by Mingmei Yip
For Father had never written those poems. He had plagiarized them from ancient poets.
I could never pin down Father’s real feelings for Mother. One time when I’d asked him how he had courted her, he looked surprised. “I didn’t court your mother,” he said, lowering his voice, “it’s she who chased after me.” Then he told me a different version of the gold-store story. There, when they had run into each other, he had not recognized her at all. “How could I?” He frowned and looked surprised. “She was nine years old when we were in Hualian, but when we met again in Taipei she’d grown into a young woman.” “Besides,” Father added, “how could I remember her puppy love when she was nine and me nineteen?” But then when I asked him why he had dumped his fiancée for Mother, he suddenly changed the subject to talk about the weather. Had he actually been after Grandmother’s gold?
One evening, a few weeks after Father’s death, Mother decided to bind into a book all the poems he had written her. I helped her work on the project at our dining table.
Although the room was hot, Mother told me not to turn on the fan, for fear the wind would blow off the papers.
I gathered poems from her different diaries; Mother pasted the dried flowers onto a hard board to be used as the cover of the collection. As we were cutting, pasting, and binding, now and then Mother would hum “One Day When We Were Young,” then recite the poems Father had written her as if he were still hovering somewhere in the house, meanwhile quietly wiping away a tear or two.
I peeked at her. “Ma, do you understand Baba’s poems?”
Mother frowned. “Meng Ning, you don’t understand a poem; you feel it.”
“Then how do you feel?”
Mother frowned deeper. “If I can tell you how I feel, then your father’s poems aren’t very good. With good poems you never quite know how you feel. Sometimes sad, sometimes happy, sometimes sweet, sometimes sour, sometimes bitter, sometimes generous. Sometimes you feel and sometimes you don’t.” She paused, her eyes losing their focus. “When your heart is like a knocked-over shelf of condiments spilling a hundred different flavors and feelings, then the poem is a very good poem. Your father’s poems can do just that.”
Suddenly Mother stood up, went to the window, opened it, and pointed outside. “Meng Ning, look at the moon, so bright and beautiful tonight. I wonder what your father is doing over there right now.” Then she sighed. “Hai! He knew this moment would come when he wrote, ‘A thousand miles apart, the same moon shines over us all.’”
She meditated awhile on the moon, then came back to sit down by me. “Your father was such a great poet, and he was psychic. He knew that the moon would bring him and me together.”
I swallowed hard. Didn’t she know this was not Father’s poem, but Su Dongpo’s?
Mother took a picture on top of the pile of papers and handed it to me, her eyes misted. “Your father when we met again after our eight years’ separation.”
The brownish, hand-tinted photograph showed a very young and handsome Father. His hair was pomaded and slicked back in the fashion of the forties, while his eyes, large, sparkling, and dreamy, seemed to radiate pleasure and passion. He looked eager to show off, with his generous smile, his sensuous lips, and gleaming white teeth. Mother had told me, repeatedly, he was so handsome that many people had mistaken him for a movie star. A Hollywood, American movie star. “Kar Gay Bo,” she said proudly. Clark Gable. Looking at Father’s picture, I could understand why, despite his dishonesty, Mother could never gather enough strength to resist him.
Although my parents had lived together for more than twenty years, Mother had never really captured Father, for he was as slippery as a snake-just when you thought you might get a hold of him, he had already vanished into the depth of the bush. Sometimes this made me think that maybe in life you should never try to capture what you really want. For at the moment when you’re holding the conquest in your hands, your victory only signifies the beginning of the end. Maybe only the ignorant will hold on. The wise will either let go or simply live with imperfection as it is. Or, maybe, in her own way, Mother truly felt happy with Father. For this romantic love was the only dream she had in life; without it, she’d be like a flower without the sun, a beauty without a mirror. Softly, Mother began to recite the poem written on the picture:
“Eight years blurred between life and death;
Even as I try not to think, I can’t forget.
A solitary grave a thousand miles away has no way to express its melancholy.
I fear, when we meet, my face will be dusty and my hair white.”
