlight. I quickly pulled my dress down, then took several deep breaths, taking in the fragrance of the vegetation, all the while conscious of Michael’s intent eyes. Our hips touched. I peeked at his legs, warm and tanned, outstretched as if waiting to be caressed. I noticed their golden hairs glimmering faintly in the moonlight and resisted the urge to touch. I closed my eyes, aware of his body and its pleasant fragrance of mint and the sea.

Michael slowly turned my face toward his, cupped my chin with his hands, and began to search my lips with his. After a long time, he opened my mouth with his tongue, which began to indulge itself in all sorts of decadent pleasures. His hands, large, warm, and eager, moved under my blouse, then my bra. Feeling a rush of desire, I clutched his strong torso.

I felt small under him. Behind him the big, round moon glistened like an enlarged pearl. A star drifted close by. Like me, she wouldn’t feel lonely tonight. I held Michael tighter.

My knees weakened and my heart thrashed like a trapped bird. I felt caught and free, wretched and blissful all at once. Until somehow my awareness lifted. In this game between a man and a woman, I suddenly glimpsed the jeweled flowers of the Western Paradise and felt oddly at home. The sea droned in the distance, echoing Michael’s breathing. I imagined other lovers also exploring and enjoying each other somewhere on the island, under the watch of the same moon.

And then I covered my face and wiped away a tear. I did like men. I was also upset that Michael, now holding me in his arms and caressing my damp hair, remained so calm and silent. It frightened me that this man seemed gentler than I, yet stronger; that so close to me, he seemed so distant; that he was so kind, and yet so unknown. Let-Go-and-Be-Carefree, his face now serene under the moonlight, was the only man I’d ever let into my life. Suddenly I wondered about his life. What other women had he kissed? Whose sighs had he heard? Whose breasts had he caressed? His hands were large, with fingers as expressive as if they were able to breathe. Men’s hands had seemed monstrous and belligerent to me before, but his held comfort and gentleness.

I went home late that evening, feeling dazed. Mother came up to sniff at me. “Ah, Meng Ning, I don’t smell alcohol, but you look drunk. Is something wrong?”

“No, Ma, I’m fine.” I headed straight to my bedroom.

Mother muttered as I was closing the door. “Oh yes,” she said emphatically, “it’s a man I smell!”

I locked the door and didn’t turn on the light; I had no heart to keep the moon out. Then I went to the mirror, took off all my clothes, and looked at my naked reflection under the moonlight. I stared at the thirty-year-old body that until tonight had never been so touched, nor so aroused. I searched the still-smooth face, narrow shoulders, small breasts, flat stomach, spindly legs, and the small area of black hair that, in the past, I had avoided looking at. But tonight I reached my hand to touch…

Slowly, like a cat, I felt my way into bed and inhaled deeply at the silky texture of the sheets against my naked body. I ran my hand over my breasts, remembering Michael’s warm, luxurious touch. While my body was serene in the darkness, disturbing memories weaved a confusing tapestry: images of the powerful Yi Kong, of the scarred nun at the retreat, my ex-nun friend Dai Nam, No Name and her fiancé, my father and my mother’s ruined life….

At three in the afternoon I awakened with a terrible headache. Mother slammed down a steaming bowl of chicken rice soup. “Some
gweilo
called early this morning, so I said wrong number!”

I burned my tongue on the hot liquid. “Ma, why didn’t you wake me up? Maybe it was for me!”

Mother snapped, “Then why did you lock your door when you slept?”