Petals From The Sky Part 5

"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.

Michael 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sion 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, The Royal Beauty, based on the tragic love between Princess Chang Ping and her fiance during the Ming dynasty-they committed suicide, refusing to surrender to the new emperor of the foreign Qing dynasty. based on the tragic love between Princess Chang Ping and her fiance 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 embarra.s.sed, 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, p.o.r.nographic magazines, electronic gadgets, leather goods, T-s.h.i.+rts, 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 s.e.xual weakness. I pa.s.sed over tiger's p.e.n.i.s 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 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 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, The Reader, Ingres's Ingres's Valpincon Bather) Valpincon 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. 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, s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+rt caught my attention: THIS SUMMER I COULDN'T FIND A JOB THIS SUMMER I COULDN'T FIND A JOB, SO I HAD TO TAKE THIS b.l.o.w. .j.o.b SO I HAD TO TAKE THIS b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

I pointed at her T-s.h.i.+rt 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 b.l.o.w. .j.o.b 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+mmering water by the port; others were busy loading or unloading pa.s.sengers or goods. Thick vegetation, rarely seen in the city, thrived everywhere. A sea breeze wafted onto the sh.o.r.e to ease the heat. In the distance, bits of the turquoise roof tile of the Heavenly G.o.ddess 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 sh.o.r.e. Faint s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 fiance, 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 gweilo called early this morning, so I said wrong number!" 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?"

11.

The Proposal.

I called the Kowloon Hotel and asked for Michael several times, but each time the syrupy, professional voice of the receptionist told me he was out. Finally Michael called back at five, but I was quite upset because now we'd only have a few hours together before he had to fly back to New York tomorrow. called the Kowloon Hotel and asked for Michael several times, but each time the syrupy, professional voice of the receptionist told me he was out. Finally Michael called back at five, but I was quite upset because now we'd only have a few hours together before he had to fly back to New York tomorrow.

I could hear the tension in his voice. "Meng Ning, I called several times in the morning, but a woman kept telling me that I dialed the wrong number."

"That's my mother."

"Hope she's not offended."

"I don't think so. She's just overprotective of me."

Our conversation was brief and somewhat strained; however, toward the end, it started to brighten up when Michael invited me to dinner, then asked if I'd like to go to the Cultural Centre to see a Chinese opera performance.

We went to Tsim Sha Tsui and dined at the Merit Forest Vegetarian Restaurant. After dinner, Michael and I strolled down Nathan Road toward the Cultural Centre. Neither of us mentioned what had happened between us the previous night.

As we were window-shopping, enveloped by the heat and noise of the boulevard, I noticed our reflections in the gla.s.s. Michael's arm encircled my waist; I nestled my head on his shoulder. Bathed in the s.h.i.+mmering neon light, he looked cheerful, as usual. His beige suit hung well on his broad shoulders, and his flowered tie in burgundy, bra.s.s, and amber complemented my floral dress in Chinese imperial yellow. My face was flushed and my hair tumbled loosely around my shoulders. Mother was right; I looked drunk-in a man's aura.

Once inside the Cultural Centre, Michael excused himself to get us drinks. I looked around and saw that on the pink-tiled walls, colorful banners advertised upcoming performances. One, advertising a Beijing opera, showed a heavily made-up figure in a pearl-ta.s.seled crown and a many-layered, sequined costume. But "she" was a man. Beneath the banner a group of expensively dressed tai tai tai tais, society women, were discussing this impersonator. One-her plump, gold-bangled hand gesturing in big movements-spoke shrilly: "He can play a young widow so well because he's a man, so he's not inhibited. That's why he can express a woman's frustrated s.e.xual desire so openly."

Her friend in a pink suit nodded. "But if a woman acted like that, could she have face to go home to her husband?"

A pretty one in an embroidered Chinese dress chimed in, her diamond teardrop earrings swaying erotically in the air. "Ah, Mrs. Chan, you don't have to worry." She winked. "If she acted like that I bet her husband would find her even more desirable!"

They all giggled, covering their mouths with their brightly manicured, many-ringed fingers.

Michael returned with orange juice in tall gla.s.ses. I told him about the ladies' conversation.

"That's an interesting theory." He handed me the gla.s.s and a neatly folded napkin, and looked at me curiously. "But don't you think a man will also lose face by acting like a real real woman?" woman?"

"No, on the contrary. He'll gain face." When I tried to drink, the rim of the tall gla.s.s. .h.i.t my nose. "Chinese used to think that because men are free of the impurities of the female body, they can portray feminine beauty from a distance-and render a more gripping performance."

Michael touched my hair. "Meng Ning, you really know a lot about Chinese opera."

"My mother is a Chinese opera fan. She used to take me to performances when I was a kid."

He searched my eyes. "You think I'll have the chance to meet her someday?"

Right then the bell chimed. Michael cupped my elbow and eased me through the throng into the concert hall. A young Chinese woman in a tight dress and spiked heels moved rhythmically ahead of us. Her ponytail kept pecking her b.u.t.tocks while her arm held tightly onto a foreigner.

Discreetly, I freed myself from Michael's grasp. Hadn't I promised myself I'd never be attached to a man?

Inside the concert hall, the mostly middle-aged and elderly audience settled into their seats. At the right-hand corner of the stage, a small orchestra gathered, its musicians carrying drums, gongs, clappers, cymbals, two-stringed fiddles, flutes, and a wooden fish.

After Michael and I had exchanged more small talk, we began to read the program notes amid the crescendoed ambush of the tuning. There were two performances tonight: "Longing for the Pleasures of the World" and "Seduction of the Zither."

"Longing for the Pleasures of the World" told about a beautiful young nun forced by sickness and poverty to enter a nunnery as a child. Reaching womanhood and bored by the daily routine of sutra sutra-reciting among lifeless statues, she decided-after many months of inner turmoil-to taste the forbidden splendors of the floating world outside. "Seduction of the Zither" told how a young scholar seduced a Daoist nun by skillfully playing the qin qin-the seven-stringed zither.

A strange feeling crept over me. Could it be coincidence that Michael and I came to see two operas about the love stories of nuns? Was Michael-like the scholar-a messenger of some mysterious destiny, sent to lure me further away from the empty gate? Were the two operas to tell me that the world outside, not the one inside the temple, was my true calling in life? Or were they warning me against its temptation?

I turned to look at Michael; he squeezed my hand, then continued to read his program notes.

The orchestra began with ear-splitting sounds of drums and gongs, and the lights dimmed to the audience's enthusiastic applause. Next to the orchestra, English subt.i.tles were projected on a screen.

Slowly, the curtain rose to reveal a temple scene with a nun in a loose robe, her bald head simulated by a pink plastic wrap. The flute began to play a mournful tune in the background, and the nun, her eyes flitting among the various objects on the altar-a bell, a drum, a roll of sutra, sutra, a big-bellied Buddha-recited in a melancholic tone, "A pity that my head was shaved to become a nun. Time spins fast and spins people old. I don't want to sacrifice my youth for nothing!" a big-bellied Buddha-recited in a melancholic tone, "A pity that my head was shaved to become a nun. Time spins fast and spins people old. I don't want to sacrifice my youth for nothing!"