Petals From The Sky Part 19

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 appet.i.te. I pa.s.sed a noodle shop from which wafted the fragrance of meat, ginger, garlic, and Chinese scallion, then a cafe 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! chuuup! I turned and saw a chicken's head fly off from a blood-stained chopping block. 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 cafe, 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 b.u.t.t right into the middle of the street. Cartons, crates, Styrofoam containers, sc.r.a.ps of newspaper lay strewn all along the curb.

Still feeling sick, I jostled my way through the pedestrians and pa.s.sed 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-s.h.i.+rt 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 ap.r.o.n 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 b.u.t.t onto the kitten. "Dead cat!" he spat, then stalked back, slamming the door with a loud bang that seemed to make the ground s.h.i.+ver. The kids roared with laughter; the kitten jerked. The rotund kid dropped his bamboo stick and picked up the cigarette b.u.t.t 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, "b.i.t.c.h!" 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 splas.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.ddess 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 Ca.n.a.l 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 w.a.n.g (Country's Hope), who pa.s.sed 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.

"h.e.l.lo!" 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: GoodThunder awakens one who's in a coc.o.o.n.The b.u.t.terfly 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 b.u.t.terfly to be awakened from a coc.o.o.n 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 n.o.ble's tall frame leaning against the wall next to the apartment's entrance. Wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt, 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 s.l.u.t 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 The following day, Sat.u.r.day, 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 Flus.h.i.+ng 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 fiancee." Master Hidden Virtue." Then he gestured toward me. "This is Du Meng Ning, my fiancee."

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 yin energy, but only monks like bundles of dried-up sticks? I let out a long breath. 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 fiancee and that we're getting married."

I didn't respond.

Michael continued on a different track. "He must think that, as a gweilo, gweilo, I'd like martial arts, but I don't." 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 acc.u.mulated 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. 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 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 appet.i.te. For now, things in my life seemed-like the smell of the food and the pained "aiii-ya!" "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 s.e.xssions, 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 gla.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+fus 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 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 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 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. 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.