“That’s how he wrote to express his grief for our eight years’ separation,” Mother said. Then she looked lost in thought. “Your father was such a genius; he had such deep feelings. If people could appreciate poetry today…he’d be famous, very famous…”
It saddened me to see how the years had caused Mother’s lips to droop helplessly at the corners and her eyes to lose their luster. Too, it saddened me to know the truth that, again, this poem was not written by Father but by Su Dongpo, the great Song dynasty poet. Worse, Father had changed the original “ten years” of Su’s poem to suit his eight years’ separation from Mother. It broke my heart that Mother could not see the truth, even when it was bared right in front of her eyes. To her, believing is seeing, rather than the reverse. Or did she deliberately choose to be blind?
Suddenly, a strong wind blew from the window and the rice papers scattered on the floor in a flurry. Mother stooped to pick them up, embarrassing me with her plump torso and her awkward pose.
“Quick, Meng Ning, close the windows! And be careful not to trample on your father’s poems!”
I went up to the windows and saw, to my surprise, that what brightly shone outside the window was not the moon, but a streetlamp.
The phone’s trilling jolted me awake from my reverie; I snatched it up. “Hello.”
“Can I speak to Meng Ning, please.”
“Michael?” My heart raced.
“Yes. Meng Ning.” A pause, then, “Are you all right? I called last night, but nobody answered the phone. I was worried about you.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t hear anything. Mother must have turned off the phone. Sometimes she doesn’t want to be bothered. I’m fine.”
“Your knee and ankle…you want me to come over and change the bandages for you?”
“No thanks. I think I can manage,” I said, feeling a tug at my heart and suppressing it.
He asked whether I would like to go to the hospital with him to visit Yi Kong and other patients from the fire.
I was glad he’d asked, and suddenly ashamed. How could I have forgotten to think of my mentor, who not only had taught me Buddhism and Zen painting, but also had given me free meals and even lent me money for my father’s funeral?
Michael was waiting for me by the entrance of Kwong Wah Hospital when I arrived at five-thirty in the afternoon. We bought some fruit and juice at a street stall outside, then walked into the lobby.
Yi Kong slept, with two nuns sitting at her bedside-the eye-twitching nun and a young novice. Once I’d put the gift on the chest beside the bed, they signaled us to go outside.
When we were in the corridor, they both exclaimed, “A Mi Tuo Fo! Praise to the Merciful Buddha! Thank you so much for what you two have done.” Although I remembered them from the retreat, I’d never asked their names. The eye-twitching nun was Lonely Journey and the young nun No Dust. Lonely Journey told us Yi Kong was only exhausted from the fire and worried about the damage caused, but she was otherwise fine.
Michael asked how the fire started. No Dust frowned. “An eight-year-old boy did it.” Her voice grew angry. “He is the naughtiest in our orphanage, can never be disciplined. Yesterday he stole some meat from who knows where and tried to cook it behind the Meditation Hall, but he fell asleep. We only learned about the cause this morning when another orphan came to tell us. He hasn’t come himself to apologize.”
; No Dust paused. “This boy came to our orphanage after his father stabbed his mother to death and none of his relatives were willing to take him, fearing he’d bring bad luck into their houses. We took him, and now see what he’s done to us.” Then she widened her eyes. “Bad boy! The fire could have killed the Venerable Yi Kong!”
Michael spoke, his voice sad. “He’s just a boy. It’s just his ignorance, and…it’s hard to be an orphan.”
The two nuns smiled, looking embarrassed, then began to talk about other things. Toward the end of our conversation, Lonely Journey told me that Yi Kong wished to see me after she was out of the hospital.
Michael and I headed toward the Yau Ma Tei MTR station on Waterloo Road. The broad street was crowded with hurrying people and speeding cars. As we passed the YMCA, I saw our reflections in the glass door. Michael looked spirited in his green shirt and khaki pants, his hair slightly mussed by the breeze. While I, in my white blouse and long skirt (to cover my scraped knee), looked like a child beside him. Then I noticed we were holding hands. Feeling my color rise, I immediately withdrew mine. Michael seemed not to notice. “Meng Ning, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
9. The Peak
Michael 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 Chines
e 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?”